Border beagles a tale of Mississippi |
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| 9. | CHAPTER IX. |
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 | CHAPTER IX. Border beagles |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
The questioner hath need,—where went he then?”
The Royal Fugitive.
The effect upon the group of the sudden appearance
of a single person was no less strange than
instantaneous. And this person was a woman. She
emerged from the edge of the little nook, near which
the revel had been carried on, and stood, without
speaking a syllable, for several seconds, looking
upon the circle with an expression of high-raised
scorn in her countenance, which, though beheld
only by the ruddy blaze of firelight, seemed to the
eyes of our actor to be haughtily beautiful. Her
complexion was dark, but richly lustrous. Her hair
black as midnight, and glossy almost as its stars.
Her eyes were large, quick, and dazzling, of the
same deep raven hue with her tresses, which hung
down upon her shoulders, streaming from beneath a
sable network, which, covering her head, partially
concealed her forehead also. Her person was
rather masculine—her carriage majestic—and the
involuntary notion which rose in the mind of
Horsey, as he beheld her, was that she would make
a most magnificent Lady Macbeth. Somewhat
ashamed of being caught by a lady in a hand-to-hand
actor drew off from his opponent, who, to his surprise,
exhibited an equal degree of willingness with
himself to bring the contest to a sudden conclusion.
He slunk away, and, with an evolution no less
prompt than unlooked for, actually took shelter behind
Horsey, surveying the intruder with eyes of
cat-like cunning, mingled with some little apprehension,
from over the shoulder of the actor. The
effect upon the rest of the revellers was very nearly
the same. In a moment they had left the board;
and one or two, who were nearest to the woods,
might have been seen stealing out of sight into the
shadow of the contiguous trees. Jones was the
only one of all the assembly who maintained his
former place, and exhibited neither apprehension nor
confusion. He met the gaze of the lady with respectful
firmness, and, as he passed our actor in approaching
the spot where she stood, whispered in
his ears—
“Our prima donna—our heroine—a star of the
first magnitude. But—mum!”
His finger touched his nose, and his air and gesture
was that of one whose words, had they been
supplied, would have been—
“But a tartar of the first degree.”
Horsey fancied such to be the meaning of the
other's gestures, and was half confirmed in this
opinion, when the first accents fell from the lips of
the intruder.
“Mr. Jones, I would speak with you a moment.”
“Certainly, ma'am—I will but give some directions
to the gentlemen, and follow you.”
“Gentlemen!” was the half-subdued utterance of
the lady in tones of scornful irony. “Gentlemen,
indeed!”
The words came faintly to the ears of Horsey,
rest; and however little complimentary to himself
and his companions, he could forgive the sneer which
they expressed, in consideration of the intense superiority
of manner which accompanied their utterance,
and which assured him that the company was
not entirely without a redeeming measure of that
talent for theatricals, the want of which had hitherto
appeared painfully conspicuous in his eyes, in spite of
the obvious genius of Mr. Benjamin Bull and the
flattering judgment of Mr. Jones. The lady turned
on her heel, without farther word or look, disappearing
in the recess of the woods, as suddenly as she
came.
“So, Bull,” said Jones, reproachfully, when she
had gone, “it's just as I told you. Mark me,—you
haven't heard the end of it. I warned you, but you
must be drinking; and all that I said by way of
counsel has been wasted upon you. She's heard all
the uproar, and seen it too, and she will tell him
every syllable when he comes. She will forget nothing.
You know that.”
“Ay, ay—blast it—she has the memory of a
devil's dam. Well, there's no help now—I must
grin and bear it,” said the genius, sullenly.
“At least, it will be wise only to do no more mischief
for the night. Away, all of you, to your nests;
and no more uproar. There's no telling how soon
he will be here, and if he finds you—”
The speech was finished in a whisper to the parties
immediately interested, and lost accordingly to
our amateur. He had heard enough, however, to
perceive that there was some mystery connected
with his companions, some matter of domestic history,
which was yet withheld from him. Who
was “he” of whom Jones had spoken so emphatically,
yet left unnamed; and why should a woman,
maintain an influence over the company, of such
seemingly tyrannical extent—a tyranny which, from
their spontaneous recognition of its sway, would
seem to have been of habitual and undisputed exercise?
