Part 136 (1/2)

There is no need to guess at the meaning of this profane speech--the last of Calhoun's life. Its meaning is made clear by the act that accompanies it.

While speaking he has kept his right hand under the left breast of his coat. Along with the oath it comes forth, holding a revolver.

The spectators have just time to see the pistol--as it glints under the slanting sunbeams--when two shots are heard in quick succession.

With a like interval between, two men fall forward upon their faces; and lie with their heads closely contiguous!

One is Maurice Gerald, the mustanger,--the other Ca.s.sius Calhoun, ex-captain of volunteer cavalry.

The crowd closes around, believing both to be dead; while through the stillness that succeeds is heard a female voice, in those wild plaintive tones that tell of a heart nigh parting in twain!

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED.

JOY.

Joy!

There was this under the evergreen oak, when it was discovered that only the suicide was a success, and the attempt at a.s.sa.s.sination a failure.

There was this in the heart of Louise Poindexter, on learning that her lover still lived.

Though saddened by the series of tragedies so quickly transpiring, she was but human; and, being woman, who can blame her for giving way to the subdued happiness that succeeded? Not I. Not you, if you speak truly.

The pa.s.sion that controlled her may not be popular under a strictly Puritan standard. Still is it according to the dictates of Nature-- universal and irresistible--telling us that father, mother, sister, and brother, are all to be forsaken for that love illimitable; on Earth only exceeded--sometimes scarce equalled--by the love of self.

Do not reproach the young Creole, because this pa.s.sion was paramount in her soul. Do not blame her for feeling pleasure amidst moments that should otherwise have been devoted to sadness. Nor, that her happiness was heightened, on learning from the astonished spectators, how her lover's life had been preserved--as it might seem miraculously.

The aim of the a.s.sa.s.sin had been true enough. He must have felt sure of it, before turning the muzzle towards his own temples, and firing the bullet that had lodged in his brain. Right over the heart he had hit his intended victim, and through the heart would the leaden missile have made its way, but that a _gage d'amour_--the gift of her who alone could have secured it such a place--turned aside the shot, causing it to _ricochet_!

Not harmlessly, however: since it struck one of the spectators standing too close to the spot.

Not quite harmless, either, was it to him for whom it had been intended.

The stunning shock--with the mental and corporeal excitement--long sustained--did not fail to produce its effect; and the mind of Maurice Gerald once more returned to its delirious dreaming.

But no longer lay his body in danger--in the chapparal, surrounded by wolves, and shadowed by soaring vultures,--in a hut, where he was but ill attended--in a jail, where he was scarce cared for at all.

When again restored to consciousness, it was to discover that the fair vision of his dreams was no vision at all, but a lovely woman--the loveliest on the Leona, or in all Texas if you like--by name Louise Poindexter.

There was now no one to object to her nursing him; not even her own father. The spirit of the aristocratic planter--steeped in sorrow, and humiliated by misfortune--had become purged of its false pride; though it needed not this to make him willingly acquiesce in an alliance, which, instead of a ”n.o.body,” gave him a n.o.bleman for his son. Such, in reality, was Sir Maurice Gerald--erst known as Maurice the mustanger!

In Texas the t.i.tle would have counted for little; nor did its owner care to carry it. But, by a bit of good fortune--not always attendant on an Irish baronetcy--it carried along with it an endowment--ample enough to clear Casa del Corvo of the mortgage held by the late Ca.s.sius Calhoun, and claimed by his nearest of kin.

This was not Woodley Poindexter: for after Calhoun's death, it was discovered that the ex-captain had once been a Benedict; and there was a young scion of his stock--living in New Orleans--who had the legal right to say he was his son!

It mattered not to Maurice Gerald; who, now clear of every entanglement, became the husband of the fair Creole.

After a visit to his native land--including the European tour--which was also that of his honeymoon--Sir Maurice, swayed by his inclinations, once more returned to Texas, and made Casa del Corvo his permanent home.