Still within the garden are the young girls--still standing under the
shadow of the two trees that furnished the contrasting symbols,--
unconscious of danger near. Helen's speech, suggesting such painful
sequence, has touched her sister to the quick, soon as spoken,
afflicting also herself; and for a time they remain with entwined arms
and cheeks touching--their tears flowing together. But Jessie's sobs
are the louder, her grief greater than that she has been endeavouring to
assuage.
Helen perceiving it, rises to the occasion; and, as oft before, in turn
becomes the comforter; their happiness and misery like scales vibrating
on the beam.
"Don't cry so, Jess. Be a good girl, now. You're a little simpleton,
and I a big one. 'Twas very wrong of me to say what I did. Be it
forgotten, and let's hope we may yet both be happy."
"Oh, if I could but think that!"
"Think it, then. You _are_ happy, and I--shall try to be. Who knows
what time may do--that and Texas? Now, my little Niobe, dry up your
tears. Mine are all gone, and I feel in first rate spirits. I do
indeed."
She is not sincere in what she says, and but counterfeits cheerfulness
to restore that of her sister.
She has well-nigh succeeded, when a third personage appears upon the
scene, causing a sudden change in their thoughts, turning these into a
new and very different channel.
He whose appearance produces such effect--for it is a man--seems wholly
unconscious of the influence he has exerted; indeed, is so.
When first observed, he is coming down the central walk; which, though
wide, is partially shadowed by trees. And in their shadow he keeps,
clinging to it, as if desirous to shun observation. His step declares
it; not bold this, nor regardless, but skulking, with tread catlike;
while every now and then he casts a backward glance, as if in fear of
some one being behind. Just that which hinders him from seeing those
who are in front.
The girls are still standing together, with hands joined--luckily on one
of the side-walks, and like himself in shadow--though very near to
having separated, and one, at least, rushing out into the light at first
sound of his footstep. For to Jessie it gave joy, supposing it that of
her Luis. Naturally expecting him to join her, she was almost sure of
its being he.
Only for an instant. The tread was too light for a man marching with
honest intent, and the step too shuffling to be that of the young
planter. So whispered Helen.
Soon they see it is not he, but his major-domo.
Both are annoyed, some little irritated, at being thus intruded upon.
At such a time, in the midst of sacred emotions, all the more by a man
they both instinctively dislike. For Fernand is not a favourite with
either.
Then the idea occurs, he may be coming to seek them, sent with some
message from the house, and if so, they can excuse him. Concluding his
errand to be this, they await it, in silence.
They are quite mistaken, and soon perceive it. An honest messenger
would not be moving as he. While passing the open ground by the ruined
waterworks, the moon falls full upon his face, which wears an expression
anything but innocent, as they can both see. Besides, his gestures also
betray guilt; for he is skulking, and casting glances back.
"What can it mean?" whispers Jessie into Helen's ear; who replies by
placing a finger on her lips, and drawing her sister into deeper shadow.
Silent both stand, not stirring, scarce breathing. One seeing, might
easily mistake them for statues--a Juno and a Venus. Fortunately
Fernand does not see, else he might scrutinise them more closely. He is
too much absorbed about his own affair, whatever it be, to think of any
one loitering there at that time of the night.
Where the main garden-walk meets the one going along the bottom, is
another open space, smaller than that around the fountain, still
sufficient to let in the light of the moon. Here also have been seats
and statues; the latter lying shattered, as if hashed to the earth by
the hand of some ruthless iconoclast. Just opposite, is a breach in the
wall; the mud bricks, crumbled into clods forming a _talus_ on each face
of it.
Arriving at this, the _mestizo_ makes stop. Only for an instant, long
enough to give a last glance up the garden.
Apparently satisfied, that he is not followed nor observed, he scrambles
up the slope and down on the opposite side, where he is lost to the view
of the sisters; who both stand wondering--the younger sensibly
trembling.
"What on earth is the fellow after?" asks Helen, whose speech comes
first.
"What, indeed?" echoes Jessie.
"A question, sister, you should be better able to answer than I. He is
the trusted servant of M. Dupre; and he, I take it, has told you all
about him."
"Not a word has he. He knows that I don't like the man, and never did
from the first. I've intimated as much to him more than once."
"That ought to have got Master Fernand his discharge. Your Luis will
surely not keep him, if he knows it's disagreeable to you?"
"Well, perhaps he wouldn't if I were to put it in that way. I haven't
done so yet. I only hinted that the man wasn't altogether to my liking;
especially made so much of as Luis makes of him. You must know, dear
Helen, my future lord and master is of a very trusting nature; far too
much, I fear, for some of the people now around him. He has been
brought up like all Creoles, without thought for the morrow. A
sprinkling of Yankee cuteness wouldn't do him any harm. As for this
fellow, he has insinuated himself into Luis's confidence in some way
that appears quite mysterious. It even puzzles our father; though he's
said nothing much about it. So far he appears satisfied, because the
man has proved capable, and, I believe, very useful to them in their
affairs. For my part I've been mystified by him all along, and not less
now. I wonder what he can be after. Can you not give a guess?"
"Not the slightest; unless it be theft. Do you think it's that?"
"I declare I don't know."
"Is there anything he could be carrying off from the house, with the
intention of secreting it outside? Some of your Luis's gold for
instance, or the pretty jewels he has given you?"
"My jewels! No; they are safe in their case; locked up in my room, of
which I've the key with me. As for Luis's gold, he hasn't much of that.
All the money he possesses--quite fifty thousand dollars, I believe--is
in silver. I wondered at his bringing it out here in that heavy shape,
for it made a whole waggon-load of itself. He's told me the reason,
however; which is, that among Indians and others out here on the
frontier, gold is not thought so much of as silver."
