The Death Shot: A Story Retold

“I don’t like his looks,” observes a third speaker.

Then all around the table wait to hear what Wharton, the young surgeon, has to say. For it is evident, from his way of introducing the subject, he either knows or suspects something prejudicial to the character of the major-domo. Instead of going on to explain, he puts a second interrogatory —

“May I ask, M. Dupré, whether you had any character with him?”

“No, indeed,” admits the master. “He came to me just before we left Natchitoches asking for an engagement. He professed to know all about Texas, and offered to act as a guide. As I had engaged guides, I didn’t want him for that when he said any other place would do. Seeing him to be a smart sort of fellow, which he certainly has proved, I engaged him to look after my baggage. Since, I’ve found him useful in other ways, and have given him full charge of everything – even to entrusting him with the care of my modest money chest.”

“In doing that,” rejoins the surgeon, “I should say you’ve acted somewhat imprudently. Excuse me, M. Dupré, for making the observation.”

“Oh, certainly,” is the planter’s frank reply. “But why do you say so, Mr Wharton? Have you any reason to suspect his honesty?”

“I have; more than one.”

“Indeed! Let us hear them all.”

“Well; in the first place I don’t like the look of the man, nor ever did since the day of our starting. Since I never set eyes on him before, I could have had no impression to prejudice me against him. I admit that, judging by physiognomy, any one may be mistaken; and I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be led by that. In this case, however, a circumstance has contributed to shaping my judgment; in fact, deciding me in the opinion, that your fellow Fernand is not only dishonest, but something worse than a thief.”

“Worse than a thief!” is the simultaneous echo from all sides of the table, succeeded by a universal demand for explanation.

“Your words have a weighty sound, doctor,” is Colonel Armstrong’s way of putting it. “We are anxious to hear what they mean.”

“Well,” responds Wharton, “you shall know why I’ve spoken them, and what’s led me to suspect this fellow Fernand. You can draw your own conclusions, from the premises I put before you. Last night at a late hour – near midnight – I took a fancy into my head to have a stroll towards the river. Lighting a weed, I started out. I can’t say exactly how far I may have gone; but I know that the cigar – a long ‘Henry Clay’ – was burnt to the end before I thought of turning back. As I was about doing so, I heard a sound, easily made out to be the footsteps of a man, treading the firm prairie turf. As it chanced just then, I was under a pecan-tree that screened me with its shadow; and I kept my ground without making any noise.

“Shortly after, I saw the man whose footfall I had heard, and recognised him as M. Dupré’s head-servant. He was coming up the valley, toward the house here, as if returning from some excursion. I mightn’t have thought much of that, but for noticing, as he passed me, that he didn’t walk erect or on the path, but crouchingly, among the trees skirting it.

“Throwing away the stump of my cigar, I set out after him, treading stealthily as he. Instead of entering by the front, he went round the garden, all the way to its rear; where suddenly I lost sight of him. On arriving at the spot where he had disappeared, I saw there was a break in the wall. Through that, of course, he must have passed, and entered the mission-building at the back. Now, what are we to make of all this?”

“What do you make of it, doctor?” asks Dupré.

“Give us your own deductions!”

“To say the truth, I don’t know what deductions to draw, I confess myself at fault; and cannot account for the fellow’s movements; though I take you’ll all acknowledge they were odd. As I’ve said, M. Dupré, I didn’t from the first like your man of versatile talents; and I’m now more than ever distrustful of him. Still I profess myself unable to guess what he was after last night. Can any of you, gentlemen?”

No one can. The singular behaviour of Dupré’s servant is a puzzle to all present. At the same time, under the circumstances, it has a serious aspect.

Were there any neighbouring settlement, the man might be supposed returning from a visit to it; entering stealthily, from being out late, and under fear of rebuke from his master. As there are no such neighbours, this theory cannot be entertained.

On the other hand, there has been no report of Indians having been seen in proximity to the place. If there had, the mestizo’s conduct might be accounted for, upon an hypothesis that would certainly cause apprehension to those discussing it.

But no savages have been seen, or heard of; and it is known that the Southern Comanches – the only Indians likely to be there encountered – are in treaty of peace with the Texan Government. Therefore, the nocturnal excursion of the half-blood could not be connected with anything of this kind.

His singular, and seemingly eccentric, behaviour, remains an unsolved problem to the guests around the table; and the subject is eventually dropped their conversation changing to other and pleasanter themes.

Chapter Forty Seven.

Opposite emblems

Pleasure has not been the sole purpose for which Colonel Armstrong is giving his little dinner party, else there would have been ladies invited along with the gentlemen. It is rather a re-union to talk over the affairs of the colony; hence the only ladies present were the daughters of the host. And, for the same reason, these have retired from the table at an early hour, betaking themselves to the sala of the old monastery, their sitting and drawing-room. This, though an ample apartment, is anything but a pleasant one; never much affected by the monks, who in their post-prandial hours, preferred sticking to the refectory. A hasty attempt has been made to modernise it; but the light furniture of French Creole fabric, brought along from Louisiana, ill accords with its heavy style of architecture, while its decayed walls and ceilings lezardée, give it a gloomy dismal look, all the more from the large room being but dimly lit up. As it is not a drawing-room party, the ladies expect that for a long while, if not all evening, they will be left alone in it. For a time they scarce know how to employ themselves. With Helen, amusement is out of the question. She has flung herself into a fauteuil, and sits in pensive attitude; of late, alas! become habitual to her.

