"When?"

"To-morrow night; we're not prepared now, or it might be to-night. Let us provide the tools for to-morrow night, and meet about midnight. We can come together in the glade, and go from there. You must all of you come, and all have a hand in it."

"Agreed! We'll do the grave-digging!"

"Enough, boys! Let's fill up and drink to our success!"

Amidst the clinking of gla.s.ses was sealed the singular compact; and the body-stealers, that were to be, soon after separated, to come together again upon the morrow.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE TRYST UNDER THE TREE.

Under the canopy of the great cottonwood the tryst of the lovers was to be kept.

Pierre was there first, and stood within the shadow of the tree, expectant.

There had been nothing to interfere with his coming, either to hinder or r.e.t.a.r.d it. He had left the tavern at an early hour, telling them he might not return that night; and slowly sauntering through the woods, had reached the place of appointment some time before that agreed upon.

Having arrived under the tree, and taken a survey of the ground, he regretted having chosen it as a rendezvous.

Better need not have been desired had the night been dark; but it was not; on the contrary, a clear moon was sailing through the sky.

When Pierre Robideau last stood under that tree there was brushwood around it, with a cane-brake along the edge of the creek. Both were now gone; burnt off long ago to enlarge the little clearing that had sufficed for the cabin of the squatter. There were the stumps of other trees still, and a rough rail fence running up to the corner of the house; but with the exception of these, any one approaching from the house side would find no cover to prevent them from being seen.

It occurred to Pierre Robideau that his sweetheart might be watched. He had reason to believe that her father kept a close eye upon her, and might be suspicious of her movements. What he had seen and heard the day before told him how things stood between Jerry Rook and Alf Brandon.

Once under the cottonwood there would be no danger; even the white dress of a woman could not be descried in the deep shadow of the moss-laden branches--at least, not from any distance, and in case of any one pa.s.sing accidentally near, the young man knew that the tree was hollow-- a huge cavity opening into its trunk, capable of holding a horse. More than once, when a boy, had he and little Lena played hide and seek in this capacious tree-chamber.

On the other side, that opposite to the house, the tree could be approached under cover, along the edge of the creek, where a thin strip of wood had been left standing undisturbed. It was through this he had himself come, after crossing the creek some distance above.

Eleven o'clock came, as he knew by a clock striking inside the house, and then a long spell that seemed nearly a day, though it was not quite an hour. Still no sign of his sweetheart, nor of living thing anywhere outside the dwelling of Jerry Rook.

He could see the porch, and one of the windows beyond it; through this came the light of a lamp or candle indistinct under the bright shimmer of the moonbeams.

Upon the window his eyes were habitually kept, and he indulged in conjecture as to who was the occupant of the lighted room. At first he supposed it to be Lena; but as the time pa.s.sed without the appointment being kept, he began to fancy it might be her father.

He had no knowledge of the interior of the house; but if the lighted window belonged to the kitchen, it was like enough the old hunter was inside, sitting in a huge arm-chair, and smoking his pipe, a habit that Pierre knew him to indulge in days long past. Moreover, he might set very late up into the morning hours, as he had been often accustomed to do in those same days.

The remembrance made Pierre uneasy, especially as the time stole past, and still no appearance of the expected one.

He was beginning to despair of an interview that night, when the light upon which his eyes had been fixed appeared to have been put out, as the gla.s.s showed black under the moonbeams.

"It was she, then," he muttered to himself. "She has been waiting till all were well asleep. She will come now."

Forsaking the window, his gaze became fixed upon the porch, within whose shadow he expected her to appear.

She did so, but not until another long interval had elapsed--a fresh trial of the lover's patience.

Before it was exhausted, however, a form became outlined in the dark doorway--the door having been silently opened--and soon after the moon shone down upon the drapery of a woman's dress.

The white kerchief upon her head would have enabled Pierre Robideau to recognise her. But that was not needed. The direction she took on stepping out of the porch, told him it was she whom he expected.

She came on, but not as one who walks without fear. She kept along the fence, on its shadowy side, and close in to the rails. Now and then she stopped, looked behind, and listened. That she feared was evidently not abroad, but at home. Some serious cause had detained her beyond her time.

Pierre watched her with eager eyes, with heart beating impatiently, until he felt hers beating against it?

Once more they stood breast to breast, with arms entwining.

Why was she so late? What had detained her?

The questions were put with no thought of reproach, only fear as to the answer.

As Pierre had suspected, Jerry Rook had been sitting up late; and, as she suspected, with some idea of watching her. The lighted room was his, and it was he who had extinguished the candle; she had waited after, till he should be well asleep. She had a terrible time of it, both that day and yesterday. Her father had been very angry with her about several things; he had found out that Pierre had been there; he had cross-questioned her, and made her confess it. It was no use denying it, as her father had found his track, and saw the snake that had been shot; and, besides, one of the negroes had heard a man's voice along with hers among the trees of the orchard. It made it all the worse that she had tried to conceal it, and been found out. Of course she did not say who it was, only a stranger _she had never seen before_.

"O, Pierre! I told that great lie about you. G.o.d forgive me!"

Her father had gone furious; there was something else, too, that made him so--about Alf Brandon, who had come over to see them just after Pierre had gone.

"What was it about Alf Brandon?" asked Pierre, rather calmly, considering that the individual spoken of was a most dangerous rival.

The young girl noticed this, and answered with some pique.

"Oh! nothing much," she said, relaxing the pressure of her arms. "At least, nothing, I suppose, you would care about."

"Nay, dear Lena!" he hastily rejoined, noticing the hurt he had unconsciously occasioned, and drawing her back to his breast, "pardon me for the apparent coldness of the question; I only asked it because I wished to tell you that I know all."

"All what, Pierre?"

"All that occurred between you and Alf Brandon."

"And who told you?"

"No one. I'm going to make a confession if you'll promise not to be angry with me."

"Angry with you, Pierre?"

"Well, then, it was thus: after leaving you yesterday, I came back again, and took stand under cover of the trees, just over the creek there, at the bottom of the garden. Of course, I could see the house, and all in front of it. I got there just as your father was leaving to meet Mr Brandon by the gate, and I not only saw what pa.s.sed between you two, but heard most of what was said. It was much as I could do to restrain myself from springing across the creek, and laying the fellow at your feet; but I kept back, thinking of the trouble I might get you into, to say nothing of myself, with your father. I own to all this meanness, Lena, without being able to let you know my motive for it.

One reason for my returning, was to look again upon you."

"Oh, Pierre," said the girl, once more reciprocating the pressure of his embrace, "if I had only known you were there! But, no; perhaps it was better not. I might have done something that would have betrayed us both."

"True," he said. "And, from what I know of your father's designs, I see that we cannot be too cautious. But, promise me, love; promise, before we part, that, no matter what may arise, nor how long it may be before I gain your father's consent, that you will still keep true to me. Will you promise this?"

"Promise it! How could you doubt me? After six years--more I may say, for I loved you ever since I first knew you, ay, Pierre, when I was only a little bit of a bare-footed girl--after being true all that time, surely you will not doubt me now? Promise it! Anything, Pierre-- anything!"

Firmer and faster became the folding of their arms, closer and closer came their lips, till meeting, they remained together in a long, rapturous kiss.