After putting this interrogatory to himself, and for about the tenth time – each with increasing emphasis – the composure of the ex-captain was still further disturbed by a sound that reached his ear, exceedingly like a plunge in the river. It was slight, but clearly the concussion of some hard substance brought in contact with water.
“The stroke of an oar,” muttered he, on hearing it. “Is, by the holy Jehovah [218] ! He’s got hold of the skiff, and’s crossing over to the garden. What on earth can he be after?”
The questioner did not intend staying on the housetop to determine. His thought was to slip silently downstairs – rouse the male members of the family, along with some of the servants; and attempt to capture the intruder by a clever ambuscade.
He had raised his arm from the copestone, and was in the act of stepping back from the parapet, when his ear was saluted by another sound, that caused him again to lean forward and look into the garden below.
This new noise bore no resemblance to the stroke of an oar; nor did it proceed from the direction of the river. It was the creaking of a door as it turned upon its hinge, or, what is much the same, a casement window; while it came from below – almost directly underneath the spot where the listener stood.
On craning over to ascertain the cause, he saw, what blanched his cheeks to the whiteness of the moonlight that shone upon them – what sent the blood curdling through every corner of his heart.
The casement that had been opened was that which belonged to the bed-chamber of his cousin Louise. He knew it. The lady herself was standing outside upon the steps that led to the level of the garden, her face turned downward, as if she was meditating a descent.
Loosely attired in white, as though in the negligé [219] of a robe de chambre [220] , with only a small kerchief coifed over her crown, she resembled some fair nymph of the night, some daughter of the moon, whom Luna delighted to surround with a silvery effulgence!
Calhoun reasoned rapidly. He could not do otherwise than connect her appearance outside the casement with the advent of the man who was making his way across the river.
And who could this man be? Who but Maurice the mustanger?
A clandestine meeting! And by appointment!
There could be no doubt of it; and if there had, it would have been dissolved, at seeing the white-robed figure glide noiselessly down the stone steps, and along the gravelled walks, till it at length disappeared among the trees that shadowed the mooring-place of the skiff.
Like one paralysed with a powerful stroke, the ex-captain continued for some time upon the azotea – speechless and without motion. It was only after the white drapery had disappeared, and he heard the low murmur of voices rising from among the trees, that he was stimulated to resolve upon some course of proceeding.
He thought no longer of awaking the inmates of the house – at least not then. Better first to be himself the sole witness of his cousin’s disgrace; and then – and then —
In short, he was not in a state of mind to form any definite plan; and, acting solely under the blind stimulus of a fell instinct, he hurried down the escalera , and made his way through the house, and out into the garden.
He felt feeble as he pressed forward. His legs had tottered under him while descending the stone steps. They did the same as he glided along the gravelled walk. They continued to tremble as he crouched behind the tree trunk that hindered him from being seen – while playing spectator of a scene that afflicted him to the utmost depths of his soul.
He heard their vows; their mutual confessions of love; the determination of the mustanger to be gone by the break of the morrow’s day; as also his promise to return, and the revelation to which that promise led.
With bitter chagrin, he heard how this determination was combated by Louise, and the reasons why she at length appeared to consent to it.
He was witness to that final and rapturous embrace, that caused him to strike his foot nervously against the pebbles, and make that noise that had scared the cicadas into silence.
Why at that moment did he not spring forward – put a termination to the intolerable tête-à-tête – and with a blow of his bowie-knife lay his rival low – at his own feet and that of his mistress? Why had he not done this at the beginning – for to him there needed no further evidence, than the interview itself, to prove that his cousin had been dishonoured?
There was a time when he would not have been so patient. What, then, was the punctilio that restrained him? Was it the presence of that piece of perfect mechanism, that, with a sheen of steel, glistened upon the person of his rival, and which under the bright moonbeams, could be distinguished as a “Colt’s six-shooter?”
Perhaps it may have been. At all events, despite the terrible temptation to which his soul was submitted, something not only hindered him from taking an immediate vengeance, but in the mid-moments of that maddening spectacle – the final embrace – prompted him to turn away from the spot, and with an earnestness, even keener than he had yet exhibited, hurry back in the direction of the house: leaving the lovers, still unconscious of having been observed, to bring their sweet interview to an ending – sure to be procrastinated.
Chapter 34 A Chivalrous Dictation
Where went Cassius Calhoun?
Certainly not to his own sleeping-room. There was no sleep for a spirit suffering like his.
He went not there; but to the chamber of his cousin. Not hers – now untenanted, with its couch unoccupied, its coverlet undisturbed – but to that of her brother, young Henry Poindexter.
He went direct as crooked corridors would permit him – in haste, without waiting to avail himself of the assistance of a candle.
It was not needed. The moonbeams penetrating through the open bars of the reja [221] , filled the chamber with light – sufficient for his purpose. They disclosed the outlines of the apartment, with its simple furniture – a washstand, a dressing-table, a couple of chairs, and a bed with “mosquito curtains.”
Under those last was the youth reclining; in that sweet silent slumber experienced only by the innocent. His finely formed head rested calmly upon the pillow, over which lay scattered a profusion of shining curls.
As Calhoun lifted the muslin “bar,” the moonbeams fell upon his face, displaying its outlines of the manliest aristocratic type.
What a contrast between those two sets of features, brought into such close proximity! Both physically handsome; but morally, as Hyperion [222] to the Satyr [223] .
“Awake, Harry! awake!” was the abrupt salutation extended to the sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder.
“Oh! ah! you, cousin Cash? What is it? not the Indiana, I hope?”
“Worse than that – worse! worse! Quick! Rouse yourself, and see! Quick, or it will be too late! Quick, and be the witness of your own disgrace – the dishonour of your house. Quick, or the name of Poindexter will be the laughing-stock of Texas!”
After such summons there could be no inclination for sleep – at least on the part of a Poindexter; and at a single bound, the youngest representative of the family cleared the mosquito curtains, and stood upon his feet in the middle of the floor – in an attitude of speechless astonishment.
“Don’t wait to dress,” cried his excited counsellor, “stay, you may put on your pants. Damn the clothes! There’s no time for standing upon trifles. Quick! Quick!”
The simple costume the young planter was accustomed to wear, consisting of trousers and Creole blouse of Attakapas cottonade [224] , were adjusted to his person in less than twenty seconds of time; and in twenty more, obedient to the command of his cousin – without understanding why he had been so unceremoniously summoned forth – he was hurrying along the gravelled walks of the garden.