Judith had as yet traced out no definite plan of action—trusting to circumstances to suggest what course she should pursue.
Only on one thing had she come to a determination—to permit both to pass up on the rock before showing herself.
She resolved, as long as possible, to restrain her instinct of revenge. She would see them meet—be witness of their mutual endearments—be sure of it; and then would be her time to launch forth into the full torrent of recrimination.
Something of this kind was the course she had shaped out for herself—still but vaguely, still dependent on chance.
The young Creole, little suspecting the proximity of her spiteful rival, ascended the ravine—close passing the spot where the latter was concealed. Altogether unconscious of being observed, she stepped lightly upon the platform; and, crossing over, stopped near the opposite edge—precisely upon the spot where she had stood during the eclipse, hallowed by such sweet remembrance.
Undoing the slight knot that had confined the kerchief under her chin, and holding it in both hands, so as to shade her eyes from the sun, she stood for some time gazing into the valley below—not the one where lay the mansion of her father, but that in which dwelt a relative still dearer. As before, her eyes were bent upon the penn—that sombre pile which, despite the dim shadows that surrounded it, seemed to her the brightest spot upon the earth. The sun in the sky above was nothing in brightness to the light that circled there—the light of Herbert’s love. What would she not have given to have lived in that light? What to have been that favourite who now basked in it?
“Would that I could see him once again,” she murmured, “before that hour when we must meet no more: for then even the thought would be a crime! If I could only see him once—only speak with him, I feel as if I should tell him all. Though he cannot love me, I am sure he would pity me. Even that, it seems to me, would soothe—it could not cure. Oh! why did he, upon this very spot—why those glances I can never forget? I can see them now—his eyes as they were then, gazing into mine, as if something passed between us—something that sank into the very depths of my soul. Oh! Herbert! why did you so regard me? But for that it might have passed. But now—never! Ah, Herbert! Herbert!”
In her anguish the young Creole pronounced the last words aloud.
Only the name was heard by Judith Jessuron; but they fell upon her ear with fearful effect, piercing through her heart like a poisoned arrow. If she had any doubts about the purpose of Kate’s presence, that word had decided them. The Creole had now declared it with her own tongue!
On the instant a thought, dread and dire, commenced taking shape in the heart of the jealous woman. She felt her bosom stirred to a purpose bold and black as hell itself.