They continued to tremble as he crouched behind the tree trunk that hindered him from being seen—while playing spectator of a scene that afflicted him to the utmost depths of his soul.
He heard their vows; their mutual confessions of love; the determination of the mustanger to be gone by the break of the morrow’s day; as also his promise to return, and the revelation to which that promise led.
With bitter chagrin, he heard how this determination was combated by Louise, and the reasons why she at length appeared to consent to it.
He was witness to that final and rapturous embrace, that caused him to strike his foot nervously against the pebbles, and make that noise that had scared the cicadas into silence.
Why at that moment did he not spring forward—put a termination to the intolerable tete-a-tete—and with a blow of his bowie-knife lay his rival low—at his own feet and that of his mistress?
Why had he not done this at the beginning—for to him there needed no further evidence, than the interview itself, to prove that his cousin had been dishonoured?
There was a time when he would not have been so patient. What, then, was the punctilio that restrained him? Was it the presence of that piece of perfect mechanism, that, with a sheen of steel, glistened upon the person of his rival, and which under the bright moonbeams, could be distinguished as a “Colt’s six-shooter?” Perhaps it may have been.
At all events, despite the terrible temptation to which his soul was submitted, something not only hindered him from taking an immediate vengeance, but in the mid-moments of that maddening spectacle—the final embrace—prompted him to turn away from the spot, and with an earnestness, even keener than he had yet exhibited, hurry back in the direction of the house: leaving the lovers, still unconscious of having been observed, to bring their sweet interview to an ending—sure to be procrastinated.
Chapter Thirty Four. A Chivalrous Dictation.
Where went Cassius Calhoun?
Certainly not to his own sleeping-room.
There was no sleep for a spirit suffering like his.
He went not there; but to the chamber of his cousin. Not hers—now untenanted, with its couch unoccupied, its coverlet undisturbed—but to that of her brother, young Henry Poindexter.
He went direct as crooked corridors would permit him—in haste, without waiting to avail himself of the assistance of a candle.
It was not needed.
The moonbeams penetrating through the open bars of the reja, filled the chamber with light—sufficient for his purpose.
They disclosed the outlines of the apartment, with its simple furniture—a washstand, a dressing-table, a couple of chairs, and a bed with “mosquito curtains.”
Under those last was the youth reclining; in that sweet silent slumber experienced only by the innocent.
His finely formed head rested calmly upon the pillow, over which lay scattered a profusion of shining curls.
As Calhoun lifted the muslin “bar,” the moonbeams fell upon his face, displaying its outlines of the manliest aristocratic type.
What a contrast between those two sets of features, brought into such close proximity! Both physically handsome; but morally, as Hyperion to the Satyr.
“Awake, Harry! awake!” was the abrupt salutation extended to the sleeper, accompanied by a violent shaking of his shoulder.
“Oh! ah! you, cousin Cash?
What is it? not the Indiana, I hope?”
“Worse than that—worse! worse!
Quick!
Rouse yourself, and see!
Quick, or it will be too late!
Quick, and be the witness of your own disgrace—the dishonour of your house.
Quick, or the name of Poindexter will be the laughing-stock of Texas!”
After such summons there could be no inclination for sleep—at least on the part of a Poindexter; and at a single bound, the youngest representative of the family cleared the mosquito curtains, and stood upon his feet in the middle of the floor—in an attitude of speechless astonishment.
“Don’t wait to dress,” cried his excited counsellor, “stay, you may put on your pants.
Damn the clothes! There’s no time for standing upon trifles.
Quick!
Quick!”
The simple costume the young planter was accustomed to wear, consisting of trousers and Creole blouse of Attakapas cottonade, were adjusted to his person in less than twenty seconds of time; and in twenty more, obedient to the command of his cousin—without understanding why he had been so unceremoniously summoned forth—he was hurrying along the gravelled walks of the garden.
“What is it, Cash?” he inquired, as soon as the latter showed signs of coming to a stop. “What does it all mean?”
“See for yourself!
Stand close to me!
Look through yonder opening in the trees that leads down to the place where your skiff is kept.
Do you see anything there?”
“Something white.
It looks like a woman’s dress. It is that.
It’s a woman!”
“It is a woman.
Who do you suppose she is?”
“I can’t tell.
Who do you say she is?”
“There’s another figure—a dark one—by her side.”
“It appears to be a man?