The Fatal Cord, and The Falcon Rover

Though for years he had been the most solicitous of her suitors, she felt for him something more than contempt.

Despite his position in society – far superior to her own – despite his fine clothes and speeches, she saw through the character of the man, and believed him to be both a pretender and poltroon.

She knew that he was cruel – a tyrant to all who had the misfortune to be under him, and a hard task-master to the black-skinned slaves that lived upon his father’s plantation.

Though dissipated, he was not generous; and, with all the plenty he possessed, he was accounted among his associates the closest of screws. He spent money, and enough of it, but only upon himself, and in the indulgence of his own sensual desires.

He had obtained the reputation of being one of the meanest fellows in the neighbourhood to which he belonged; and Lena Rook knew it.

She had never liked him as a boy; and her aversion was increased by her knowledge that, as a boy, he had been the bitter enemy of Pierre Robideau.

She did not think how much of this hostility was due to herself; for, from an early period, the son of the planter had been bitterly jealous of her playmate and companion.

But she remembered the scene in the glade; she believed that Alf Brandon had been the chief instigator; and she had, all along, suspected that Pierre’s absence was in some way due to what had that day transpired.

She was very pleased to see Brandon now, only because he had rescued her from a position that promised to become embarrassing. What answer could she have made to that question her father had asked?

The opportune arrival had relieved her from an agony of apprehension.

The planter – now that his father was dead, no longer the planter’s son – seemed a little surprised at the pleased look with which she received him. She was not accustomed to give him such gracious acceptance, and little dreamt he of its cause.

“No doubt,” reasoned he, with a feeling of self-gratulation, “she’s heard I’m now my own master, and won’t much object to my becoming her’s. A planter in his own right is a very different individual from a planter expectant; and Miss Lena Rook will have the sense to see it. I don’t think there will be much difficulty about this thing. She’s been only pretending with me in the past; now that she sees all’s ready, I guess she’ll not stand shilly-shallying any longer. So here goes for the proposals.”

This string of reflections were made after Alfred Brandon had entered the gate, and was making his way towards the porch, on which the young lady was still standing. They were finished as he set foot on the step.

There was no one to interfere with the conversation that came after. Jerry Rook, suspecting the purport of the planter’s visit, had stayed behind to hitch up his horse, and afterwards found excuse to stray off to the back of the house, leaving the two alone.

“I suppose you have heard of my affliction, Miss Rook?” said Brandon, after salutations had been exchanged.

“My father has been just telling me of it.”

“Ah! yes; my old dad’s dead and gone; buried him day before yesterday. Can’t be helped, you know. It’s the way of us all. We’ve all got to die.”

To this lugubrious declaration Lena Rook yielded ready assent.

There was a pause in the conversation. Notwithstanding his plentitude of power, tending to inspire him with sufficient assurance, the suitor felt ill at ease. It was not to be wondered at, considering the errand on which he had come.

Moreover, the pleasant look had forsaken Lena’s face, and he had begun to doubt of success.

She knew what he had come for, and was seriously reflecting upon the answer she should give him.

She, of course, intended it to be negative; but she remembered her father’s words, and was thinking in what way she might reject the disagreeable suitor, without stirring up his spite. She so well understood his nature as to know he would be contemptible enough to use it.

It was no thought of herself that dictated the affability with which she was entertaining him; though she could scarce conceal her disgust for the man before her, talking in such strains of a father so recently deceased.

She, too, had a father, who was not what he ought to be; and she knew it. But still he was her father.

After remaining for some time silent – not knowing what to say – Brandon at length summoned sufficient courage to stammer out his proposal. It was done with some fear and trembling.

He was more himself after he had received the refusal, which he did, in as delicate terms as the young lady could command.

But, delicacy was thrown away upon the spiteful planter, who, stung by the thought of being refused by the daughter of a poor white – he knew the secret of Jerry Rook’s altered circumstances – began upbraiding in terms of opprobrious wrath the woman from whose feet he had just arisen!

