Part 38 (1/2)
”Ho, ho! Ma.s.sr Woodley, dis chile want nuffin 't all. Only look in t'
tell Missa Looey dat soon's she done eat her brekfa.s.s de spotty am unner de saddle, all ready for chuck de bit into him mouf. Ho! ho! dat critter do dance 'bout on de pave stone as ef it wa' mad to 'treak it back to de smoove tuff ob de praira.”
”Going out for a ride, Louise?” asked the planter with a shadow upon his brow, which he made but little effort to conceal.
”Yes, papa; I was thinking of it.”
”You must not.”
”Indeed!”
”I mean, that you must not ride out _alone_. It is not proper.”
”Why do you think so, papa? I have often ridden out alone.”
”Yes; perhaps too often.”
This last remark brought the slightest tinge of colour to the cheeks of the young Creole; though she seemed uncertain what construction she was to put upon it.
Notwithstanding its ambiguity, she did not press for an explanation. On the contrary, she preferred shunning it; as was shown by her reply.
”If you think so, papa, I shall not go out again. Though to be cooped up here, in this dismal dwelling, while you gentlemen are all abroad upon business--is that the life you intend me to lead in Texas?”
”Nothing of the sort, my daughter. I have no objection to your riding out as much as you please; but Henry must be with you, or your cousin Ca.s.sius. I only lay an embargo on your going alone. I have my reasons.”
”Reasons! What are they?”
The question came involuntarily to her lips. It had scarce pa.s.sed them, ere she regretted having asked it. By her uneasy air it was evident she had apprehensions as to the answer.
The reply appeared partially to relieve her.
”What other reasons do you want,” said the planter, evidently endeavouring to escape from the suspicion of duplicity by the Statement of a convenient fact--”what better, than the contents of this letter from the major? Remember, my child, you are not in Louisiana, where a lady may travel anywhere without fear of either insult or outrage; but in Texas, where she may dread both--where even her life may be in danger. Here there are Indians.”
”My excursions don't extend so far from the house, that I need have any fear of Indians. I never go more than five miles at the most.”
”Five miles!” exclaimed the ex-officer of volunteers, with a sardonic smile; ”you would be as safe at fifty, cousin Loo. You are just as likely to encounter the redskins within a hundred yards of the door, as at the distance of a hundred miles. When they are on the war trail they may be looked for anywhere, and at any time. In my opinion, uncle Woodley is rights you are very foolish to ride out alone.”
”Oh! _you_ say so?” sharply retorted the young Creole, turning disdainfully towards her cousin. ”And pray, sir, may I ask of what service your company would be to me in the event of my encountering the Comanches, which I don't believe there's the slightest danger of my doing? A pretty figure we'd cut--the pair of us--in the midst of a war-party of painted savages! Ha! ha! The danger would be yours, not mine: since I should certainly ride away, and leave you to your own devices. Danger, indeed, within five miles of the house! If there's a horseman in Texas--savages not excepted--who can catch up with my little Luna in a five mile stretch, he must ride a swift steed; which is more than you do, Mr Cas.h.!.+”
”Silence, daughter!” commanded Poindexter. ”Don't let me hear you talk in that absurd strain. Take no notice of it, nephew. Even if there were no danger from Indians, there are other outlaws in these parts quite as much to be shunned as they. Enough that I forbid you to ride abroad, as you have of late been accustomed to do.”
”Be it as you will, papa,” rejoined Louise, rising from the breakfast-table, and with an air of resignation preparing to leave the room. ”Of course I shall obey you--at the risk of losing my health for want of exercise. Go, Pluto!” she added, addressing herself to the darkey, who still stood grinning in the doorway, ”turn Luna loose into the corral--the pastures--anywhere. Let her stray back to her native prairies, if the creature be so inclined; she's no longer needed here.”
With this speech, the young lady swept out of the _sala_, leaving the three gentlemen, who still retained their seats by the table, to reflect upon the satire intended to be conveyed by her words.
They were not the last to which she gave utterance in that same series.
As she glided along the corridor leading to her own chamber, others, low murmured, mechanically escaped from her lips. They were in the shape of interrogatories--a string of them self-asked, and only to be answered by conjecture.
”What can papa have heard? Is it but his suspicions? Can any one have told him? Does he knew that we have met?”