"It can't be silver Fernand is stealing--if theft it be. He would look
more loaded, and couldn't have gone so lightly over that wall."
"Indeed, as you say, he went skipping over it like a grasshopper."
"Rather say gliding like a snake. I never saw a man whose movements
more resembled the Devil in serpent shape--except one."
The thought of this one, who is Richard Darke, causes Helen Armstrong to
suspend speech; at the same time evoking a sigh to the memory of another
one--Charles Clancy.
"Shall we return into the house?" asks Jessie, after a pause.
"For what purpose?"
"To tell Luis of what we've seen; to warn him about Fernand."
"If we did the warning would be unheeded. I fear Monsieur Dupre will
remain unconvinced of any intended treachery in his trusted servant,
until something unpleasant occur; it may be something disastrous. After
all, you and I, Jess, have only our suspicions, and may be wronging the
fellow. Suppose we stay a little longer, and see what comes of it. No
doubt, he'll soon return from his mysterious promenade, and by
remaining, we may find out what he's been after. Shall we wait for him?
You're not afraid, are you?"
"A little, I confess. Do you know, Helen, this Fernand gives me the
same sort of feeling I had at meeting that big fellow in the streets of
Natchitoches. At times he glares at me just in the same way. And yet
the two are so different."
"Well, since no harm came of your Nachitoches bogie, it's to be hoped
there won't any from this one. If you have any fear to stay, let us go
in. Only my curiosity is greatly excited by what we've seen, and I'd
like to know the end of it. If we don't discover anything, it can do no
harm. And if we do--say; shall we go, or try?"
"I'm not afraid now. You make me brave, sister. Besides, we may find
out something Luis ought to know."
"Then let us stay."
Having resolved to await the coming back of the half-blood, and watch
his further movements, the sisters bethink them of seeking a safer place
for observation; one where there will be less danger of being themselves
seen.
It is to Helen the idea occurs.
"On his return," she says, "he might stray along this way, and not go up
the centre walk. Therefore we had better conceal ourselves more
effectually. I wonder he didn't see us while passing out. No doubt he
would have done so, but for looking so anxiously behind, and going at
such a rapid rate. Coming back he may not be so hurried; and should he
sight us, then an end to our chance of finding out what he's up to.
Where's the best place to play spy on him?"
The two look in different directions, in search of an appropriate spot.
There can be no difficulty in finding such. The shrubbery, long
unpruned, grows luxuriantly everywhere, screening the _facade_ of the
wall along its whole length.
Near by is an arbour of evergreens, thickly overgrown with a trellis of
trailing plants.
They know of this shady retreat; have been in it before that night.
Now, although the moon is shining brightly, its interior, arcaded over
by dense foliage, is in dark shadow--dark as a cavern. Once inside it,
eye cannot see them from without.
"The very place," whispers Helen; and they commence moving towards it.
To reach the arbour it is necessary for them to return to the main walk,
and pass the place where the bottom wall is broken down; a ruin
evidently caused by rude intruders, doubtless the same savages who made
the mission desolate. The talus extending to the path, with its fringe
of further scattered clods, requires them to step carefully so as to
avoid stumbling.
They go hand in hand, mutually supporting one another.
Their white gossamer dresses, floating lightly around them as they glide
silently along, give them a resemblance to sylphs, or wood-nymphs, all
the more as they emerge into the moonlight.
To complete the sylvan picture, it seems necessary there should be
satyrs, or wood-demons, as well.
And such in reality there are, not a great way off. These, or something
closely resembling them. No satyrs could show in more grotesque guise
than the forms at that moment moving up to the wall, on its opposite
side.
Gliding on, the sisters have arrived before the gap. Some instinct,
perhaps curiosity, tempts them to take a look through it, into the
shadowy forest beyond; and for some time, as under a spell of
fascination, they stand gazing into its dark, mysterious depths.
They see nought save the sparkle of fire-flies; and hear nothing but the
usual noises of the Southern night, to which they have been from infancy
accustomed.
But as they are about moving on again, a sound salutes their ear--
distinguishable as a footstep. Irregular and scrambling, as of one
stepping among the broken bricks. Simultaneously a man is seen making
his way over the wall.
"Fernand!"
No use for them now to attempt concealment; no good can come of it. He
has seen them.
Nor does he any longer seem desirous of shunning observation. On the
contrary, leaping down from the rampart, he comes straight towards them;
in an instant presenting himself face to face, not with the nimble air
of a servant, but the demeanour of one who feels himself master, and
intend to play tyrant. With the moon shining full upon his tawny face,
they can distinguish the play of its features. No look of humility, nor
sign of subservience there. Instead, a bold, bullying expression, eyes
emitting a lurid light, lips set in a satanic smile, between them teeth
gleaming like a tiger's! He does not speak a word. Indeed, he has not
time; for Helen Armstrong anticipates him. The proud girl, indignant at
what she sees, too fearless to be frightened, at once commences chiding
him.
In words bold and brave, so much that, if alone, the scoundrel might
quail under their castigation. But he is not alone, nor does he allow
her to continue.
Instead, he cries out, interrupting, his speech not addressed to her,
but some one behind:--
"Bring hither the serapes! Quick, or--"
He himself is not permitted to finish what he intended saying; or, if
so, his last words are unheard; drowned by a confused noise of rushing
and rumbling, while the gap in the garden wall is suddenly closed, as if
by enchantment. It is at first filled by a dark mass, seemingly
compact, but soon separating into distinct forms.
The sisters, startled, terrified, have but time to give out one wild
cry--a shriek. Before either can utter a second, brawny arms embrace
them; blinds are thrown over their faces; and, half stifled, they feel
themselves lifted from their feet, and borne rudely and rapidly away!