The young girl, thus grossly outraged, would have called to her father for protection, but again remembering his words, she remained silent under the infliction, not even making answer to her cowardly insulter.

“Somebody else, I suppose,” said the rejected gentleman, spitefully pronouncing the words. “Some poor ‘trash’ of your own sort has got a hold of you! By – !” the ruffian swore a frightful oath, “if it be so, when I find out who it is, and I don’t care who it is, I’ll make these settlements too hot to hold him! Lena Rook, you’ll rue this refusal!”

Not a word said Lena Rook in reply to this coarse invective. A disdainful curl upon her lip was all the answer she vouchsafed; which stayed there as she stood watching him along the walk, and until he had remounted his horse, and galloped off from the gate.

Her’s were not the only eyes bent upon the disappointed suitor. Jerry Rook, engaged among the pigs and poultry, saw him ride away; and from the spiteful spurring of his horse, and the reckless air with which he rode, the old hunter conjectured the sort of answer that had been given him.

“Durn the girl!” muttered he, as a black shadow swept across his wrinkled brow; “she’s played fool, an’ refused him! Looks as ef she’d sassed him! Never mind, Alf Brandon, I’ll make it all right for you. This chile ain’t a gwine to let that fine plantashin o’ your’s slip through his fingers – not ef he know it. You shall hev the gurl, and she you, ef I hev myself to drag her up to the haltar. So, then, my Lena, lass, when I’ve done here I’m a gwine to read you a lecture.”

If the abrupt departure of Brandon had brought anger into the eyes of Lena Rook, there was yet another pair watching it, that became suffused with joy.

They were the eyes of Pierre Robideau.

After parting from that sweetheart so long separated from him, the young man had recrossed the creek; and, as he had intended, kept on through the woods towards the stand where he had left his horse.

Before going far, the thought occurred to him that he might as well have a look at the quondam squatter, and see if he, too, was changed like everything else.

It was only to place himself in the ambush that had already proved so serviceable to his purposes, and stay there till Jerry should show himself!

Knowing that the porches of a backwood’s dwelling usually supplies the place of sitting-room, he did not anticipate any severe trial of patience.

It was not the gratification of mere curiosity that tempted him to return. He had other reasons that rendered him desirous to look upon his host of former days; at the same time that he was equally desirous not to let that host see him.

Nor was it exactly a desire that counselled him to this act; but a sort of involuntary impulse, such as the bird feels to approach the serpent that would destroy it.

Pierre Robideau had returned from California, better informed about the doings of Jerry Rook than he had been on going out there. It was the old hunter who had induced him to take that distant journey. He had counselled, almost compelled, him to it, by a false story that his father had gone there before him, and had entrusted Jerry to send him after in all haste. For this purpose, his former host had furnished the outfit and directions, and had even seen him some distance on his way.

As already stated the unsuspicious youth, before starting, knew nothing of what had occurred that night in the glade – not even that while he was himself hanging there, his father had been so near him!

The story of the lynching had been kept from him previous to his departure, Jerry Rook alone having access to him, and carefully guarding against all other approach.

It was only after his arrival in California, and failing to find his father at the appointed place, that he had heard of the tragedy on Caney Creek, and who had been its victim.

The tale had got among the gold diggers, brought out by some new arrivals from Little Rock.

Why Jerry Rook had been so anxious to get him away, Pierre Robideau could never tell, though he had some terrible suspicions about it – almost pointing out the old squatter as one of his father’s murderers.

It was this sort of curiosity that caused him to turn among the trees, and steal back to the concealment he had so recently forsaken. Perhaps, too, he may have wished once more to gratify his eyes by gazing on that loved form so unceremoniously hurried out of his sight.

Whether or not, he was soon in his old position, and gazing intently through the curtain of leaves.

So far as Jerry Rook was concerned, he obtained the satisfaction he had sought for. His quondam host was in front of the house, in conversation with his daughter, who stood in the porch above him.

Pierre had arrived at the moment when that question was put, so nearly concerning himself.