Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid

“Be Japers! it wudn’t be much worse than the mate Owld Duffer sits afore us. It gives me the bellyache ivery time I ate it.”

The conversation was here interrupted by the opening of the chamber door; which was done without knocking. A slatternly servant – whose sex it would have been difficult to determine from outward indices – appeared in the doorway, with a basket of palm sinnet held extended at the termination of a long sinewy arm.

“Fwhat is it, Gertrude?” asked Phelim, who, from some previous information, appeared to be acquainted with the feminine character of the intruder.

“A shentlemans prot this.”

“A gentleman! Who, Gertrude?”

“Not know, mein herr; he wash a stranger shentlemans.”

“Brought by a gentleman. Who can he be? See what it in, Phelim.”

Phelim undid the fastenings of the lid, and exposed the interior of the basket. It was one of considerable bulk: since inside were discovered several bottles, apparently containing wines and cordials, packed among a paraphernalia of sweetmeats, and other delicacies – both of the confectionery and the kitchen. There was no note accompanying the present – not even a direction – but the trim and elegant style in which it was done up, proved that it had proceeded from the hands of a lady.

Maurice turned over the various articles, examining each, as Phelim supposed, to take note of its value. Little was he thinking of this, while searching for the “invoice.”

There proved to be none – not a scrap of paper – not so much as a card!

The generosity of the supply – well-timed as it was – bespoke the donor to be some person in affluent circumstances. Who could it be?

As Maurice reflected, a fair image came uppermost in his mind; which he could not help connecting with that of his unknown benefactor. Could it be Louise Poindexter?

In spite of certain improbabilities, he was fain to believe it might; and, so long as the belief lasted, his heart was quivering with a sweet beatitude.

As he continued to reflect, the improbabilities appeared too strong for this pleasant supposition; his faith became overturned; and there remained only a vague unsubstantial hope.

“A gintleman lift it,” spoke the Connemara man, in semi-soliloquy. “A gintleman, she sez; a kind gintleman, I say! Who div yez think he was, masther?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea; unless it may have been some of the officers of the Port; though I could hardly expect one of them to think of me in this fashion.”

“Nayther yez need. It wasn’t wan av them. No officer, or gintleman ayther, phut them things in the basket.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Pwhy div I think it! Och, masther! is it yerself to ask the quistyun? Isn’t there the smell av swate fingers about it? Jist look at the nate way them papers is tied up. That purty kreel was niver packed by the hand av a man. It was done by a wuman; and I’ll warrant a raal lady at that.”

“Nonsense, Phelim! I know no lady who should take so much interest in me.”

“Aw, murdher! What a thumpin’ big fib! I know won that shud. It wud be black ungratytude av she didn’t – afther what yez did for her. Didn’t yez save her life into the bargain?”

“Of whom are you speaking?”

“Now, don’t be desateful, masther. Yez know that I mane the purty crayther that come to the hut ridin’ Spotty that you presinted her, widout resavin’ a dollar for the mare. If it wasn’t her that sint ye this hamper, thin Phaylim Onale is the biggest numskull that was iver born about Ballyballagh. Be the Vargin, masther, speakin’ of the owld place phuts me in mind of its paple. Pwhat wud the blue-eyed colleen say, if she knew yez were in such danger heeur?”

“Danger! it’s all over. The doctor has said so; and that I may go out of doors in a week from this time. Don’t distress yourself about that.”

“Troth, masther, yez be only talkin’. That isn’t the danger I was drhamin’ av. Yez know will enough what I mane. Maybe yez have resaved a wound from bright eyes, worse than that from lid bullets. Or, maybe, somebody ilse has; an that’s why ye’ve had the things sint ye.”

“You’re all wrong, Phelim. The thing must have come from the Fort; but whether it did, or not, there’s no reason why we should stand upon ceremony with its contents. So, here goes to make trial of them!”

Notwithstanding the apparent relish with which the invalid partook of the products – both of collar and cuisine – while eating and drinking, his thoughts were occupied with a still more agreeable theme; with a string of dreamy conjectures, as to whom he was indebted for the princely present.

Could it be the young Creole – the cousin of his direst enemy as well as his reputed sweetheart?

The thing appeared improbable.

If not she, who else could it be?

The mustanger would have given a horse – a whole drove – to have been assured that Louise Poindexter was the provider of that luxurious refection.

Two days elapsed, and the donor still remained unknown.

Then the invalid was once more agreeably surprised, by a second present – very similar to the first – another basket, containing other bottles, and crammed with fresh “confections.”

The Bavarian wench was again questioned; but with no better result. A “shentlemans” had “prot” it – the same “stranger shentlemans” as before. She could only add that “the shentlemans” was very “Schwartz,” wore a glazed hat, and came to the tavern mounted upon a mule.

Maurice did not appear to be gratified with this description of the unknown donor; though no one – not even Phelim – was made the confidant of his thoughts.

In two days afterwards they were toned down to their former sobriety – on the receipt of a third basket, “prot by the Schwartz gentleman” in the glazed hat, who came mounted upon a mule.

The change could not be explained by the belongings in the basket – almost the counterpart of what had been sent before. It might be accounted for by the contents of a billet doux[173 - billet doux – a love letter (French)], that accompanied the gift – attached by a ribbon to the wickerwork of palm-sinnet.

“’Tis only Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he glanced at the superscription upon the note.

Then opening it with an air of indifference, he read: —

+++“Querido Señor!

“Soy quedando por una semana en la casa del tío Silvio. De questra desfortuna he oído – también que V. está mal ciudado en la fonda. He mandado algunas cositas. Sea graciosa usarlos, como una chiquitita memoria del servicio grande de que vuestra deudor estoy. En la silla soy escribando, con las espuelas preparadas sacar sangre de las ijadas del mio cavallo. En un momento más, partirá por el Río Grande.

“Bienhichor – de mi vida Salvador – y de que a una mujer esa mas querida, la honra – adiós – adiós!

“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.

“Al Señor Don Mauricio Gerald.”

Literally translated, and in the idiom of the Spanish language, the note ran thus: —

“Dear Sir, – I have been staying for a week at the house of Uncle Silvio. Of your mischance I have heard – also, that you are indifferently cared for at the hotel. I have sent you some little things. Be good enough to make use of them, as a slight souvenir of the great service for which I am your debtor. I write in the saddle, with my spurs ready to draw blood from the flanks of my horse. In another moment I am off for the Rio Grande!

“Benefactor – preserver of my life – of what to a woman is dearer – my honour – adieu! adieu!

“Isidora Covarubio De Los Llanos.”

“Thanks – thanks, sweet Isidora!” muttered the mustanger, as he refolded the note, and threw it carelessly upon the coverlet of his couch. “Ever grateful – considerate – kind! But for Louise Poindexter, I might have loved you!”

Chapter 23