The approach of Jones arrested his cogitations.
“This path, Mr. Horsey, will lead you to your
place of sleeping for the night. You will there find
fire-light, and a boy waiting you. I will join you
before you sleep.”
“But, Mr. Jones—the lady—who is she?”
“Our great gun—our princess—a most royal
heroine. You see what a magnificent carriage she
has?—she is tremendously popular—wins applauses
wherever she goes—our trump-card which always
secures the game. But she knows it, sir—that's the
misfortune. She knows her popularity too well, and
she is capricious in consequence. We have to humour
her, sir, in all her fancies, and some of them
are strange enough. You have no idea how extravagant
she can be at times. Exercises the most
tyrannous authority, and we dare not offend her.”
“I'd like to know her. Suppose I go with you.
You can introduce me, and, by the ghost of Garrick,
Mr. Jones, to have a chat with such a woman, will
only be a proper compensation for the annoyances
I have had to undergo from that d—d comedian—
that fellow Bull, of whom you think so highly.”
“Not now,—not for the world to-night. She's in
her fit to-night, and would fly at you like a tigress.
To-morrow, or the next day, Mr. Horsey, as soon
as the fit passes off. I'll tell you when she's in the
humour to be seen.”
“Do, do,—I long to know her. She looks as if
she'd make a first-rate woman. But of whom did
of some person whom you did not name.”
“Oh, that was her husband,—our chief musician.
A bloody fellow, by the way, of whom Bull has a
monstrous terror. He came nigh cutting Ben's
throat once already, for some liberties he took with
his wife, and since then we know how to keep him
in order. We have only to say, `he is coming'—
meaning her husband—and the fellow's tail's down
in an instant. He loses all his with and humour, and
skulks off, as he did to-night, out of sight and hearing,
a most thorough-paced coward, as ever you
saw. But I must leave you. Our princess is as
jealous as her husband; and as I am acting manager
at present, I must be careful how I offend her. Your
path lies there—I will look in upon you as soon as I
am dismissed from her presence.”
Horsey, somewhat bewildered, followed the path
which had been pointed out to him, while Jones proceeded
to join the empress whose dictatorial summons,
he really did not dare to disobey. The spot
in which she received him was not far distant from
that which the revellers had occupied. It was more
thickly garnished with trees and shrubbery—more
closely encircled by the swamp thicket, and, in place
of a rude tent of bushes, such as served the rest of
the company, a log-house was provided for her ladyship,
rude and clumsy, it is true, but comparatively
full of comforts, and not without its attractions. Deference,
if not affection, seemed to have striven to
gratify her pride, and commend itself to her consideration.
A little arbour was raised before her
door upon which the wild grape clambered; and
rose bushes had been planted along the path, which
was neatly shorn of weeds and made free of all obstructions.
Within the cottage, the same care might
have shown itself, in a hundred little particulars,
The lady met Jones at the entrance, and, without
a word, led the way into the dwelling. Her manner
betrayed no little impatience.
“You have been slow, Mr. Jones. I heard of
your arrival some hours ago, and have been expecting
your presence ever since.”
“I had a particular charge, ma'am, which kept
me busy. We had a stranger to manage, and—”
“Ay, ay,—some other hopeful scheme—but I care
not to listen to the small details of some new
villany. My desire is to know where you left
Saxon. That you have seen him, I know—that you
must have seen him within a day, I am convinced.
What I desire to know is, where you saw him last,
and when I am to expect him here?”
“Really, ma'am, it would be very difficult—nay
almost impossible, for me to answer all these inquiries.
