Лучшие романы Томаса Майна Рида / The Best of Thomas Mayne Reid. Майн Рид

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      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.

      Chapter 34

      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[221], 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[222] to the Satyr[223].

      “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[224], 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? It is a man!”

      “And who do you suppose he is?”

      “How should I know, cousin Cash? Do you?”

      “I do. That man is Maurice the mustanger!”

      “And the woman?”

      “Is Louise – your sister – in his arms!”

      As if a shot had struck him through the heart, the brother bounded upward, and then onward, along the path.

      “Stay!” said Calhoun, catching hold of, and restraining him. “You forget that you are unarmed! The fellow, I know, has weapons upon him. Take this, and this,” continued he, passing his own knife and pistol into the hands of his cousin. “I should have used them myself, long ere this; but I thought it better that you – her brother – should be the avenger of your sister’s wrongs. On, my boy! See that you don’t hurt her; but take care not to lose the chance at him. Don’t give him a word of warning. As soon as they are separated, send a bullet into his belly; and if all six should fail, go at him with the knife. I’ll stay near, and take care of you, if you should get into danger. Now! Steal upon him, and give the scoundrel hell!”

      It needed not this blasphemous injunction to inspire Henry Poindexter to hasty action. The brother of a sister – a beautiful sister – erring, undone!

      In six seconds he was by her side, confronting her supposed seducer.

      “Low villain!” he cried, “unclasp your loathsome arm from the waist of my sister. Louise! stand aside, and give me a chance of killing him! Aside, sister! Aside, I say!”

      Had the command been obeyed, it is probable that Maurice Gerald would at that moment have ceased to exist – unless he had found heart to kill Henry Poindexter; which, СКАЧАТЬ