Sorrow for a brother’s loss, with fears for a lover’s safety, were yesterday commingled in the cup. To-day it was further embittered by the blackest passion of all—jealousy. Grief—fear—jealousy—what must be the state of the soul in which these emotions are co-existent? A tumult of terrible imaginings.
So was it in the bosom of Louise Poindexter after deciphering the epistle which contained written evidence of her lover’s disloyalty.
True, the writing came not from him; nor was the proof conclusive.
But in the first burst of her frenzied rage, the young Creole did not reason thus. In the wording of the letter there was strong presumption, that the relationship between Maurice Gerald and the Mexican was of a more affectionate character than he had represented it to be—that he had, in fact, been practising a deception.
Why should that woman write to him in such free strain—giving bold, almost unfeminine, licence to her admiration of his eyes: “Essos ojos tan lindos y tan espresivos?”
These were no phrases of friendship; but the expressions of a prurient passion. As such only could the Creole understand them: since they were but a paraphrase of her own feelings.
And then there was the appointment itself—solicited, it is true, in the shape of a request. But this was mere courtesy—the coquetry of an accomplished maîtresse. Moreover, the tone of solicitation was abandoned towards the close of the epistle; which terminated in a positive command: “Come, sir! come!”
Something more than jealousy was aroused by the reading of this. A spirit of revenge seemed to dictate the gesture that followed,—and the stray sheet was crushed between the aristocratic fingers into which it had fallen.
“Ah, me!” reflected she, in the acerbity of her soul, “I see it all now. ’Tis not the first time he has answered a similar summons; not the first they have met on that same ground, ‘the hill above my uncle’s house’—slightly described, but well understood—oft visited before.”
Soon the spirit of vengeance gave place to a profound despair. Her heart had its emblem in the piece of paper that lay at her feet upon the floor—like it, crushed and ruined.