You know, quite as well as I do, the danger
that our captain incurs at this moment—nay, at
every moment, and—”
“Pshaw, Mr. Jones—you speak as if you thought
me a fool, or doubted my prudence and fidelity. Is
it likely, do you think, that I shall prove a traitor to
Edward Saxon? or is there any probability that I
shall deal in the small tittle-tattle of my sex, and,
with its usual vanity, reveal, with unconscious stupidity,
what I know, to those who might do him
hurt. You know me better—you would evade my
inquiries.”
“On my honour, ma'am—”
“None of that—none of that. Leave off your
long preambles, and answer my question. When
did you see your captain last, and where?—I repeat,
I know that you have seen him within the last two
time?”
“Perhaps, ma'am, you have more knowledge at
this moment of the captain's movements than myself.
He has not confided to me any particulars but those
which had connexion with the tasks upon which he
has set me, and which I was endeavouring to execute
at the very moment when you came out upon
the bayou.”
The woman looked upon the speaker with a degree
of intense earnestness in her glance which
savoured of a rising anger. Her dark eyes gleamed
with the fires of a gathering thunder-storm, while a
smile of ineffable scorn, that seemed like its softer
lightnings, passed over her thin and ruddy lips.
“Mr. Jones, you look upon me as upon a child,
with whom you may trifle at pleasure. Why do
you talk to me of your duties, and your efforts to
execute them? I do not doubt your diligence, nor
am I a miserable spy to watch your performance of
them. I ask a simple answer in reference to the
movements of another—of your captain, sir?”
“Yes, ma'am, but you know my oath. I am
forbidden—”
“What! to communicate with me? Has he then
forbidden you? Ah! has it come to that—does
he fear that I should know? Are his doings of such
a character? An outlaw to society, is he faithless
also to me?—and you—you, sir, know, and are forbidden
to declare. It is well, sir—very well—it is
exactly what I thought—exactly. You may go, sir,
—go! I ask you not to betray your leader, sir,—
keep his secrets—conceal his perjuries—cloak his
excesses—you are both worthily employed—both.
Fear not, I shall do you justice to your captain.
You may go now. I have done with you. I have
no more questions.”
This speech was spoken with an impetuosity which
defied all interruption. The torrent of passion convulsed
the frame of the speaker—fired her eyes—
made her cheeks glow with the tempestuous blood
that coursed through her veins with the fierce rush
of a stream that no longer knows its limits—but
offered no interruption to her accents, while her feet
traversed the little floor of the cabin, with every
sentence which she uttered, arrested only at the
close of each when she stopped to confront the
hearer with her flashing eyes.
“Madam,” said Jones, when her pause suggested
to him an opportunity for reply, “what will you
have me say or do? I am commanded to obey
you.”
“Yet forbidden to answer my questions.”
“No, madam, only on such subjects as concern
the movements of the beagles.”
“Ay, that is the pretence. You know that I care
to know nothing of your movements, or of any
movements which merely affect your schemes of
plunder, and when I would ask of him, I am answered
by a reference to your oath. What has your
oath to do with his movements?”
“He is one of us—his movements are those of
the beagles.”
“You will not answer me, Mr. Jones?”
“Madam, are you not already in possession of
all the information which I can give you?” said
Jones, significantly.
“What mean you, sir?”
“The dwarf—Stillyards.”
“What of him?—Has he returned?”
“He has, madam. He stood near the captain
last night—so near that, had he been discovered, his
life had been but little worth. Saxon would have put
a bullet through his head had he known of his presence,
upon his actions.”
“Ha! what mean you by calling him a spy—who
sent him as a spy?”
“You, madam, should need no answer to that
question. Enough, that I know that he was present
—that he was present as a spy, and may reveal to
you those matters which I dare not. Stillyards is
already here, if you have not seen him; and has,
probably, been so far successful that he is able to
answer all your questions: as he has no such scruples
as myself, he probably will do so. But, let me
counsel you, madam, for your own sake, no less than
that of our leader, that you employ that crooked
scoundrel no farther in such matters. If discovered,
Saxon will kill him, and if not, he may pick up some
secret of the leader, upon which his own life and
the lives of all of us might depend. You do not
know the evil which may follow this evil practice,
for which, if you will permit me to declare, there
can be no sort of necessity. Saxon, let me assure
you, is as faithful to you as he is to us; and if ever
mortal man loved woman, it is certain that he loves
you.”
