"Yes, Loo; it's true as I tell you. I've tried all three. Six years
may fairly be called time. From Mississippi to Mexico was the distance:
for I went there with no other purpose than to forget you. It proved of
no avail; and, returning, I entered upon a course of dissipation. New
Orleans knows that.
"I won't say, that my passion grew stronger by these attempts to stifle
it. I've already told you, it could not. From the hour you first
caught hold of my hand, and called me cousin--ah! you called me
_handsome_ cousin, Loo--from that hour I can remember no change, no
degrees, in the fervour of my affection; except when jealousy has made
me hate--ay, so much, that I could have _killed_ you!"
"Good gracious, Captain Calhoun! This is wild talk of yours. It is
even silly!"
"'Tis serious, nevertheless. I've been so jealous with you at times,
that it was a task to control myself. My temper I could not--as you
have reason to know."
"Alas, cousin, I cannot help what has happened. I never gave you cause,
to think--"
"I know what you are going to say; and you may leave it unspoken. I'll
say it for you: `to think that you ever loved me.' Those were the words
upon your lips.
"I don't say you did," he continued, with deepening despair: "I don't
accuse you of tempting me. Something did. God, who gave you such
beauty; or the Devil, who led me to look upon it."
"What you say only causes me pain. I do not suppose you are trying to
flatter me. You talk too earnestly for that. But oh, cousin Cassius,
'tis a fancy from which you will easily recover. There are others, far
fairer than I; and many, who would feel complimented by such speeches.
Why not address yourself to them?"
"Why not?" he echoed, with bitter emphasis. "What an idle question!"
"I repeat it. It is not idle. Far more so is your affection for me:
for I must be candid with you, Cassius. I do not--I _cannot_, love
you."
"You will not marry me then?"
"That, at least, is an idle question. I've said I do not love you.
Surely that is sufficient."
"And I've said I love _you_. I gave it as one reason why I wish you for
my wife: but there are _others_. Are you desirous of hearing them?"
As Calhoun asked this question the suppliant air forsook him. The
spirit of the jaguar was once more in his eye.
"You said there were other reasons. State them! Do not be backward.
I'm not afraid to listen."
"Indeed!" he rejoined, sneeringly. "You're not afraid, ain't you?"
"Not that I know of. What have I to fear?"
"I won't say what _you_ have; but what your father has."
"Let me hear it? What concerns him, equally affects me. I am his
daughter; and now, alas, his only--. Go on, cousin Calhoun! What is
this shadow hanging over him?"
"No shadow, Loo; but something serious, and substantial. A trouble he's
no longer able to contend with. You force me to speak of things you
shouldn't know anything about."
"Oh! don't I? You're mistaken, cousin Cash. I know them already. I'm
aware that my father's in debt; and that you are his creditor. How
could I have remained in ignorance of it? Your arrogance about the
house--your presumption, shown every hour, and in presence of the
domestics--has been evidence sufficient to satisfy even them, that there
is something amiss. You are master of Casa del Corvo. I know it. You
are not master of _me_!"
Calhoun quailed before the defiant speech. The card, upon which he had
been counting, was not likely to gain the trick. He declined playing
it.
He held a still stronger _in_ his hand; which was exhibited without
farther delay.
"Indeed!" he retorted, sneeringly. "Well; if I'm not master of your
heart, I am of your happiness--or shall be. I know the worthless wretch
that's driven you to this denial--"
"Who?"
"How innocent you are!"
"Of that at least I am; unless by worthless wretch you mean yourself.
In that sense I can understand you, sir. The description is too true to
be mistaken."
"Be it so!" he replied, turning livid with rage, though still keeping
himself under a certain restraint. "Well; since you think me so
worthless, it won't, I suppose, better your opinion of me, when I tell
you what I'm going to do with you?"
"Do with me! You are presumptuous, cousin Cash! You talk as if I were
your _protegee_, or slave! I'm neither one, nor the other!"
Calhoun, cowering under the outburst of her indignation, remained
silent.
