Part 86 (2/2)
”They have told me nothing. Mr Gerald was alone when I entered. The man outside was absent, and has just returned. I have not had time to question him.”
”But--but, how came _you_ to be here?”
”I could not stay at home. I could not endure the uncertainty any longer. It was terrible--alone, with no one at the house; and the thought that my poor brother--_Mon dieu_! _Mon dieu_!”
Poindexter regards his daughter with a perplexed, but still inquiring, look.
”I thought I might find Henry here.”
”Here! But how did you know of this place? Who guided you? You are by yourself!”
”Oh, father! I knew the way. You remember the day of the hunt--when the mustang ran away with me. It was beyond this place I was carried.
On returning with Mr Gerald, he told me he lived here. I fancied I could find the way back.”
Poindexter's look of perplexity does not leave him, though another expression becomes blended with it. His brow contracts; the shadow deepens upon it; though whatever the dark thought, he does not declare it.
”A strange thing for you to have done, my daughter. Imprudent--indeed dangerous. You have acted like a silly girl. Come--come away! This is no place for a lady--for you. Get to your horse, and ride home again.
Some one will go with you. There may be a scene here, you should not be present at. Come, come!” The father strides forth from the hut, the daughter following with reluctance scarce concealed; and, with like unwillingness, is conducted to her saddle.
The searchers, now dismounted, are upon the open ground in front.
They are all there. Calhoun has made known the condition of things inside; and there is no need for them to keep up their vigilance.
They stand in groups--some silent, some conversing. A larger crowd is around the Connemara man; who lies upon the gra.s.s, last tied in the trail-rope. His tongue is allowed liberty; and they question him, but without giving much credit to his answers.
On the re-appearance of the father and daughter, they face towards them, but stand silent. For all this, they are burning with eagerness to have an explanation of what is pa.s.sing. Their looks proclaim it.
Most of them know the young lady by sight--all by fame, or name. They feel surprise--almost wonder--at seeing her there. The sister of the murdered man under the roof of his murderer!
More than ever are they convinced that this is the state of the case.
Calhoun, coming forth from the hut, has spread fresh intelligence among them--facts that seem to confirm it. He has told them of the hat, the cloak--of the murderer himself, injured in the death-struggle!
But why is Louise Poindexter there--alone--unaccompanied by white or black, by relative or slave? A guest, too: for in this character does she appear! Her cousin does not explain it--perhaps he cannot. Her father--can he? Judging by his embarra.s.sed air, it is doubtful.
Whispers pa.s.s from lip to ear--from group to group. There are surmises--many, but none spoken aloud. Even the rude frontiersmen respect the feelings--filial as parental--and patiently await the _eclairciss.e.m.e.nt_.
”Mount, Louise! Mr Yancey will ride home with you.” The young planter thus pledged was never more ready to redeem himself. He is the one who most envies the supposed happiness of Ca.s.sius Calhoun. In his soul he thanks Poindexter for the opportunity.
”But, father!” protests the young lady, ”why should I no wait for you?
You are not going to stay here?” Yancey experiences a shock of apprehension. ”It is my wish, daughter, that you do as I tell you. Let that be sufficient.”
Yancey's confidence returns. Not quite. He knows enough of that proud spirit to be in doubt whether it may yield obedience--even to the parental command.
It gives way; but with an unwillingness ill disguised, even in the presence of that crowd of attentive spectators.
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