CHAPTER XII
That evening we dined at Moreau's. Things had quieted down in the city, though the troops still remained on duty in the streets; and it was with eager anticipation of meeting Frank Amory that I wended my way to the tidy old restaurant with its sanded floor, its glittering array of little tables, and the ever-attentive waiters. Colonel Summers and his party had not yet arrived. Would Monsieur step up to the room and wait their coming? Monsieur would; and, taking the Evening Picayune to while away the time, Mr. Brandon seated himself on the balcony overlooking Canal Street, – busy, bustling, thronged as usual; yet bustling in the languid, Latinized sense of the term; bustling in a way too unlike our Northern business centres to justify the use of the term. No sign of disorder or turmoil was manifest. The banquettes on both sides were covered with ladies and children; the street-cars on the esplanade were filled with passengers going in every direction; the booths, fruit-stands, confectioneries were all doing a thriving business; the newsboys were scurrying to and fro in their picturesque tatters screaming the headlines of their evening bulletins; carriages and cabriolets were rattling to and fro; the setting sun shone hot on the glaring façade of the stone Custom-House down the street; and beyond, across the crowded and dusty levee, dense volumes of black smoke were rising from the towering chimneys of the boats even now pushing from the shore and ploughing huskily up the stream. All spoke of business activity and lively trade. The mercurial spirit of the populace seemed to have subsided to the normal level; and the riot of yesterday was a thing of the distant past.
Voices on the stairs called me into the cosey room, and Kitty entered radiant; with her – not Mars but Mr. Turpin; behind her, Colonel Summers and the doctor. Pauline had again decided to remain and take tea with the landlady, but Vinton was improving, said Harrod, who instantly added an inquiry for Amory.
"He has not been here, nor have I seen him to-day. Have you, Mr. Turpin?" I asked.
"No, sir. Amory and his troop were sent up to Jeffersonville at noon, so I learned at headquarters, and they have not come back since."
"Then we must go on without him," said Harrod, and dinner was ordered forthwith.
Seated by Kitty's side, Mr. Turpin was soon absorbed in the duty of making himself agreeable. Evidently they had been talking of Amory before coming in, and, whether piqued at the latter's conduct in not yet having been to see her, or worse, at his having been there to inquire for Vinton and not for her, Kitty was in the very mood to render her new admirer's attentions acceptable. She was sparkling with animation. She was listening with flattering eagerness to everything he said, laughing merrily at every sally; urging him to tell more of his cadet days and army life; paying no heed to any of the rest of us; plainly, only too plainly, bent on fascinating her infantry friend, and fascination it plainly was. Mr. Turpin was head over heels in love with her before dinner was half over; and while we oldsters were discussing our cigars and pousse café on the balcony after that repast, they were seated on the sofa merrily, intently chatting together, as firm friends as though they had known one another from childhood. So intent that my entrance for a match in nowise disturbed them; so utterly intent that they never saw what I saw at once, – Frank Amory standing at the door.
To my eager welcome he responded absently. Turpin sprang up and held out his hand, which was taken in a perfunctory sort of way, but there was no heartiness in his reply to the cordial greeting of his classmate. He bowed in a constrained manner to Kitty, who had flushed with surprise – possibly some other emotion – when she caught sight of him; and then without further notice of either her or her companion, he passed on to where Harrod was standing at the open window, and eagerly inquired for Vinton, but his bearing was forced and unnatural. He had already dined, he said, and had been unable to get back from Jeffersonville with the troop until late, too late to accept Colonel Summers's invitation; so he had merely dropped in to inquire after his captain, as he thought we would still be here; and now, he said, he must hasten to the warehouse on Magazine Street, as there was no telling how soon he and his men might be needed again. We urged him to stay and make one of a party to go to the theatre, but Mars was adamant. His refusal was even curt. "Pray make my excuses and apologies to the ladies. I'll go down through the hall," were his parting words. And so, without even having touched Kitty's hand or spoken a sentence to her by way of welcome, Mr. Amory took his leave.