"_Pardieu_!" she continued, "what is this threat? Tell me what you are
_going to do with me_! I should like to know that."
"You shall."
"Let me hear it! Am I to be turned adrift upon the prairie, or shut up
in a convent? Perhaps it may be a prison?"
"You would like the last, no doubt--provided your incarceration was to
be in the company of--"
"Go on, sir! What is to be my destiny? I'm impatient to have it
declared."
"Don't be in a hurry. The first act shall be rehearsed tomorrow."
"So soon? And where, may I ask?"
"In a court of justice."
"How, sir?"
"By your standing before a judge, and in presence of a jury."
"You are pleased to be facetious, Captain Calhoun. Let me tell you that
I don't like such pleasantries--"
"Pleasantries indeed! I'm stating plain facts. To-morrow is the day of
trial. Mr Maurice Gerald, or McSweeney, or O'Hogerty, or whatever's
his name, will stand before the bar--accused of murdering your brother."
"'Tis false! Maurice Gerald never--"
"Did the deed, you are going to say? Well, that remains to be proved.
It _will_ be; and from your own lips will come the words that'll prove
it--to the satisfaction of every man upon the jury."
The great gazelle-eyes of the Creole were opened to their fullest
extent. They gazed upon the speaker with a look such as is oft given by
the gazelle itself--a commingling of fear, wonder, and inquiry.
It was some seconds before she essayed to speak. Thoughts, conjectures,
fears, fancies, and suspicions, all had to do in keeping her silent.
"I know not what you mean," she at length rejoined. "You talk of my
being called into court. For what purpose? Though I am the sister of
him, who--I know nothing--can tell no more than is in the mouth of
everybody."
"Yes can you; a great deal more. It's not in the mouth of everybody:
that on the night of the murder, you gave Gerald a meeting at the bottom
of the garden. No more does all the world know what occurred at that
stolen interview. How Henry intruded upon it; how, maddened, as he
might well be, by the thought of such a disgrace--not only to his
sister, but his family--he threatened to kill the man who had caused it;
and was only hindered from carrying out that threat, by the intercession
of the woman so damnably deluded!
"All the world don't know what followed: how Henry, like a fool, went
after the low hound, and with what intent. Besides themselves, there
were but two others who chanced to be spectators of that parting."
"Two--who were they?"
The question was asked mechanically--almost with a tranquil coolness.
It was answered with equal _sang froid_.
"One was Cassius Calhoun--the other Louise Poindexter." She did not
start. She did not even show sign of being surprised. What was spoken
already had prepared her for the revelation. Her rejoinder was a single
word, pronounced in a tone of defiance. "Well!"
"Well!" echoed Calhoun, chagrined at the slight effect his speeches had
produced; "I suppose you understand me?"
"Not any more than ever."
"You wish me to speak further?"
"As you please, sir."
"I shall then. I say to you, Loo, there's but one way to save your
father from ruin--yourself from shame. You know what I mean?"
"Yes; I know that much."
"You will not refuse me now?"
"_Now_ more than _ever_!"
"Be it so! Before this time to-morrow--and, by Heaven! I mean it--
before this time _to-morrow_, you shall stand in the witness-box?"
"Vile spy! Anywhere but in your presence! Out of my sight! This
instant, or I call my father!"
"You needn't put yourself to the trouble. I'm not going to embarrass
you any longer with my company--so disagreeable to you. I leave you to
reflect. Perhaps before the trial comes on, you'll see fit to change
your mind. If so, I hope you'll give notice of it--in time to stay the
summons. Good night, Loo! I'll sleep thinking of you."
With these words of mockery upon his lips--almost as bitter to himself
as to her who heard them--Calhoun strode out of the apartment, with an
air less of triumph than of guilt.
Louise listened, until his footsteps died away in the distant corridor.
Then, as if the proud angry thoughts hitherto sustaining her had become
suddenly relaxed, she sank into a chair; and, with both hands pressing
upon her bosom, tried to still the dread throbbings that now, more than
ever, distracted it.