Joy!
There was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only
the suicide was a success, and the attempt at assassination a failure.
There was this in the heart of Louise Poindexter, on learning that her
lover still lived.
Though saddened by the series of tragedies so quickly transpiring, she
was but human; and, being woman, who can blame her for giving way to the
subdued happiness that succeeded? Not I. Not you, if you speak truly.
The passion that controlled her may not be popular under a strictly
Puritan standard. Still is it according to the dictates of Nature--
universal and irresistible--telling us that father, mother, sister, and
brother, are all to be forsaken for that love illimitable; on Earth only
exceeded--sometimes scarce equalled--by the love of self.
Do not reproach the young Creole, because this passion was paramount in
her soul. Do not blame her for feeling pleasure amidst moments that
should otherwise have been devoted to sadness. Nor, that her happiness
was heightened, on learning from the astonished spectators, how her
lover's life had been preserved--as it might seem miraculously.
The aim of the assassin had been true enough. He must have felt sure of
it, before turning the muzzle towards his own temples, and firing the
bullet that had lodged in his brain. Right over the heart he had hit
his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have
made its way, but that a _gage d'amour_--the gift of her who alone could
have secured it such a place--turned aside the shot, causing it to
_ricochet_!
Not harmlessly, however: since it struck one of the spectators standing
too close to the spot.
Not quite harmless, either, was it to him for whom it had been intended.
The stunning shock--with the mental and corporeal excitement--long
sustained--did not fail to produce its effect; and the mind of Maurice
Gerald once more returned to its delirious dreaming.
But no longer lay his body in danger--in the chapparal, surrounded by
wolves, and shadowed by soaring vultures,--in a hut, where he was but
ill attended--in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all.
When again restored to consciousness, it was to discover that the fair
vision of his dreams was no vision at all, but a lovely woman--the
loveliest on the Leona, or in all Texas if you like--by name Louise
Poindexter.
There was now no one to object to her nursing him; not even her own
father. The spirit of the aristocratic planter--steeped in sorrow, and
humiliated by misfortune--had become purged of its false pride; though
it needed not this to make him willingly acquiesce in an alliance,
which, instead of a "nobody," gave him a nobleman for his son. Such, in
reality, was Sir Maurice Gerald--erst known as Maurice the mustanger!
In Texas the title would have counted for little; nor did its owner care
to carry it. But, by a bit of good fortune--not always attendant on an
Irish baronetcy--it carried along with it an endowment--ample enough to
clear Casa del Corvo of the mortgage held by the late Cassius Calhoun,
and claimed by his nearest of kin.
This was not Woodley Poindexter: for after Calhoun's death, it was
discovered that the ex-captain had once been a Benedict; and there was a
young scion of his stock--living in New Orleans--who had the legal right
to say he was his son!
It mattered not to Maurice Gerald; who, now clear of every entanglement,
became the husband of the fair Creole.
After a visit to his native land--including the European tour--which was
also that of his honeymoon--Sir Maurice, swayed by his inclinations,
once more returned to Texas, and made Casa del Corvo his permanent home.
The "blue-eyed colleen" of Castle Ballagh must have been a myth--having
existence only in the erratic fancy of Phelim. Or it may have been the
bud of a young love, blighted ere it reached blooming--by absence, oft
fatal to such tender plants of passion?
Whether or no, Louise Poindexter--Lady Gerald she must now be called--
during her sojourn in the Emerald Isle saw nothing to excite her to
jealousy.
Only once again did this fell passion take possession of her spirit; and
then only in the shape of a shadow soon to pass away.
It was one day when her husband came home to the hacienda--bearing in
his arms the body of a beautiful woman!
Not yet dead; though the blood streaming from a wound in her bared bosom
showed she had not long to live.
To the question, "Who has done this?" she was only able to answer,
"Diaz--Diaz!"
It was the last utterance of Isidora Covarubio de los Llanos!