“Ah, Mr. Jones,” responded the woman in milder
accents, “could I be sure of this; but the feeling of
my own unworthiness, is one that always produces
a doubt of his fidelity; and if he loves me as you
say, why is it that I am now so constantly deserted?”
“Believe me, madam, it could not well be otherwise.”
“Would I could believe you, Jones; would I
could—but—but—no matter. You will keep my
secret, Jones—you will say nothing of what you
know?”
“Why should I, madam?—it were of no use,
a practice which endangers the lives of all. Stillyards
must not be again employed in this business.”
“How, sir, do you command me?”
“No, madam, far be it from me to do so. But I
take leave to counsel you; and to add, that my own
knife should silence the dwarf for ever, should I
again detect him in the position in which I encountered
him last night.”
“Enough, sir,” replied the lady, proudly, “I shall
take care that the lad encounters no such risks at
your hands in future, and warn you, therefore, that I
shall avenge any injury which your suspicions or
your malice may prompt you to inflict upon him.”
“Malice, madam!—it would be malice were I to
declare to our captain what has passed between us.
But you mistake me, madam, I have no malice
against you, if for no other reason, because I sincerely
love our leader.”
“Mr. Jones,” said the lady, “I requested you to
say nothing to Saxon of what you know. I now
amend my request, simply to beg that you will
merely give me an opportunity of anticipating your
communication to him of every particular relating
to the spy, as you have been pleased to call the
dwarf, in my employ. It shall never be said that
Florence Marbois, whatever may be her errors and
her vices, dreaded to speak the truth herself in the
ears of the man she loved. I may have wronged
him by my suspicions—but I will not wrong him so
greatly as to yield to an underling any confidence,
however unimportant, which I yet withheld from
him. You may leave me now, sir.”
A faint smile passed over the features of Jones, as
he left the apartment.
“Now, were I the malignant she has called me,”
he uttered in low soliloquy as he entered the woods,
bitter and foolish speech. It were no difficult matter
to ruin her with Saxon for ever. But what use?
A woman in all her pride and glory is something
like a soap-bubble after all. She glitters and floats
in air for a while, is decked with all the colours of
the rainbow, but you see through her all the time,
and she bursts at last. I pity Florence—she has
many excellent qualities, and, but for the convulsive
jealousy of her temper, would be as amiable as she
is lovely. She will break some day, and cover us
with lather. It will be our care to see that she does
not blind our eyes with the soap.”
With this effort at small philosophy and smaller
wit, the outlaw proceeded to the hut of the wandering
actor. His place was supplied, in the presence
of the lady by the dwarf, Stillyards, who made his
appearance the moment after the departure of the
other. He had evidently continued his occupation
of the spy, and had listened to the whole conference
between them. With a grin, which had in it as
much malice as delight, he prefaced his revelations
to the lady by some natural remarks upon what he
had heard; but was surprised at receiving a rebuke
for his ill-timed impertinence.
“To your business, Stillyards—you saw the captain—he
was well?”
This question answered to her satisfaction, she
dismissed him without farther inquiry, betraying, in
the novel forbearance which she manifested, the influence
had upon her mind by the serious caution
which Jones had given her. The importance of the
dwarf was in no small degree lessened by this course
of proceeding.
“A fool's journey, indeed,” he muttered to himself
as he went, “if I'm not to use what I went for. But
I'll pick a hole in both their coats when they're least
whenever I choose it, and I'll speak it too, sooner
than lose my best business. The only good shares I
gits comes from my lady, and if she stops hearing,
she'll stop paying. Well, it'll cost 'em both a great
deal more in the end; and if I don't git nothing by
it, I'll git satisfaction. I'll show 'em that the broken
back that makes 'em laugh, can make 'em cry too;
and if I only gits my laugh for my pains—well,
that's something.”
| CHAPTER IX. Border beagles | |