"To-morrow night you will meet me again--to-morrow night, dearest
Maurice?"
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,--if I were free to say the
word."
"And why not? Why are you not free to say it?"
"To-morrow, by break of day, I am off for the Alamo."
"Indeed! Is it imperative you should go?"
The interrogatory was put in a tone that betrayed displeasure. A vision
of a sinister kind always came before the mind of Louise Poindexter at
mention of the lone hut on the Alamo.
And why? It had afforded her hospitality. One would suppose that her
visit to it could scarce fail to be one of the pleasantest recollections
of her life. And yet it was not!
"I have excellent reasons for going," was the reply she received.
"Excellent reasons! Do you expect to meet any one there?"
"My follower Phelim--no one else. I hope the poor fellow is still above
the grass. I sent him out about ten days ago--before there was any
tidings of these Indian troubles."
"Only Phelim you expect to meet? Is it true, Gerald? Dearest! do not
deceive me! Only him?"
"Why do you ask the question, Louise?"
"I cannot tell you why. I should die of shame to speak my secret
thoughts."
"Do not fear to speak them! I could keep no secret from you--in truth I
could not. So tell me what it is, love!"
"Do you wish me, Maurice?"
"I do--of course I do. I feel sure that whatever it may be, I shall be
able to explain it. I know that my relations with you are of a
questionable character; or might be so deemed, if the world knew of
them. It is for that very reason I am going back to the Alamo."
"And to stay there?"
"Only for a single day, or two at most. Only to gather up my household
gods, and bid a last adieu to my prairie life."
"Indeed!"
"You appear surprised."
"No! only mystified. I cannot comprehend you. Perhaps I never shall!"
"'Tis very simple--the resolve I have taken. I know you will forgive
me, when I make it known to you."
"Forgive you, Maurice! For what do you ask forgiveness?"
"For keeping it a secret from you, that--that I am not what I seem."
"God forbid you should be otherwise than what you seem to me--noble,
grand, beautiful, rare among men! Oh, Maurice! you know not how I
esteem--how I love you!"
"Not more than I esteem and love you. It is that very esteem that now
counsels me to a separation."
"A separation?"
"Yes, love; but it is to be hoped only for a short time."
"How long?"
"While a steamer can cross the Atlantic, and return."
"An age! And why this?"
"I am called to my native country--Ireland, so much despised, as you
already know. 'Tis only within the last twenty hours I received the
summons. I obey it the more eagerly, that it tells me I shall be able
soon to return, and prove to your proud father that the poor
horse-hunter who won his daughter's heart--have I won it, Louise?"
"Idle questioner! Won it? You know you have more than won it--
conquered it to a subjection from which it can never escape. Mock me
not, Maurice, nor my stricken heart--henceforth, and for evermore, your
slave!"
During the rapturous embrace that followed this passionate speech, by
which a high-born and beautiful maiden confessed to have surrendered
herself--heart, soul, and body--to the man who had made conquest of her
affections, there was silence perfect and profound.
The grasshopper amid the green herbage, the cicada on the tree-leaf, the
mock-bird on the top of the tall cotton-wood, and the nightjar soaring
still higher in the moonlit air, apparently actuated by a simultaneous
instinct, ceased to give utterance to their peculiar cries: as though
one and all, by their silence, designed to do honour to the sacred
ceremony transpiring in their presence!
But that temporary cessation of sounds was due to a different cause. A
footstep grating upon the gravelled walk of the garden--and yet touching
it so lightly, that only an acute ear could have perceived the contact--
was the real cause why the nocturnal voices had suddenly become stilled.
The lovers, absorbed in the sweet interchange of a mutual affection,
heard it not. They saw not that dark shadow, in the shape of man or
devil, flitting among the flowers; now standing by a statue; now
cowering under cover of the shrubbery, until at length it became
stationary behind the trunk of a tree, scarce ten paces from the spot
where they were kissing each other!
Little did they suspect, in that moment of celestial happiness when all
nature was hushed around them, that the silence was exposing their
passionate speeches, and the treacherous moon, at the same time,
betraying their excited actions.
That shadowy listener, crouching guilty-like behind the tree, was a
witness to both. Within easy earshot, he could hear every word--even
the sighs and soft low murmurings of their love; while under the silvery
light of the moon, with scarce a sprig coming between, he could detect
their slightest gestures.
It is scarce necessary to give the name of the dastardly eavesdropper.
That of Cassius Calhoun will have suggested itself.
It was he.