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Louise
Poindexter
had
imbibed
a
passion
that
could
not
be
easily
stifled
.
Though
of
brief
existence
,
it
had
been
of
rapid
growth
--
vigorously
overriding
all
obstacles
to
its
indulgence
.
It
was
already
strong
enough
to
overcome
such
ordinary
scruples
as
parental
consent
,
or
the
inequality
of
rank
;
and
,
had
it
been
reciprocated
,
neither
would
have
stood
in
the
way
,
so
far
as
she
herself
was
concerned
.
For
the
former
,
she
was
of
age
;
and
felt
--
as
most
of
her
countrywomen
do
--
capable
of
taking
care
of
herself
.
For
the
latter
,
who
ever
really
loved
that
cared
a
straw
for
class
,
or
caste
?
Love
has
no
such
meanness
in
its
composition
.
At
all
events
,
there
was
none
such
in
the
passion
of
Louise
Poindexter
.
It
could
scarce
be
called
the
first
illusion
of
her
life
.
It
was
,
however
,
the
first
,
where
disappointment
was
likely
to
prove
dangerous
to
the
tranquillity
of
her
spirit
.
She
was
not
unaware
of
this
.
She
anticipated
unhappiness
for
a
while
--
hoping
that
time
would
enable
her
to
subdue
the
expected
pain
.
At
first
,
she
fancied
she
would
find
a
friend
in
her
own
strong
will
;
and
another
in
the
natural
buoyancy
of
her
spirit
.
But
as
the
days
passed
,
she
found
reason
to
distrust
both
:
for
in
spite
of
both
,
she
could
not
erase
from
her
thoughts
the
image
of
the
man
who
had
so
completely
captivated
her
imagination
.
There
were
times
when
she
hated
him
,
or
tried
to
do
so
--
when
she
could
have
killed
him
,
or
seen
him
killed
,
without
making
an
effort
to
save
him
!
They
were
but
moments
;
each
succeeded
by
an
interval
of
more
righteous
reflection
,
when
she
felt
that
the
fault
was
hers
alone
,
as
hers
only
the
misfortune
.
No
matter
for
this
.
It
mattered
not
if
he
had
been
her
enemy
--
the
enemy
of
all
mankind
.
If
Lucifer
himself
--
to
whom
in
her
wild
fancy
she
had
once
likened
him
--
she
would
have
loved
him
all
the
same
!
And
it
would
have
proved
nothing
abnormal
in
her
disposition
--
nothing
to
separate
her
from
the
rest
of
womankind
,
all
the
world
over
.
In
the
mind
of
man
,
or
woman
either
,
there
is
no
connection
between
the
moral
and
the
passional
.
They
are
as
different
from
each
other
as
fire
from
water
.
They
may
chance
to
run
in
the
same
channel
;
but
they
may
go
diametrically
opposite
.
In
other
words
,
we
may
love
the
very
being
we
hate
--
ay
,
the
one
we
despise
!
Louise
Poindexter
could
neither
hate
,
nor
despise
,
Maurice
Gerald
.
She
could
only
endeavour
to
feel
indifference
.
It
was
a
vain
effort
,
and
ended
in
failure
.
She
could
not
restrain
herself
from
ascending
to
the
azotea
,
and
scrutinising
the
road
where
she
had
first
beheld
the
cause
of
her
jealousy
.
Each
day
,
and
almost
every
hour
of
the
day
,
was
the
ascent
repeated
.
