Part 24 (2/2)
”It is not very far from where we are now. A mile, perhaps. You see those tree-tops to the west? They shade my hovel from the sun, and shelter it from the storm.”
”Indeed! How I should like to have a look at it! A real rude hut, you say?”
”In that I have but spoken the truth.”
”Standing solitary?”
”I know of no other within ten miles of it.”
”Among trees, and picturesque?”
”That depends upon the eye that beholds it.”
”I should like to see it, and judge. Only a mile you say?”
”A mile there--the same to return--would be two.”
”That's nothing. It would not take us a score of minutes.”
”Should we not be trespa.s.sing on the patience of your people?”
”On your hospitality, perhaps? Excuse me, Mr Gerald!” continued the young lady, a slight shadow suddenly overcasting her countenance. ”I did not think of it! Perhaps you do not live _alone_? Some other shares your--jacale--as you call it?”
”Oh, yes, I have a companion--one who has been with me ever since I--”
The shadow became sensibly darker.
Before the mustanger could finish his speech, his listener had pictured to herself a certain image, that might answer to the description of his companion: a girl of her own age--perhaps more inclining to _embonpoint_--with a skin of chestnut brown; eyes of almond shade, set piquantly oblique to the lines of the nose; teeth of more than pearly purity; a tinge of crimson upon the cheeks; hair like Castro's tail; beads and bangles around neck, arms, and ankles; a short kirtle elaborately embroidered; moca.s.sins covering small feet; and fringed leggings, laced upon limbs of large development. Such were the style and equipments of the supposed companion, who had suddenly become outlined in the imagination of Louise Poindexter.
”Your fellow tenant of the jacale might not like being intruded upon by visitors--more especially a stranger?”
”On the contrary, he's but too glad to see visitors at any time--whether strangers or acquaintances. My foster-brother is the last man to shun society; of which, poor fellow! he sees precious little on the Alamo.”
”Your foster-brother?”
”Yes. Phelim O'Neal by name--like myself a native of the Emerald Isle, and s.h.i.+re of Galway; only perhaps speaking a little better brogue than mine.”
”Oh! the Irish brogue. I should so like to hear it spoken by a native of Galway. I am told that theirs is the richest. Is it so, Mr Gerald?”
”Being a Galwegian myself, my judgment might not be reliable; but if you will condescend to accept Phelim's hospitality for half-an-hour, he will, no doubt, give you an opportunity of judging for yourself.”
”I should be delighted. 'Tis something so new. Let papa and the rest of them wait. There are plenty of ladies without me; or the gentlemen may amuse themselves by tracing up our tracks. 'Twill be as good a horse hunt as they are likely to have. Now, sir, I'm ready to accept your hospitality.”
”There's not much to offer you, I fear. Phelim has been several days by himself, and as he's but an indifferent hunter, his larder is likely to be low. 'Tis fortunate you had finished luncheon before the _stampede_.”
It was not Phelim's larder that was leading Louise Poindexter out of her way, nor yet the desire to listen to his Connemara p.r.o.nunciation. It was not curiosity to look at the jacale of the mustanger; but a feeling of a far more irresistible kind, to which she was yielding, as if she believed it to be her fate!
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