CHAPTER FOUR.
AN INVITATION TO SUPPER.
Florence Kearney, parting from his new friends, the filibusters,sauntered forth upon the street.
On reaching the nearest corner he came to a stop, as if undecided whichway to turn.
Not because he had lost his way. His hotel was but three blocks off;and he had, during his short sojourn in the Crescent City, becomeacquainted with almost every part of it. It was not ignorance of thelocality, therefore, which was causing him to hesitate; but somethingvery different, as the train of his thoughts will tell.
"Don Ignacio, at least, will expect me--wish me to come, whether she door not. I accepted his invitation, and cannot well--oh! had I knownwhat I do now--seen what I saw this morning--Bah! I shall return to thehotel and never more go near her!"
But he did not return to his hotel; instead, still stood irresolute, asif the thing were worth further considering.
What made the young man act thus? Simply a belief that Luisa Valverdedid not love him, and, therefore, would not care to have him as acompanion at supper; for it was to supper her father had asked him. Onthe day before he had received the invitation, and signified acceptanceof it. But he had seen something since which had made him half repenthaving done so; a man, Carlos Santander, standing beside the woman heloved, bending over her till his lips almost touched her forehead,whispering words that were heard, and, to all appearance, heeded. Whatthe words were Florence Kearney knew not, but could easily guess theirnature. They could only be of love; for he saw the carmine on hercheeks as she listened to them.
He had no right to call the young lady to an account. During all hisintercourse with Don Ignacio, he had seen the daughter scarce half ascore times; then only while passing out and in--to or from his lessons.Now and then a few snatches of conversation had occurred between themupon any chance theme--the weather, the study he was prosecuting (how hewished _she_ had been his teacher), and the peculiarities of the NewOrleans life, to which they were both strangers. And only once had sheappeared to take more than an ordinary interest in his speech. This,when he talked of Mexico, and having come from his own far land,"Irlandesa," with an enthusiastic desire to visit hers, telling her ofhis intention to do so. On this occasion he had ventured to speak ofwhat he had heard about Mexican banditti; still more of the beauty ofthe Mexican ladies--naively adding that he would no doubt be in lessdanger of losing his life than his heart.
To this he thought she had listened, or seemed to listen, with more thanordinary attention, looking pensive as she made reply.
"Yes, Don Florencio! you will see much in Mexico likely to give yougratification. 'Tis true, indeed, that many of my countrywomen arefair--some very fair. Among them you will soon forget--"
Kearney's heart beat wildly, hoping he would hear the monosyllable "me."But the word was not spoken. In its place the phrase "us poor exiles,"with which somewhat commonplace remark the young Mexican concluded herspeech.
And still there was something in what she had said, but more in hermanner of saying it, which made pleasant impression upon him--somethingin her tone that touched a chord already making music in his heart. Ifit did not give him surety of her love, it, for the time, hindered himfrom despairing of it.
All this had occurred at an interview he had with her only the daybefore; and, since, sweet thoughts and hopes were his. But on the samemorning they were shattered--crushed out by the spectacle he hadwitnessed, and the interpretation of those whispered words he had failedto hear. It had chased all hope out of his heart, and sent him in wild,aimless strides along the street, just in the right frame of mind forbeing caught by that call which had attracted his eyes on the poster--
"Volunteers for Texas." And just so had he been caught; and, asdescribed, entered among the filibustering band to be chosen its chief.To the young Irishman it was a day of strange experiences, varying asthe changes of a kaleidoscope; more like a dream than reality; and afterreflecting upon it all, he thus interrogated himself--
"Shall I see her again, or not? Why not? If she's lost, she cannot beworse lost by my having another interview with her. Nor could I feelworse than I do now. Ah! with this laurel fresh placed upon my brow!What if I tell her of it--tell her I am about to enter her native landas an invader? If she care for her country, that would spite her; andif I find she cares not for me, her spite would give me pleasure."
It was not an amiable mood for a lover contemplating a visit to hissweetheart. Still, natural enough under the circumstances; and FlorenceKearney, wavering no longer, turned his steps towards that part of thecity where dwelt Don Ignacio Valverde.