"I'll give her a surprise, such as she hasn't had since leaving the States. I'd bet odds she'll be more frightened at my face now, than when she saw it in the old garden. She didn't recognise it then; she will now. And now for her torture, and my triumph: for the revenge I've determined to take. Won't it be sweet!"

At the close of his exultant speech, he dives into the dark path, and gliding along it, soon re-enters the glade.

He perceives no change, for there has been none.

Going on to her from whom he had separated, he again places himself by her rec.u.mbent form, and stands gazing upon, gloating over it, like a panther whose prey lies disabled at its feet, to be devoured at leisure.

Only an instant stays he in this att.i.tude; then stooping till his head almost touches hers, he hisses into her ear:--

"So, Helen, at length and at last, I have you in my power, at my mercy, sure, safe, as ever cat had mouse! Oh! it is sweet--sweet--sweet!"

She has no uncertainty now. The man exclaiming sweet, is he who has caused all her life's bitterness. The voice, no longer disguised, is that of Richard Darke!

CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

A RUFFIAN TRIUMPHANT.

Wild thoughts has Helen Armstrong, thus apostrophised, with not a word to say in return. She knows it would be idle; but without this, her very indignation holds her dumb--that and despair.

For a time he, too, is silent, as if surrendering his soul to delightful exultation.

Soon he resumes speech in changed tone, and interrogatively:--"Do you know who's talking to you? Or must I tell you, Nell? You'll excuse familiarity in an old friend, won't you?" Receiving no response, he continues, in the same sneering style: "Yes, an old friend, I say it; one you should well remember, though it's some time since we met, and a good way from here. To a.s.sist your recollection, let me recall an incident occurring at our last interview. Perhaps 'twill be enough to name the place and time? Wall, it was under a magnolia, in the State of Mississippi; time ten o'clock of night, moonlight, if I rightly remember, as now. It matters not the day of the month being different, or any other trivial circ.u.mstance, so long as the serious ones are so.

And they are, thank G.o.d for it! Beneath the magnolia I knelt at your feet, under this tree, which is a live-oak, you lie at mine."

He pauses, but not expecting reply. The woman, so tortured speaks not; neither stirs she. The only _motion_ visible throughout her frame is the swell and fall of her bosom--tumultuously beating.

He who stands, over well knows it is throbbing in pain. But no compa.s.sion has he for that; on the contrary, it gives gratification; again drawing from him the exultant exclamation--"Sweet--sweet!"

After another interval of silence, he continues, banteringly as before:

"So, fair Helen, you perceive how circ.u.mstances have changed between us, and I hope you'll have the sense to suit yourself to the change.

Beneath the Mississippian tree you denied me: here under the Texan, you'll not be so inexorable--will you?"

Still no response.

"Well; if you won't vouchsafe an answer, I must be content to go without it; remembering the old saw--'Silence consents.' Perhaps, ere long your tongue will untie itself; when you've got over grieving for him who's gone--your great favourite, Charley Clancy. I take it, you've heard of his death; and possibly a report, that some one killed him. Both stories are true; and, telling you so, I may add, no one knows better than myself; since 'twas I sent the gentleman to kingdom come--Richard Darke."

On making the fearful confession, and in boastful emphasis, he bends lower to observe its effect. Not in her face, still covered with the serape, but her form, in which he can perceive a tremor from head to foot. She shudders, and not strange, as she thinks:--

"He murdered _him_. He may intend the same with _me_. I care not now."

Again the voice of the self-accused a.s.sa.s.sin:

"You know me now?"

She is silent as ever, and once more motionless; the convulsive spasm having pa.s.sed. Even the beating of her heart seems stilled.

Is she dead? Has his fell speech slain her? In reality it would appear so.

"Ah, well;" he says, "you won't recognise me? Perhaps you will after seeing my face. Sight is the sharpest of the senses, and the most reliable. You shall no longer be deprived of it. Let me take you to the light."

Lifting, he carries her out to where the moonbeams meet the tree's shadow, and there lays her along. Then dropping to his knees, he draws out something that glistens. Two months before he stooped over the prostrate form of her lover, holding a photograph before his eyes--her own portrait. In her's he is about to brandish a knife!

One seeing him in this att.i.tude would suppose he intended burying its blade in her breast. Instead, he slits open the serape in front of her face, tossing the severed edges back beyond her cheeks.

