Wild thoughts has Helen Armstrong, thus apostrophised, with not a word
to say in return. She knows it would be idle; but without this, her
very indignation holds her dumb--that and despair.
For a time he, too, is silent, as if surrendering his soul to delightful
exultation.
Soon he resumes speech in changed tone, and interrogatively:--"Do you
know who's talking to you? Or must I tell you, Nell? You'll excuse
familiarity in an old friend, won't you?" Receiving no response, he
continues, in the same sneering style: "Yes, an old friend, I say it;
one you should well remember, though it's some time since we met, and a
good way from here. To assist your recollection, let me recall an
incident occurring at our last interview. Perhaps 'twill be enough to
name the place and time? Wall, it was under a magnolia, in the State of
Mississippi; time ten o'clock of night, moonlight, if I rightly
remember, as now. It matters not the day of the month being different,
or any other trivial circumstance, so long as the serious ones are so.
And they are, thank God for it! Beneath the magnolia I knelt at your
feet, under this tree, which is a live-oak, you lie at mine."
He pauses, but not expecting reply. The woman, so tortured speaks not;
neither stirs she. The only _motion_ visible throughout her frame is
the swell and fall of her bosom--tumultuously beating.
He who stands, over well knows it is throbbing in pain. But no
compassion has he for that; on the contrary, it gives gratification;
again drawing from him the exultant exclamation--"Sweet--sweet!"
After another interval of silence, he continues, banteringly as before:
"So, fair Helen, you perceive how circumstances have changed between us,
and I hope you'll have the sense to suit yourself to the change.
Beneath the Mississippian tree you denied me: here under the Texan,
you'll not be so inexorable--will you?"
Still no response.
"Well; if you won't vouchsafe an answer, I must be content to go without
it; remembering the old saw--`Silence consents.' Perhaps, ere long your
tongue will untie itself; when you've got over grieving for him who's
gone--your great favourite, Charley Clancy. I take it, you've heard of
his death; and possibly a report, that some one killed him. Both
stories are true; and, telling you so, I may add, no one knows better
than myself; since 'twas I sent the gentleman to kingdom come--Richard
Darke."
On making the fearful confession, and in boastful emphasis, he bends
lower to observe its effect. Not in her face, still covered with the
serape, but her form, in which he can perceive a tremor from head to
foot. She shudders, and not strange, as she thinks:--
"He murdered _him_. He may intend the same with _me_. I care not now."
Again the voice of the self-accused assassin:
"You know me now?"
She is silent as ever, and once more motionless; the convulsive spasm
having passed. Even the beating of her heart seems stilled.
Is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it would appear
so.
"Ah, well;" he says, "you won't recognise me? Perhaps you will after
seeing my face. Sight is the sharpest of the senses, and the most
reliable. You shall no longer be deprived of it. Let me take you to
the light."
Lifting, he carries her out to where the moonbeams meet the tree's
shadow, and there lays her along. Then dropping to his knees, he draws
out something that glistens. Two months before he stooped over the
prostrate form of her lover, holding a photograph before his eyes--her
own portrait. In her's he is about to brandish a knife!
One seeing him in this attitude would suppose he intended burying its
blade in her breast. Instead, he slits open the serape in front of her
face, tossing the severed edges back beyond her cheeks.
Her features exposed to the light, show wan and woeful; withal, lovely
as ever; piquant in their pale beauty, like those of some rebellious nun
hating the hood, discontented with cloister and convent.
As she sees him stooping beside, with blade uplifted, she feels sure he
designs killing her. But she neither shrinks, nor shudders now. She
even wishes him to end her agony with a blow. Were the knife in her own
hand, she would herself give it.
It is not his intention to harm her that way. Words are the weapons by
which he intends torturing her. With these he will lacerate her heart
to its core.
For he is thinking of the time when he threw himself at her feet, and
poured forth his soul in passionate entreaty, only to have his passion
spurned, and his pride humiliated. It is her turn to suffer
humiliation, and he has determined she shall. Recalling his own, every
spark of pity, every pulsation of manhood, is extinguished within him.
The cup of his scorned love has become a chalice filled with the passion
of vengeance.
Sheathing the knife, he says:
"I've been longing for a good look at you. Now that I've got it, I
should say you're pretty as ever, only paler. That will come right, and
the roses return to your cheeks, in this recuperative climate of Texas;
especially in the place where I intend taking you. But you hav'nt yet
looked at my face. It's just had a washing for your sake. Come give it
a glance! I want you to admire it, though it may not be quite so
handsome as that of Charley Clancy."
She averts her eyes, instinctively closing them.
"Oh, well, you won't? Never mind, now. There's a time coming when
you'll not be so coy, and when I shan't any longer kneel supplicating
you. For know, Nell, you're completely in my power, and I can command,
do with you what I will. I don't intend any harm, nor mean to be at all
unkind. It'll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. And
knowing that, why shouldn't there be truce between us? What's the use
of fretting about Clancy? He's dead as a door nail, and your lamenting
won't bring him to life again. Better take things as they are, and
cheer up. If you've lost one sweetheart, there's another left, who
loves you more than ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong; by God, I do!"
The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane assertion, by bending before
her, and laying his hand upon his heart.
Neither his speech nor attitude moves her. She lies as ever, still,
silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket--whose pattern of Aztec design
bears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt--this closed and
corded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, one
of Pharaoh's daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which for
centuries she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin,
negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyes
tell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showing
in crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she be
asleep, or dead.
Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receiving
no reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. He
has lost control of his temper, and now talks unfeelingly, brutally,
profanely.
"Damn you!" he cries. "Keep your tongue in your teeth, if you like.
Ere long I'll find a way to make it wag; when we're man and wife, as we
shall soon be--after a fashion. A good one, too, practised here upon
the prairies of Texas. Just the place for a bridal, such as ours is to
be. The nuptial knot tied, according to canons of our own choice,
needing no sanction of church, or palaver of priests, to make it
binding."
The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Not that he has yet sated his
vengeance, for he intends continuing the torture of his victim unable to
resist. He has driven the arrow deep into her heart, and leaves it to
rankle there.
For a time he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph--the expression on
his countenance truly satanic. It is seen suddenly to change,
apprehension taking its place, succeeded by fear.
The cause: sounds coming from the other side of the tree; human voices!
Not those of Bosley, or his captive; but of strange men speaking
excitedly!
Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, he looks
cautiously around it.
In the shadow he sees several figures clustering around Bosley and his
horse; then hears names pronounced, one which chills the blood within
his veins--almost freezing it.
He stands transfixed; cowering as one detected in an act of crime, and
by a strong hand held in the attitude in which caught! Only for a short
while thus; then, starting up, he rushes to regain his horse, jerks the
bridle from the back, and drags the animal in the direction of his
captive. Tossing her upon the pommel of the saddle, he springs into it.
But she too has heard names, and now makes herself heard, shouting,
"Help--help!"