How came the cousin of Louise Poindexter to be astir at that late hour
of the night, or, as it was now, the earliest of the morning? Had he
been forewarned of this interview of the lovers; or was it merely some
instinctive suspicion that had caused him to forsake his
sleeping-chamber, and make a tour of inspection within the precincts of
the garden?
In other words, was he an eavesdropper by accident, or a spy acting upon
information previously communicated to him?
The former was the fact. Chance alone, or chance aided by a clear
night, had given him the clue to a discovery that now filled his soul
with the fires of hell.
Standing upon the housetop at the hour of midnight--what had taken him
up there cannot be guessed--breathing vile tobacco-smoke into an
atmosphere before perfumed with the scent of the night-blooming
_cereus_; the ex-captain of cavalry did not appear distressed by any
particular anxiety. He had recovered from the injuries received in his
encounter with the mustanger; and although that bit of evil fortune did
not fail to excite within him the blackest chagrin, whenever it came up
before his mind, its bitterness had been, to some extent, counteracted
by hopes of revenge--towards a plan for which he had already made some
progress.
Equally with her father, he had been gratified that Louise was contented
of late to stay within doors: for it was himself who had secretly
suggested the prohibition to her going abroad. Equally had he remained
ignorant as to the motive of that garden archery, and in a similar
manner had misconceived it. In fact, he had begun to flatter himself,
that, after all, her indifference to himself might be only a feint on
the part of his cousin, or an illusion upon his. She had been less
cynical for some days; and this had produced upon him the pleasant
impression, that he might have been mistaken in his jealous fears.
He had as yet discovered no positive proof that she entertained a
partiality for the young Irishman; and as the days passed without any
renewed cause for disquiet, he began to believe that in reality there
was none.
Under the soothing influence of this restored confidence, had he mounted
up to the azotea; and, although it was the hour of midnight, the
careless _insouciance_ with which he applied the light to his cigar, and
afterwards stood smoking it, showed that he could not have come there
for any very important purpose. It may have been to exchange the sultry
atmosphere of his sleeping-room for the fresher air outside; or he may
have been tempted forth by the magnificent moon--though he was not much
given to such romantic contemplation.
Whatever it was, he had lighted his cigar, and was apparently enjoying
it, with his arms crossed upon the coping of the parapet, and his face
turned towards the river.
It did not disturb his tranquillity to see a horseman ride out from the
chapparal on the opposite side, and proceed onward across the open
plain.
He knew of the road that was there. Some traveller, he supposed, who
preferred taking advantage of the cool hours of the night--a night, too,
that would have tempted the weariest wayfarer to continue his journey.
It might be a planter who lived below, returning home from the village,
after lounging an hour too long in the tavern saloon.
In daytime, the individual might have been identified; by the moonlight,
it could only be made out that there was a man on horseback.
The eyes of the ex-officer accompanied him as he trotted along the road;
but simply with mechanical movement, as one musingly contemplates some
common waif drifting down the current of a river.
It was only after the horseman had arrived opposite the island of
timber, and was seen to pull up, and then ride into it, that the
spectator upon the housetop became stirred to take an interest in his
movements.
"What the devil can that mean?" muttered Calhoun to himself, as he
hastily plucked the cigar stump from between his teeth. "Damn the man,
he's dismounted!" continued he, as the stranger re-appeared, on foot, by
the inner edge of the copse.
"And coming this way--towards the bend of the river--straight as he can
streak it!
"Down the bluff--into the bottom--and with a stride that shows him well
acquainted with the way. Surely to God he don't intend making his way
across into the garden? He'd have to swim for that; and anything he
could get there would scarce pay him for his pains. What the old
Scratch can be his intention? A thief?"
This was Calhoun's first idea--rejected almost as soon as conceived. It
is true that in Spanish-American countries even the beggar goes on
horseback. Much more might the thief?
For all this, it was scarce probable, that a man would make a midnight
expedition to steal fruit, or vegetables, in such cavalier style.
What else could he be after?
The odd manoeuvre of leaving his horse under cover of the copse, and
coming forward on foot, and apparently with caution, as far as could be
seen in the uncertain light, was of itself evidence that the man's
errand could scarce be honest and that he was approaching the premises
of Casa del Corvo with some evil design.
What could it be?
Since leaving the upper plain he had been no longer visible to Calhoun
upon the housetop. The underwood skirting the stream on the opposite
side, and into which he had entered, was concealing him.
"What can the man be after?"
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! 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 neglige of a _robe de
chambre_, 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 _tete-a-tete_--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.