Was he "miffed" because he had found Turpin in happy tête-à-tête with her? Had he hoped to reserve that happiness to himself; or was there some deeper reason to account for his avoidance of her? Kitty evidently adopted the first-mentioned explanation of his conduct; ascribed his cold salutation and sudden departure to jealousy, – absolute jealousy, – and I am bound to say that so far from being depressed or saddened by his conduct she seemed to derive additional inspiration or stimulant. A burning color had mounted to her cheeks; her eyes had taken an almost defiant sparkle; her coquetry with Turpin became more marked than before; and, as though elated at the betrayal of Amory's feelings, and excited by the exhibition of his jealousy, she seemed in extraordinary spirits. Turpin promptly accepted the invitation to go to the theatre, provided he could obtain Major Williams's permission to be absent from the battalion during the evening, and went off to see about it forthwith, agreeing to join us at the Royal Street lodgings in fifteen minutes. In less than fifteen minutes we were there. Kitty ran blithely up-stairs to see Pauline, and then Harrod turned to me.
"Brandon, did you notice anything wrong with Amory to-night?" he asked, anxiously.
"He was excited, perhaps upset, at seeing Turpin where he was; but why do you ask?"
"It was something more than that, I fear. Did you notice his eyes, his color? Did you feel his hand?"
"He was flushed, I noticed, and I thought it due to riding all day in the sun; but his hand I did not touch."
"It was burning as though with fever. Can he have been seized as Vinton was?" said the colonel. And for a moment we looked at one another in silence. "You know he has been up and around now for several nights, and exposed all day to the heat of the sun. The extremes are dangerous to those not accustomed to our Louisiana climate, and if he had contracted any disorder this would bring it out. Here comes Mr. Turpin," continued the colonel. "Let us ask him what he observed."
Turpin joined us with his quick, springy step. "The major says I may go," he spoke blithely; "but is not Amory coming?"
"It was of Amory we wanted to ask you," said Harrod. "He seemed very unlike himself the few minutes he was at Moreau's. Did you note anything out of the way?"
Turpin flushed. "Why – yes," said he, hesitatingly. "He seemed a little queer – a good deal stiff and formal and – "
"But as to his health. Do you think he is well?"
"Why," said Turpin, with a sudden start, "I had not thought of that. I ascribed his manner to – to – well, he always was a quick, impulsive fellow, and I thought perhaps he regarded me as being in the way; but his hand was hot, – hot as fire. I'm ashamed I did not think of it before."
And then he stopped short, for Kitty re-entered. She walked smilingly up to Mr. Turpin with extended hand.
"You can go?" she said. "I'm so glad. How soon must we start? Pauline is coming down a moment." And with Pauline's coming we forgot for the time being our talk about Amory.
Very gentle, very lovely, looked Miss Summers as she stood answering our warm inquiries about the major. He was so much better; was sleeping quietly and naturally, the nurse said; and the doctor was so delighted with the improvement, and had let her sit for a while by the bedside and talk to him, though the major himself was forbidden to talk. She was so glad we were going to the theatre. It must be wearisome staying around the house for us, though she could not bear to go. And so we bade her good-night and went on our way.
The Varieties was crowded that night, and an admirable play was on the stage; but my thoughts were incessantly wandering back to Mars, to his strange behavior, and to Bella Grayson and her possible connection with his changed manner. Then, too, I was worried about Harrod's theory, – that the boy was ill. All things considered, I could pay very little attention to what was going on, either in the audience or on the stage. Our seats were in the front row of the dress-circle, a little to the right of the centre of the house; and during the intermission between the first and second acts Kitty and Turpin had been keeping up an incessant chatter, though so low-toned and semi-confidential that I heard nothing of what was said. The house was very full, as I say, and many gentlemen were standing in the side aisles over the proscenium boxes. Others were swarming about the outer row of dress-circle seats. Others still were seated on the steps leading down into the parquet. The curtain rose upon the second act, and Kitty, sitting next to me, with Turpin on her other side, drew back and glanced one minute up in my face. All animation, life, sparkle, and saucy triumph she looked; there was a mischievous challenge in her laughing eyes as they met mine, then wandered off to the stage. Another moment and I turned to her to whisper some comment upon the costume worn by one of the actresses and – how can I describe the change that had come over her face? Pale, startled, yes, frightened. She was staring across the parquet towards a group of men standing in the outer aisle. Following her eyes I too looked, and there, glaring at our party, with a strange, wild, uncanny expression on his face, was Frank Amory.