As the spirit of the unhappy _senorita_ passed into eternity, along with
it went all rancour from that of her more fortunate rival. There can be
no jealousy of the dead. That of Lady Gerald was at rest, and for ever.
It was succeeded by a strong sympathy for the ill-fated Isidora; whose
story she now better comprehended. She even assisted her lord in the
saddling of his red-bay steed, and encouraged him in the pursuit of the
assassin.
She joyed to see the latter led back at the end of a lazo--held in the
hand of her husband; and refused to interfere, when a band of
Regulators, called hastily together, dealt out summary chastisement--by
hanging him to a tree!
It was not cruelty--only a crude kind of justice:--"an eye for an eye,
and a tooth for a tooth."
And what a poor compensation it seemed, to those who had taken part in
exacting it!
As they stood gazing upon the remains of the villain, and his victim--
the swarth ruffian dangling from the branch above, and the fair form
lying underneath--the hearts of the Texans were touched--as perhaps they
had never been before.
There was a strange thought passing through their minds; a sadness
independent of that caused by the spectacle of a murder. It was regret
at having so hastily despatched the assassin!
Beautiful, even in death, was Isidora. Such features as she possessed,
owe not everything to the light of life. That voluptuous shape--the
true form divine--may be admired in the cold statue.
Men stood gazing upon her dead body--long gazing--loth to go away--at
length going with thoughts not altogether sacred!
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In the physical world Time is accounted the destroyer; though in the
moral, it is oft the restorer. Nowhere has it effected greater changes
than in Texas--during the last decade--and especially in the settlements
of the Nueces and Leona.
Plantations have sprung up, where late the _chapparal_ thickly covered
the earth; and cities stand, where the wild steed once roamed over a
pathless prairie.
There are new names for men, places, and things.
For all this, there are those who could conduct you to an ancient
hacienda--still known as Casa del Corvo.
Once there, you would become the recipient of a hospitality, unequalled
in European lands.
You would have for your host one of the handsomest men in Texas; for
your hostess one of its most beautiful women--both still this side of
middle life.
Residing under their roof you would find an old gentleman, of
aristocratic air and venerable aspect--withal chatty and cheerful--who
would conduct you around the _corrales_, show you the stock, and never
tire of talking about the hundreds--ay thousands--of horses and horned
cattle, seen roaming over the pastures of the plantation.
You would find this old gentleman very proud upon many points: but more
especially of his beautiful daughter--the mistress of the mansion--and
the half-dozen pretty prattlers who cling to his skirts, and call him
their "dear grandpa."
Leaving him for a time, you would come in contact with two other
individuals attached to the establishment.
One is the _groom_ of the "stole,"--by name Phelim O'Neal--who has full
charge of the horses. The other a coachman of sable skin, yclept Pluto
Poindexter; who would scorn to look at a horse except when perched upon
the "box," and after having the "ribbons" deftly delivered into his
hands.
Since we last saw him, the gay Pluto has become tamed down to a staid
and sober Benedict--black though he be.
Florinda--now the better half of his life--has effected the
transformation.
There is one other name known at Casa del Corvo, with which you cannot
fail to become acquainted. You will hear it mentioned, almost every
time you sit down to dinner: for you will be told that the turkey at the
head of the table, or the venison at its opposite end, is the produce of
a rifle that rarely misses its aim.
During the course of the meal--but much more over the wine--you will
hear talk of "Zeb Stump the hunter."
You may not often see him. He will be gone from the hacienda, before
you are out of your bed; and back only after you have retired. But the
huge gobbler seen in the "smoke-house," and the haunch of venison
hanging by its side, are evidence he has been there.
While sojourning at Casa del Corvo, you may get hints of a strange story
connected with the place--now almost reduced to a legend.
The domestics will tell it you, but only in whispers: since they know
that it is a theme _tabooed_ by the master and mistress of the mansion,
in whom it excites sad souvenirs.
It is the story of the Headless Horseman.