Вершник без голови

Chapter 59

           Likeasecondecho,stillmoreintensified,wasthecryfromIsidora;asturning,shesawinthedoorwaythatwoman,whosenamehadjustbeenpronounced—the"Louise"soferventlypraised,sofondlyremembered,amidstthevagariesofadistemperedbrain.

           TotheyoungCreolethecasewasclear—painfullyclear.Shesawbeforeherthewriterofthatletterofappointment—which,afterall,hadbeenkept.Inthestrife,whosesoundshadindistinctlyreachedher,theremayhavebeenathirdparty—MauriceGerald?Thatwouldaccountfortheconditioninwhichshenowsawhim;forshewasfarenoughinsidethehuttohaveaviewoftheinvaliduponhiscouch.

           Yes;itwasthewriterofthatboldepistle,whohadcalledMauriceGerald"querido;"—whohadpraisedhiseyes—whohadcommandedhimtocometoherside;andwhowasnowbyhisside,tendinghimwithasolicitudethatproclaimedherhis!Ah!thethoughtwastoopainfultobesymbolisedinspeech.

           EquallyclearweretheconclusionsofIsidora—equallyagonising.Shealreadyknewthatshewassupplanted.Shehadbeenlisteningtoolongtotheinvoluntaryspeechesthattoldherso,tohaveanydoubtastotheirsincerity.Onthedoor-stepstoodthewomanwhohadsucceededher!

           Facetoface,withflashingeyes,theirbosomsrisingandfallingasifunderoneimpulse—bothdistraughtwiththesamedirethought—thetwostoodeyeingeachother.

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