For an instant nothing was said. Then, involuntarily, I half rose. His eyes met mine, and, without a sign of recognition, he dropped back in the throng and disappeared. "Did you see him?" I exclaimed to Harrod. "Watch! See where he goes! It is Amory, and something is wrong."
The colonel looked at me in startled wonderment, but a glance at Kitty's face seemed to bring him confirmation of my statement. I rose and looked about in my excitement and anxiety, but an indignant "Down in front!" from some half-dozen mouths in rear brought me back to seat and senses. Not until the close of the act could I get out. Then, followed by Harrod, I worked my way into the vestibule, searched the corridors, the bar-room, the main stairway, and the broad entrance. No sign of him. Several infantry officers were standing there, but, in answer to my appeal, said they had seen nothing of Lieutenant Amory; but at the gate the door-keeper remembered a young officer going out in the middle of the second act and declining a return check. I determined to go at once to his lodgings. Harrod would stay and look after Kitty and Turpin.
In half an hour I had reached the warehouse. A sleepy sentinel told me that the lieutenant was not there. He occupied a room "over beyant," in a large frame boarding-house. Ringing the bell, a colored servant answered. Would he show me to Lieutenant Amory's room? He would, and we went up the main stairway and out on a back gallery to one of those little ten by six boxes, without which no New Orleans boarding-place is complete. No answer to our knock, but the door was unlocked, and I entered and turned up the light. There stood his trunk, open. Papers and letters were strewn on the bureau, and among them, almost the first to catch my eye, was a dainty envelope addressed in that graceful, unmistakable hand to Lieutenant Frank Amory at Sandbrook, and forwarded thence to New Orleans. He had had another letter, then, from Bella.
In answer to inquiries, the servant said that Mr. Amory had come in "lookin' mighty tired" late in the afternoon; had taken a bath, dressed, and gone out again without saying a word to anybody, and had not been back since. Telling him he might go, I decided to await Amory's return. I knew not where to search for him.
It was then late. The bells of the churches over on Camp Street and Lafayette Square were chiming ten o'clock. All below was very quiet. The distant roar of wheels down towards Canal Street, and the tinkle of the mule-cars were the only sounds that struck upon the ear. I felt strangely worried and depressed, and sought for something with which to occupy my thoughts and keep me from brooding. Books there were none, for Mars had had no time for reading since his arrival; paper, envelopes, some open letters were on the bureau with her envelope, but the letter it had contained was gone. Tossing them over with impatient hand, I came upon two envelopes addressed in his vigorous hand; one to his mother, the other to Miss Isabel R. Grayson, care of Hon. H. C. Grayson, Syracuse, New York, – further confirmation of my theory. Then there were some scraps of paper on which he had been scribbling; and on one, written perhaps a dozen times, was the name "Kittie." That was his way, then, of spelling it.
An hour passed by. Eleven o'clock came, and no Amory. I could stand it no longer. Once more I went out on Magazine Street, and over to the warehouse. This time a corporal of the guard met me and seemed to know me.
"No, sir. The lieutenant hasn't been in all night, sir, and it isn't his way at all. He may be over at headquarters. Shall I send, sir?"
No. I decided to go myself.
Late as it was, a broad glare of light shone out from the upper windows of the handsome brown-stone residence, occupied at the time by the commanding general as the offices of himself and the staff. The lower hall was open. I entered and went up-stairs to the first open door. One or two officers in undress uniform were lounging about; and, seeing me, Colonel Newhall sprang up and came hastily forward, inviting me to enter. I inquired at once for Amory, and briefly stated that we feared he was not well. This brought to his feet the junior aide-de-camp whom we had seen galloping down Chartres Street the previous night.
"Amory was here early in the evening asking for me," he said, "and he left this note. I cannot understand. He seems worried about something."
I took the note and read, —
"Dear Parker: Both times I've been in to see you to-day, you happened to be out. I must see you. I must get a leave and go North at once. Can you suggest any way of helping me? Some one must take the troop. I'll be in this evening. Do wait for me.
"Yours,
"Amory."
"It is after eleven now and no sign of him," said the aide. "You say you thought he looked ill?"
"Very ill," I answered, "and I am strangely worried."
"Sit down just a few minutes until I see the general. Then, if possible, I'll go with you and see if we can find him."
