For the first time in her life, Lena Rook saw Alfred Brandon approach
her father's house without a feeling of pain or repulsion.
Though for years he had been the most solicitous of her suitors, she
felt for him something more than contempt.
Despite his position in society--far superior to her own--despite his
fine clothes and speeches, she saw through the character of the man, and
believed him to be both a pretender and poltroon.
She knew that he was cruel--a tyrant to all who had the misfortune to be
under him, and a hard task-master to the black-skinned slaves that lived
upon his father's plantation.
Though dissipated, he was not generous; and, with all the plenty he
possessed, he was accounted among his associates the closest of screws.
He spent money, and enough of it, but only upon himself, and in the
indulgence of his own sensual desires.
He had obtained the reputation of being one of the meanest fellows in
the neighbourhood to which he belonged; and Lena Rook knew it.
She had never liked him as a boy; and her aversion was increased by her
knowledge that, as a boy, he had been the bitter enemy of Pierre
Robideau.
She did not think how much of this hostility was due to herself; for,
from an early period, the son of the planter had been bitterly jealous
of her playmate and companion.
But she remembered the scene in the glade; she believed that Alf Brandon
had been the chief instigator; and she had, all along, suspected that
Pierre's absence was in some way due to what had that day transpired.
She was very pleased to see Brandon now, only because he had rescued her
from a position that promised to become embarrassing. What answer could
she have made to that question her father had asked?
The opportune arrival had relieved her from an agony of apprehension.
The planter--now that his father was dead, no longer the planter's son--
seemed a little surprised at the pleased look with which she received
him. She was not accustomed to give him such gracious acceptance, and
little dreamt he of its cause.
"No doubt," reasoned he, with a feeling of self-gratulation, "she's
heard I'm now my own master, and won't much object to my becoming her's.
A planter in his own right is a very different individual from a
planter expectant; and Miss Lena Rook will have the sense to see it. I
don't think there will be much difficulty about this thing. She's been
only pretending with me in the past; now that she sees all's ready, I
guess she'll not stand shilly-shallying any longer. So here goes for
the proposals."
This string of reflections were made after Alfred Brandon had entered
the gate, and was making his way towards the porch, on which the young
lady was still standing. They were finished as he set foot on the step.
There was no one to interfere with the conversation that came after.
Jerry Rook, suspecting the purport of the planter's visit, had stayed
behind to hitch up his horse, and afterwards found excuse to stray off
to the back of the house, leaving the two alone.
"I suppose you have heard of my affliction, Miss Rook?" said Brandon,
after salutations had been exchanged.
"My father has been just telling me of it."
"Ah! yes; my old dad's dead and gone; buried him day before yesterday.
Can't be helped, you know. It's the way of us all. We've all got to
die."
To this lugubrious declaration Lena Rook yielded ready assent.
There was a pause in the conversation. Notwithstanding his plentitude
of power, tending to inspire him with sufficient assurance, the suitor
felt ill at ease. It was not to be wondered at, considering the errand
on which he had come.
Moreover, the pleasant look had forsaken Lena's face, and he had begun
to doubt of success.
She knew what he had come for, and was seriously reflecting upon the
answer she should give him.
She, of course, intended it to be negative; but she remembered her
father's words, and was thinking in what way she might reject the
disagreeable suitor, without stirring up his spite. She so well
understood his nature as to know he would be contemptible enough to use
it.
It was no thought of herself that dictated the affability with which she
was entertaining him; though she could scarce conceal her disgust for
the man before her, talking in such strains of a father so recently
deceased.
She, too, had a father, who was not what he ought to be; and she knew
it. But still he was her father.
After remaining for some time silent--not knowing what to say--Brandon
at length summoned sufficient courage to stammer out his proposal. It
was done with some fear and trembling.
He was more himself after he had received the refusal, which he did, in
as delicate terms as the young lady could command.
But, delicacy was thrown away upon the spiteful planter, who, stung by
the thought of being refused by the daughter of a poor white--he knew
the secret of Jerry Rook's altered circumstances--began upbraiding in
terms of opprobrious wrath the woman from whose feet he had just arisen!
The young girl, thus grossly outraged, would have called to her father
for protection, but again remembering his words, she remained silent
under the infliction, not even making answer to her cowardly insulter.
"Somebody else, I suppose," said the rejected gentleman, spitefully
pronouncing the words. "Some poor `trash' of your own sort has got a
hold of you! By--!" the ruffian swore a frightful oath, "if it be so,
when I find out who it is, and I don't care who it is, I'll make these
settlements too hot to hold him! _Lena Rook, you'll rue this refusal_!"
