Headless Horseman by Mayne Reid - Chapter Thirty Three. A Torturing Discovery
How came the cousin of Louise Poindexter to be astir at that late hour of the night, or, as it was now, the earliest of the morning? Had he been forewarned of this interview of the lovers; or was it merely some instinctive suspicion that had caused him to forsake his sleeping-chamber, and make a tour of inspection within the precincts of the garden?
In other words, was he an eavesdropper by accident, or a spy acting upon information previously communicated to him?
The former was the fact. Chance alone, or chance aided by a clear night, had given him the clue to a discovery that now filled his soul with the fires of hell.
Standing upon the housetop at the hour of midnight—what had taken him up there cannot be guessed—breathing vile tobacco-smoke into an atmosphere before perfumed with the scent of the night-blooming cereus; the ex-captain of cavalry did not appear distressed by any particular anxiety. He had recovered from the injuries received in his encounter with the mustanger; and although that bit of evil fortune did not fail to excite within him the blackest chagrin, whenever it came up before his mind, its bitterness had been, to some extent, counteracted by hopes of revenge—towards a plan for which he had already made some progress.
Equally with her father, he had been gratified that Louise was contented of late to stay within doors: for it was himself who had secretly suggested the prohibition to her going abroad. Equally had he remained ignorant as to the motive of that garden archery, and in a similar manner had misconceived it. In fact, he had begun to flatter himself, that, after all, her indifference to himself might be only a feint on the part of his cousin, or an illusion upon his. She had been less cynical for some days; and this had produced upon him the pleasant impression, that he might have been mistaken in his jealous fears.
He had as yet discovered no positive proof that she entertained a partiality for the young Irishman; and as the days passed without any renewed cause for disquiet, he began to believe that in reality there was none.
Under the soothing influence of this restored confidence, had he mounted up to the azotea; and, although it was the hour of midnight, the careless insouciance with which he applied the light to his cigar, and afterwards stood smoking it, showed that he could not have come there for any very important purpose. It may have been to exchange the sultry atmosphere of his sleeping-room for the fresher air outside; or he may have been tempted forth by the magnificent moon—though he was not much given to such romantic contemplation.
Whatever it was, he had lighted his cigar, and was apparently enjoying it, with his arms crossed upon the coping of the parapet, and his face turned towards the river.
It did not disturb his tranquillity to see a horseman ride out from the chapparal on the opposite side, and proceed onward across the open plain.
He knew of the road that was there. Some traveller, he supposed, who preferred taking advantage of the cool hours of the night—a night, too, that would have tempted the weariest wayfarer to continue his journey. It might be a planter who lived below, returning home from the village, after lounging an hour too long in the tavern saloon.
In daytime, the individual might have been identified; by the moonlight, it could only be made out that there was a man on horseback.
The eyes of the ex-officer accompanied him as he trotted along the road; but simply with mechanical movement, as one musingly contemplates some common waif drifting down the current of a river.
It was only after the horseman had arrived opposite the island of timber, and was seen to pull up, and then ride into it, that the spectator upon the housetop became stirred to take an interest in his movements.
“What the devil can that mean?” muttered Calhoun to himself, as he hastily plucked the cigar stump from between his teeth. “Damn the man, he’s dismounted!” continued he, as the stranger re-appeared, on foot, by the inner edge of the copse.
“And coming this way—towards the bend of the river—straight as he can streak it!
“Down the bluff—into the bottom—and with a stride that shows him well acquainted with the way. Surely to God he don’t intend making his way across into the garden? He’d have to swim for that; and anything he could get there would scarce pay him for his pains. What the old Scratch can be his intention? A thief?”
This was Calhoun’s first idea—rejected almost as soon as conceived. It is true that in Spanish-American countries even the beggar goes on horseback. Much more might the thief?
For all this, it was scarce probable, that a man would make a midnight expedition to steal fruit, or vegetables, in such cavalier style.
What else could he be after?
The odd manoeuvre of leaving his horse under cover of the copse, and coming forward on foot, and apparently with caution, as far as could be seen in the uncertain light, was of itself evidence that the man’s errand could scarce be honest and that he was approaching the premises of Casa del Corvo with some evil design.
What could it be?
Since leaving the upper plain he had been no longer visible to Calhoun upon the housetop. The underwood skirting the stream on the opposite side, and into which he had entered, was concealing him.
“What can the man be after?”
After putting this interrogatory to himself, and for about the tenth time—each with increasing emphasis—the composure of the ex-captain was still further disturbed by a sound that reached his ear, exceedingly like a plunge in the river. It was slight, but clearly the concussion of some hard substance brought in contact with water.
“The stroke of an oar,” muttered he, on hearing it. “Is, by the holy Jehovah! He’s got hold of the skiff, and’s crossing over to the garden. What on earth can he be after?”
The questioner did not intend staying on the housetop to determine. His thought was to slip silently downstairs—rouse the male members of the family, along with some of the servants; and attempt to capture the intruder by a clever ambuscade.
He had raised his arm from the copestone, and was in the act of stepping back from the parapet, when his ear was saluted by another sound, that caused him again to lean forward and look into the garden below.
This new noise bore no resemblance to the stroke of an oar; nor did it proceed from the direction of the river. It was the creaking of a door as it turned upon its hinge, or, what is much the same, a casement window; while it came from below—almost directly underneath the spot where the listener stood.
On craning over to ascertain the cause, he saw, what blanched his cheeks to the whiteness of the moonlight that shone upon them—what sent the blood curdling through every corner of his heart.
The casement that had been opened was that which belonged to the bed-chamber of his cousin Louise. He knew it. The lady herself was standing outside upon the steps that led to the level of the garden, her face turned downward, as if she was meditating a descent.
Loosely attired in white, as though in the negligé of a robe de chambre, with only a small kerchief coifed over her crown, she resembled some fair nymph of the night, some daughter of the moon, whom Luna delighted to surround with a silvery effulgence!
Calhoun reasoned rapidly. He could not do otherwise than connect her appearance outside the casement with the advent of the man who was making his way across the river.
And who could this man be? Who but Maurice the mustanger?
A clandestine meeting! And by appointment!
There could be no doubt of it; and if there had, it would have been dissolved, at seeing the white-robed figure glide noiselessly down the stone steps, and along the gravelled walks, till it at length disappeared among the trees that shadowed the mooring-place of the skiff.
Like one paralysed with a powerful stroke, the ex-captain continued for some time upon the azotea—speechless and without motion. It was only after the white drapery had disappeared, and he heard the low murmur of voices rising from among the trees, that he was stimulated to resolve upon some course of proceeding.
He thought no longer of awaking the inmates of the house—at least not then. Better first to be himself the sole witness of his cousin’s disgrace; and then—and then—
In short, he was not in a state of mind to form any definite plan; and, acting solely under the blind stimulus of a fell instinct, he hurried down the escalera, and made his way through the house, and out into the garden.
He felt feeble as he pressed forward. His legs had tottered under him while descending the stone steps. They did the same as he glided along the gravelled walk. 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 tête-à-tête—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.