Jessie, taking up her guitar, commences a song, the first that occurs to her, which chances to be “Lucy Neal,” a negro melody, at the time much in vogue on the plantations of the South. She has chosen the pathetic strain without thought of the effect it may produce upon her sister. Observing it to be painful she abruptly breaks off, and with a sweep of her fingers across the guitar strings, changes to the merrier refrain of “Old Dan Tucker.” Helen, touched by the delicate consideration, rewards it with a faint smile. Then, Jessie rattles on through a mélange of negro ministrelsy, all of the light comical kind, her only thought being to chase away her sister’s despondency.

Still is she unsuccessful. Her merry voice, her laughter, and the cheerful tinkle of the guitar strings, are all exerted in vain. The sounds so little in consonance with Helen’s thoughts seem sorely out of place in that gloomy apartment; whose walls, though they once echoed the laughter of roystering friars, have, no doubt, also heard the sighs of many a poor peon suffering chastisement for disobedience, or apostacy.

At length perceiving how idle are her efforts, the younger sister lays aside her guitar, at the same time starting to her feet, and saying: – “Come, Helen! suppose we go outside for a stroll? That will be more agreeable than moping in this gloomsome cavern. There’s a beautiful moonlight, and we ought to enjoy it.”

“If you wish, I have no objections. Where do you intend strolling to?”

“Say the garden. We can take a turn along its walks, though they are a little weedy. A queer weird place it is – looks as if it might be haunted. I shouldn’t wonder if we met a ghost in it – some of the old monks; or it might be one of their victims. ’Tis said they were very cruel, and killed people – ay, tortured them. Only think of the savage monsters! True, the ones that were here, as I’ve heard, got killed themselves in the end – that’s some satisfaction. But it’s all the more reason for their ghosts being about. If we should meet one, what would you do?”

“That would depend on how he behaved himself.”

“You’re not afraid of ghosts, Helen! I know you’re not.”

“I was when a child. Now I fear neither the living nor the dead. I can dare both, having nought to make me care for life – ”

“Come on!” cries Jessie, interrupting the melancholy train of reflection, “Let us to the garden. If we meet a monk in hood and cowl, I shall certainly – ”

“Do what?”

“Run back into the house fast as feet can carry me. Come along!”

Keeping up the jocular bravado, the younger sister leads the way out. Arm-in-arm the two cross the patio, then the outer courtyard, and on through a narrow passage communicating with the walled enclosure at back; once a grand garden under careful cultivation, still grand in its neglect.

After entering it, the sisters make stop, and for a while stand surveying the scene. The moon at full, coursing through a cloudless sky, flings her soft light upon gorgeous flowers with corollas but half-closed, in the sultry southern night giving out their fragrance as by day. The senses of sight and smell are not the only ones gratified; that of hearing is also charmed with the song of the czentzontle, the Mexican nightingale. One of these birds perched upon a branch, and pouring forth its love-lay in loud passionate strain, breaks off at sight of them. Only for a short interval is it silent; then resuming its lay, as if convinced it has nought to fear from such fair intruders. Its song is not strange to their ears, though there are some notes they have not hitherto heard. It is their own mocking-bird of the States, introducing into its mimic minstrelsy certain variations, the imitations of sounds peculiar to Texas.

After having listened to it for a short while, the girls move on down the centre walk, now under the shadow of trees, anon emerging into the moonlight; which shimmering on their white evening robes, and reflecting the sparkle of their jewellery, produces a pretty effect.

The garden ground slopes gently backward; and about half-way between the house and the bottom wall is, or has been, a fountain. The basin is still there, and with water in it, trickling over its edge. But the jet no longer plays, and the mason-work shows greatly dilapidated. So also the seats and statues around, some of the latter yet standing, others broken off, and lying alongside their pedestals.

Arriving at this spot, the sisters again stop, and for a time stand contemplating the ruins; the younger making a remark, suggested by a thought of their grandeur gone.

“Fountains, statues, seats under shade trees, every luxury to be got out of a garden! What Sybarites the Holy Fathers must have been!”

“Truly so,” assents Helen. “They seem to have made themselves quite comfortable; and whatever their morals, it must be admitted they displayed good taste in landscape gardening, with an eye on good living as well. They must have been very fond of fruit, and a variety of it – judging by the many sorts of trees they’ve planted.”

“So much the better for us,” gleefully replies Jessie. “We shall have the benefit of their industry, when the fruit season comes round. Won’t it be a grand thing when we get the walks gravelled, these statues restored, and that fountain once more in full play. Luis has promised me it shall be done, soon as the cotton crop is in. Oh! it will be a Paradise of a place!”

“I like it better as it is.”

“You do. Why?”

“Ah! that you cannot understand. You do not know – I hope never will – what it is to live only in the past. This place has had a past, like myself, once smiling; and now like me all desolation.”

“O sister! do not speak so. It pains me – indeed it does. Besides your words only go half-way. As you say, it’s had a smiling past, and’s going to have a smiling future. And so will you sis. I’m determined to have it all laid out anew, in as good style as it ever was – better. Luis shall do it – must, when he marries, me– if not before.”

To the pretty bit of bantering Helen’s only answer is a sigh, with a sadder expression, as from some fresh pang shooting through her heart. It is even this; for, once again, she cannot help contrasting her own poor position with the proud one attained by her sister. She knows that Dupré is in reality master of all around, as Jessie will be mistress, she herself little better than their dependant. No wonder the thought should cause her humiliation, or that, with a spirit imperious as her’s, she should feel it acutely. Still, in her crushed heart there is no envy at her sister’s good fortune. Could Charles Clancy come to life again, now she knows him true – were he but there to share with her the humblest hut in Texas, all the splendours, all the grandeurs of earth, could not add to that happiness, nor give one emotion more.

After her enthusiastic outburst, to which there has been no rejoinder, Jessie continues on toward the bottom of the garden, giving way to pleasant fancies, dreams of future designs, with her fan playfully striking at the flowers as she passes them.