To the young Creole the case was clear—painfully clear. She saw before her the writer of that letter of appointment—which, after all, had been kept. In the strife, whose sounds had indistinctly reached her, there may have been a third party—Maurice Gerald? That would account for the condition in which she now saw him; for she was far enough inside the hut to have a view of the invalid upon his couch.
Yes; it was the writer of that bold epistle, who had called Maurice Gerald “querido;”—who had praised his eyes—who had commanded him to come to her side; and who was now by his side, tending him with a solicitude that proclaimed her his! Ah! the thought was too painful to be symbolised in speech.
Equally clear were the conclusions of Isidora—equally agonising. She already knew that she was supplanted. She had been listening too long to the involuntary speeches that told her so, to have any doubt as to their sincerity. On the door-step stood the woman who had succeeded her!
Face to face, with flashing eyes, their bosoms rising and falling as if under one impulse—both distraught with the same dire thought—the two stood eyeing each other.
Alike in love with the same man—alike jealous—they were alongside the object of their burning passion unconscious of the presence of either!
Each believed the other successful: for Louise had not heard the words, that would have given her comfort—those words yet ringing in the ears, and torturing the soul, of Isidora!
It was an attitude of silent hostility—all the more terrible for its silence. Not a word was exchanged between them. Neither deigned to ask explanation of the other; neither needed it. There are occasions when speech is superfluous, and both intuitively felt that this was one. It was a mutual encounter of fell passions; that found expression only in the flashing of eyes, and the scornful curling of lips.
Only for an instant was the attitude kept up. In fact, the whole scene, inside, scarce occupied a score of seconds.
It ended by Louise Poindexter turning round upon the doorstep, and gliding off to regain her saddle. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!
Isidora too came out, almost treading upon the skirt of the other’s dress. The same thought was in her heart—perhaps more emphatically felt. The hut of Maurice Gerald was no place for her!