On the third day, after that on which Richard Darke abstracted the
letter from the magnolia, a man is seen strolling along the edge of the
cypress swamp. The hour is nearly the same, but the individual
altogether different. Only in age does he bear any similarity to the
planter's son; for he is also a youth of some three or four and twenty.
In all else he is unlike Dick Darke, as one man could well be to
another.
He is of medium size and height, with a figure pleasingly proportioned.
His shoulders squarely set, and chest rounded out, tell of great
strength; while limbs tersely knit, and a firm elastic tread betoken
toughness and activity. Features of smooth, regular outline--the jaws
broad, and well balanced; the chin prominent; the nose nearly Grecian--
while eminently handsome, proclaim a noble nature, with courage equal to
any demand that may be made upon it. Not less the glance of a blue-grey
eye, unquailing as an eagle's.
A grand shock of hair, slightly curled, and dark brown in colour, gives
the finishing touch to his fine countenance, as the feather to a
Tyrolese hat.
Dressed in a sort of shooting costume, with jack-boots, and gaiters
buttoned above them, he carries a gun; which, as can be seen, is a
single-barrelled rifle; while at his heels trots a dog of large size,
apparently a cross between stag-hound and mastiff, with a spice of
terrier in its composition. Such mongrels are not necessarily curs, but
often the best breed for backwoods' sport; where the keenness of scent
required to track a deer, needs supplementing by strength and
staunchness, when the game chances, as it often does, to be a bear, a
wolf, or a panther.
The master of this trebly crossed canine is the man whose name rose upon
the lips of Richard Darke, after reading the purloined epistle--Charles
Clancy. To him was it addressed, and for him intended, as also the
photograph found inside.
Several days have elapsed since his return from Texas, having come back,
as already known, to find himself fatherless. During the interval he
has remained much at home--a dutiful son, doing all he can to console a
sorrowing mother. Only now and then has he sought relaxation in the
chase, of which he is devotedly fond. On this occasion he has come down
to the cypress swamp; but, having encountered no game, is going back
with an empty bag.
He is not in low spirits at his ill success; for he has something to
console him--that which gives gladness to his heart--joy almost reaching
delirium. She, who has won it, loves him.
This she is Helen Armstrong. She has not signified as much, in words;
but by ways equally expressive, and quite as convincing. They have met
clandestinely, and so corresponded; the knot-hole in the magnolia
serving them as a post-box. At first, only phrases of friendship in
their conversation; the same in the letters thus surreptitiously
exchanged. For despite Clancy's courage among men, he is a coward in
the presence of women--in hers more than any.
For all this, at their latest interview, he had thrown aside his
shyness, and spoken words of love--fervent love, in its last appeal. He
had avowed himself wholly hers, and asked her to be wholly his. She
declined giving him an answer _viva voce_, but promised it in writing.
He will receive it in a letter, to be deposited in the place convened.
He feels no offence at her having thus put him off. He believes it to
have been but a whim of his sweetheart--the caprice of a woman, who has
been so much nattered and admired. He knows, that, like the Anne
Hathaway of Shakespeare, Helen Armstrong "hath a way" of her own. For
she is a girl of no ordinary character, but one of spirit, free and
independent, consonant with the scenes and people that surrounded her
youth. So far from being offended at her not giving him an immediate
answer, he but admires her the more. Like the proud eagle's mate, she
does not condescend to be wooed as the soft cooing dove, nor yield a too
easy acquiescence.
Still daily, hourly, does he expect the promised response. And twice,
sometimes thrice, a day pays visit to the forest post-office.
Several days have elapsed since their last interview; and yet he has
found no letter lying. Little dreams he, that one has been sent, with a
_carte de visite_ enclosed; and less of both being in the possession of
his greatest enemy on earth.
He is beginning to grow uneasy at the delay, and shape conjectures as to
the cause. All the more from knowing, that a great change is soon to
take place in the affairs of the Armstrong family. A knowledge which
emboldened him to make the proposal he has made.
And now, his day's hunting done, he is on his way for the tract of
woodland in which stands the sweet trysting tree.
He has no thought of stopping, or turning aside; nor would he do so for
any small game. But at this moment a deer--a grand antlered stag--comes
"loping" along.
Before he can bring his gun to bear upon it, the animal is out of sight;
having passed behind the thick standing trunks of the cypresses. He
restrains his hound, about to spring off on the slot. The stag has not
seen him; and, apparently, going unscared, he hopes to stalk, and again
get sight of it.
He has not proceeded over twenty paces, when a sound fills his ears, as
well as the woods around. It is the report of a gun, fired by one who
cannot be far off. And not at the retreating stag, but himself!
He feels that the bullet has hit him. This, from a stinging sensation
in his arm, like the touch of red-hot iron, or a drop of scalding water.
He might not know it to be a bullet, but for the crack heard
simultaneously--this coming from behind.