Not a word said Lena Rook in reply to this coarse invective. A
disdainful curl upon her lip was all the answer she vouchsafed; which
stayed there as she stood watching him along the walk, and until he had
remounted his horse, and galloped off from the gate.
Her's were not the only eyes bent upon the disappointed suitor. Jerry
Rook, engaged among the pigs and poultry, saw him ride away; and from
the spiteful spurring of his horse, and the reckless air with which he
rode, the old hunter conjectured the sort of answer that had been given
him.
"Durn the girl!" muttered he, as a black shadow swept across his
wrinkled brow; "she's played fool, an' refused him! Looks as ef she'd
sassed him! Never mind, Alf Brandon, I'll make it all right for you.
This chile ain't a gwine to let that fine plantashin o' your's slip
through his fingers--not ef he know it. You shall hev the gurl, and she
you, ef I hev myself to drag her up to the haltar. So, then, my Lena,
lass, when I've done here I'm a gwine to read you a lecture."
If the abrupt departure of Brandon had brought anger into the eyes of
Lena Rook, there was yet another pair watching it, that became suffused
with joy.
They were the eyes of Pierre Robideau.
After parting from that sweetheart so long separated from him, the young
man had recrossed the creek; and, as he had intended, kept on through
the woods towards the stand where he had left his horse.
Before going far, the thought occurred to him that he might as well have
a look at the quondam squatter, and see if he, too, was changed like
everything else.
It was only to place himself in the ambush that had already proved so
serviceable to his purposes, and stay there till Jerry should show
himself!
Knowing that the porches of a backwood's dwelling usually supplies the
place of sitting-room, he did not anticipate any severe trial of
patience.
It was not the gratification of mere curiosity that tempted him to
return. He had other reasons that rendered him desirous to look upon
his host of former days; at the same time that he was equally desirous
not to let that host see him.
Nor was it exactly a desire that counselled him to this act; but a sort
of involuntary impulse, such as the bird feels to approach the serpent
that would destroy it.
Pierre Robideau had returned from California, better informed about the
doings of Jerry Rook than he had been on going out there. It was the
old hunter who had induced him to take that distant journey. He had
counselled, almost compelled, him to it, by a false story that his
father had gone there before him, and had entrusted Jerry to send him
after in all haste. For this purpose, his former host had furnished the
outfit and directions, and had even seen him some distance on his way.
As already stated the unsuspicious youth, before starting, knew nothing
of what had occurred that night in the glade--not even that while he was
himself hanging there, his father had been so near him!
The story of the lynching had been kept from him previous to his
departure, Jerry Rook alone having access to him, and carefully guarding
against all other approach.
It was only after his arrival in California, and failing to find his
father at the appointed place, that he had heard of the tragedy on Caney
Creek, and who had been its victim.
The tale had got among the gold diggers, brought out by some new
arrivals from Little Rock.
Why Jerry Rook had been so anxious to get him away, Pierre Robideau
could never tell, though he had some terrible suspicions about it--
almost pointing out the old squatter as one of his father's murderers.
It was this sort of curiosity that caused him to turn among the trees,
and steal back to the concealment he had so recently forsaken. Perhaps,
too, he may have wished once more to gratify his eyes by gazing on that
loved form so unceremoniously hurried out of his sight.
Whether or not, he was soon in his old position, and gazing intently
through the curtain of leaves.
So far as Jerry Rook was concerned, he obtained the satisfaction he had
sought for. His quondam host was in front of the house, in conversation
with his daughter, who stood in the porch above him.
Pierre had arrived at the moment when that question was put, so nearly
concerning himself.
He did not hear it, but he noticed the embarrassed air of the young
lady, and the quick change that came over her countenance as she
adroitly evaded the answer.
From that moment Jerry Rook was no longer regarded. A third personage
had appeared upon the scene, and the pleasing look with which Jerry
Rook's daughter appeared to receive him sent a pang through the heart of
Pierre Robideau.
The exclamation had told him who the new comer was. But he did not heed
that.
No time could efface from his memory the image of one who had so cruelly
outraged him, and six years had produced but little change in Alf
Brandon.
Pierre knew him on sight.
With heart beating wildly, he remained a silent witness of the scene
that ensued.
At first it beat bitterly, as he marked and misinterpreted the
complaisant look with which Lena regarded his rival.
Ere long came a delightful change, as he listened to the dialogue--
plainly overheard where he stood--and, when he heard the final speech,
and saw the discomfited lover stride off towards the gate, he could
scarce restrain himself from a shout of joy.
He was fain to have sprung across the creek, and once more enfolded that
fair form in his passionate embrace. But he saw that mischief might
spring from such imprudence; and, turning from the spot, he walked
silently away--his heart now swelling with triumph, now subsiding into
sweet contentment.