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 which way 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, become acquainted with almost every part of it. It was not ignorance of the locality, therefore, which was causing him to hesitate; but something very different, as the train of his thoughts will tell.
“Don Ignacio, at least, will expect me – wish me to come, whether she do or not. I accepted his invitation, and cannot well – oh! had I known what I do now – seen what I saw this morning – Bah! I shall return to the hotel and never more go near her!”
But he did not return to his hotel; instead, still stood irresolute, as if the thing were worth further considering.
What made the young man act thus? Simply a belief that Luisa Valverde did not love him, and, therefore, would not care to have him as a companion at supper; for it was to supper her father had asked him. On the day before he had received the invitation, and signified acceptance of it. But he had seen something since which had made him half repent having done so; a man, Carlos Santander, standing beside the woman he loved, bending over her till his lips almost touched her forehead, whispering words that were heard, and, to all appearance, heeded. What the words were Florence Kearney knew not, but could easily guess their nature. They could only be of love; for he saw the carmine on her cheeks as she listened to them.
He had no right to call the young lady to an account. During all his intercourse with Don Ignacio, he had seen the daughter scarce half a score times; then only while passing out and in – to or from his lessons. Now and then a few snatches of conversation had occurred between them upon any chance theme – the weather, the study he was prosecuting (how he wished she had been his teacher), and the peculiarities of the New Orleans life, to which they were both strangers. And only once had she appeared 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 of his intention to do so. On this occasion he had ventured to speak of what he had heard about Mexican banditti; still more of the beauty of the Mexican ladies – naïvely adding that he would no doubt be in less danger of losing his life than his heart.
To this he thought she had listened, or seemed to listen, with more than ordinary attention, looking pensive as she made reply.
“Yes, Don Florencio! you will see much in Mexico likely to give you gratification. ’Tis true, indeed, that many of my countrywomen are fair – 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 her speech.
And still there was something in what she had said, but more in her manner of saying it, which made pleasant impression upon him – something in her tone that touched a chord already making music in his heart. If it did not give him surety of her love, it, for the time, hindered him from despairing of it.
All this had occurred at an interview he had with her only the day before; and, since, sweet thoughts and hopes were his. But on the same morning they were shattered – crushed out by the spectacle he had witnessed, and the interpretation of those whispered words he had failed to 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 for being caught by that call which had attracted his eyes on the poster —
“Volunteers for Texas.” And just so had he been caught; and, as described, entered among the filibustering band to be chosen its chief. To the young Irishman it was a day of strange experiences, varying as the changes of a kaleidoscope; more like a dream than reality; and after reflecting upon it all, he thus interrogated himself —
“Shall I see her again, or not? Why not? If she’s lost, she cannot be worse lost by my having another interview with her. Nor could I feel worse 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 land as an invader? If she care for her country, that would spite her; and if 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 his sweetheart. Still, natural enough under the circumstances; and Florence Kearney, wavering no longer, turned his steps towards that part of the city where dwelt Don Ignacio Valverde.