The wound, fortunately but a slight one, does not disable him; and, like
a tiger stung by javelins, he is round in an instant, ready to return
the fire.
There is no one in sight!
As there has been no warning--not a word--he can have no doubt of the
intent: some one meaning to murder him!
He is sure about its being an attempt to assassinate him, as of the man
who has made it. Richard Darke--certain, as if the crack of the gun had
been a voice pronouncing the name.
Clancy's eyes, flashing angrily, interrogate the forest. The trees
stand close, the spaces between shadowy and sombre. For, as said, they
are cypresses, and the hour twilight.
He can see nothing save the huge trunks, and their lower limbs,
garlanded with ghostly _tillandsia_ here and there draping down to the
earth. This baffles him, both by its colour and form. The grey
gauze-like festoonery, having a resemblance to ascending smoke, hinders
him from perceiving that of the discharged gun.
He can see none. It must have whiffed up suddenly, and become
commingled with the moss?
It does not matter much. Neither the twilight obscurity, nor that
caused by the overshadowing trees, can prevent his canine companion from
discovering the whereabouts of the would-be assassin. On hearing the
shot the hound has harked back; and, at some twenty paces off, brought
up beside a huge trunk, where it stands fiercely baying, as if at a
bear. The tree is buttressed, with "knees" several feet in height
rising around. In the dim light, these might easily be mistaken for
men.
Clancy is soon among them; and sees crouching between two pilasters, the
man who meant to murder him--Richard Darke as conjectured.
Darke makes no attempt at explanation. Clancy calls for none. His
rifle is already cocked; and, soon as seeing his adversary, he raises it
to his shoulder, exclaiming:--
"Scoundrel! you've had the first shot. It's my turn now."
Darke does not remain inactive, but leaps--forth from his lurking-place,
to obtain more freedom for his arms. The buttresses hinder him from
having elbow room. He also elevates his gun; but, perceiving it will be
too late, instead of taking aim, he lowers the piece again, and dodges
behind the tree.
The movement, quick and subtle, as a squirrel's bound, saves him.
Clancy fires without effect. His ball but pierces through the skirt of
Darke's coat, without touching his body.
With a wild shout of triumph, the latter advances upon his adversary,
whose gun is now empty. His own, a double-barrel, has a bullet still
undischarged. Deliberately bringing the piece to his shoulder, and
covering the victim he is now sure of, he says derisively,--
"What a devilish poor shot you've made, Mister Charlie Clancy! A sorry
marksman--to miss a man scarce six feet from the muzzle of your gun! I
shan't miss you. Turn about's fair play. I've had the first, and I'll
have the last. Dog! take your _death shot_!"
While delivering the dread speech, his finger presses the trigger; the
crack comes, with the flash and fiery jet.
For some seconds Clancy is invisible, the sulphurous smoke forming a
nimbus around him. When it ascends, he is seen prostrate upon the
earth; the blood gushing from a wound in his breast, and spurting over
his waistcoat.
He appears writhing in his death agony.
And evidently thinks so himself, from his words spoken in slow, choking
utterance,--
"Richard Darke--you have killed--murdered me!"
"I meant to do it," is the unpitying response.
"O Heavens! You horrid wretch! Why--why--"
"Bah! what are you blubbering about? You know why. If not, I shall
tell you--_Helen Armstrong_, After all, it isn't jealousy that's made me
kill you; only your impudence, to suppose you had a chance with her.
You hadn't; she never cared a straw for you. Perhaps, before dying, it
may be some consolation for you to know she didn't. I've got the proof.
Since it isn't likely you'll ever see herself again, it may give you a
pleasure to look at her portrait. Here it is! The sweet girl sent it
me this very morning, with her autograph attached, as you see. A
capital likeness, isn't it?"
The inhuman wretch stooping down, holds the photograph before the eyes
of the dying man, gradually growing dim.
But only death could hinder them from turning towards that sun-painted
picture--the portrait of her who has his heart.
He gazes on it lovingly, but not long. For the script underneath claims
his attention. In this he recognises her handwriting, well-known to
him. Terrible the despair that sweeps through his soul, as he deciphers
it:--
"_Helen Armstrong_.--_For him she loves_."
The picture is in the possession of Richard Darke. To him have the
sweet words been vouchsafed!
"A charming creature!" Darke tauntingly continues, kissing the carte,
and pouring the venomous speech into his victim's ear. "It's the very
counterpart of her sweet self. As I said, she sent it me this morning.
Come, Clancy! Before giving up the ghost, tell me what you think of it.
Isn't it an excellent likeness?"
To the inhuman interrogatory Clancy makes no response--either by word,
look, or gesture. His lips are mute, his eyes without light of life,
his limbs and body motionless as the mud on which they lie.
A short, but profane, speech terminates the terrible episode; four words
of most heartless signification:--
"Damn him; he's dead!"