Her features exposed to the light, show wan and woeful; withal, lovely as ever; piquant in their pale beauty, like those of some rebellious nun hating the hood, discontented with cloister and convent.

As she sees him stooping beside, with blade uplifted, she feels sure he designs killing her. But she neither shrinks, nor shudders now. She even wishes him to end her agony with a blow. Were the knife in her own hand, she would herself give it.

It is not his intention to harm her that way. Words are the weapons by which he intends torturing her. With these he will lacerate her heart to its core.

For he is thinking of the time when he threw himself at her feet, and poured forth his soul in pa.s.sionate entreaty, only to have his pa.s.sion spurned, and his pride humiliated. It is her turn to suffer humiliation, and he has determined she shall. Recalling his own, every spark of pity, every pulsation of manhood, is extinguished within him.

The cup of his scorned love has become a chalice filled with the pa.s.sion of vengeance.

Sheathing the knife, he says:

"I've been longing for a good look at you. Now that I've got it, I should say you're pretty as ever, only paler. That will come right, and the roses return to your cheeks, in this recuperative climate of Texas; especially in the place where I intend taking you. But you hav'nt yet looked at my face. It's just had a washing for your sake. Come give it a glance! I want you to admire it, though it may not be quite so handsome as that of Charley Clancy."

She averts her eyes, instinctively closing them.

"Oh, well, you won't? Never mind, now. There's a time coming when you'll not be so coy, and when I shan't any longer kneel supplicating you. For know, Nell, you're completely in my power, and I can command, do with you what I will. I don't intend any harm, nor mean to be at all unkind. It'll be your own fault if you force me to harshness. And knowing that, why shouldn't there be truce between us? What's the use of fretting about Clancy? He's dead as a door nail, and your lamenting won't bring him to life again. Better take things as they are, and cheer up. If you've lost one sweetheart, there's another left, who loves you more than ever did he. I do, Helen Armstrong; by G.o.d, I do!"

The ruffian gives emphasis to his profane a.s.sertion, by bending before her, and laying his hand upon his heart.

Neither his speech nor att.i.tude moves her. She lies as ever, still, silent. Wrapped in the Mexican blanket--whose pattern of Aztec design bears striking resemblance to the hieroglyphs of Egypt--this closed and corded round her figure, she might easily be mistaken for a mummy, one of Pharaoh's daughters taken out of the sarcophagus in which for centuries she has slept. Alone, the face with its soft white skin, negatives the comparison: though it appears bloodless, too. The eyes tell nought; their lids are closed, the long dark lashes alone showing in crescent curves. With difficulty could one tell whether she be asleep, or dead.

Richard Darke does not suppose she is either; and, incensed at receiving no reply, again apostrophises her in tone more spiteful than ever. He has lost control of his temper, and now talks unfeelingly, brutally, profanely.

"d.a.m.n you!" he cries. "Keep your tongue in your teeth, if you like.

Ere long I'll find a way to make it wag; when we're man and wife, as we shall soon be--after a fashion. A good one, too, practised here upon the prairies of Texas. Just the place for a bridal, such as ours is to be. The nuptial knot tied, according to canons of our own choice, needing no sanction of church, or palaver of priests, to make it binding."

The ruffian pauses in his ribald speech. Not that he has yet sated his vengeance, for he intends continuing the torture of his victim unable to resist. He has driven the arrow deep into her heart, and leaves it to rankle there.

For a time he is silent, as if enjoying his triumph--the expression on his countenance truly satanic. It is seen suddenly to change, apprehension taking its place, succeeded by fear.

The cause: sounds coming from the other side of the tree; human voices!

Not those of Bosley, or his captive; but of strange men speaking excitedly!

Quick parting from his captive, and gliding up to the trunk, he looks cautiously around it.

In the shadow he sees several figures cl.u.s.tering around Bosley and his horse; then hears names p.r.o.nounced, one which chills the blood within his veins--almost freezing it.

He stands transfixed; cowering as one detected in an act of crime, and by a strong hand held in the att.i.tude in which caught! Only for a short while thus; then, starting up, he rushes to regain his horse, jerks the bridle from the back, and drags the animal in the direction of his captive. Tossing her upon the pommel of the saddle, he springs into it.

But she too has heard names, and now makes herself heard, shouting, "Help--help!"