Perhaps ten minutes afterwards we were on our way back to his temporary quarters, when the aide-de-camp called out to a man whom I saw hurrying along the opposite side of the street under the gas-lamp, and the very corporal who was on duty at the stables came springing over the cobble-stones.
"I was looking for you, sir," he said, breathlessly. "Did you see the lieutenant?"
"No; where is he?"
"I don't know, sir. Directly after you left he jumped off a street-car and ordered us to saddle up. I routed out the first sergeant and the men, but before they could get their clothes and belts on he had leaped on his horse and galloped off down the street like mad. We don't know what to do, sir."
"Which way did he go?" quickly asked the officer with me.
"Down the street, sir, towards Canal."
"Give me one of your fastest horses. Tell the first sergeant I want to see him at once, and let the men unsaddle again."
"What do you think it is?" I anxiously asked.
"Fever; and he is twice as delirious as Vinton was. We must find him at once."
CHAPTER XIII
That night we had a chase such as I had never before indulged in. The aide-de-camp believed Frank Amory to be ill with fever: – delirium in fact, but to my knowledge delirium was unusual as a first symptom of an ordinary Southern fever. He might be feverish; might indeed be ill; but that alone would not be apt to cause his extraordinary excitement. Two or three officers at headquarters had remarked his strange manner and absent-minded replies, said the aide, while he had been there early in the evening, but at that time his face was pale rather than flushed.
At the stables on Magazine Street we again questioned the sergeant. "Did the lieutenant appear to be under any strong excitement?" asked the aide-de-camp, and the sergeant eyed him askance a moment as though he misunderstood the drift of the question, seeing which I interposed, —
"The captain fears that Mr. Amory is seized with just such a fever as that which prostrated Major Vinton." Whereat the sergeant looked relieved, and answered, —
"I couldn't say, sir. He never spoke more than to order his horse and then go off at a gallop. But two or three times lately at Sandbrook he has done that, – taken his horse and gone off riding at the dead of night. He may be ill, sir, but I couldn't say."
This news in some way strengthened my view of the case. The fact that he had frequently or occasionally gone off in a similar manner went to prove that the ailment was not a new bodily trouble. Knowing what I knew and felt bound to keep to myself, it was not hard to determine that mental perturbations, aggravated perhaps by recent fatigues and excitements, were at the bottom of Amory's strange conduct. None the less, however, I was eager to find and bring him back. He ought not to be away from his command at such a time. Directing the sergeant to say to Mr. Amory that we were in search of him and begged him to wait for us on his return, the aide-de-camp and I hurried down the street; sought a cab-stand; and, jumping into one of the light cabriolets that were then a feature of the New Orleans streets, we drove rapidly down to Vinton's quarters. I thought Amory might have galloped thither. A dim light was burning in the sick-room, as we could see from the front. The door was closed and locked, but I rang, and presently a servant came sleepily through the hall and stared at me in mild stupefaction. "No. Mr. Amory hadn't been there." I brushed past the darky and went noiselessly up the stairs and tapped at Vinton's door. The nurse came and peered at me through the inch-wide crack: not a whit more would he open the door lest the night air should be wafted in.
"We fear that Lieutenant Amory is taken ill," I said in a low tone. "He may come here to see his captain. Try and get him to lie down in Colonel Summers's room until we get back, if he should come." The nurse nodded; said that Vinton was sleeping quietly, and directed me to Harrod's door. I knocked there, and it was opened in a moment.
"What! you, Brandon? Anything wrong?"
"We can't find Amory. He is on horseback and galloping around town all by himself. They think at headquarters that he may be ill with fever like Vinton. Mr. Parker and I are hunting for him. If he should come here, get him into your room and make him lie down, will you?"
"Certainly I will. But, Brandon, had not I better go with you? Are you sure he is ill? I thought him strange enough at Moreau's, but – "
"I cannot say what it is," I broke in, impatiently. "I must hurry off, as he must be found as quickly as possible."
"With that I turned away and retraced my steps through the dimly-lighted hall. Reaching the stairs I paused, for another door had softly opened, and Pauline's voice, low-toned and anxious, was heard.
"Harrod, what is it?"
"Mr. Amory is ill, I'm afraid," was the reply, and I hurried back to the street.
Rapidly we drove to the levee, and there at the depot found Major Williams's sleeping battalion. The aide sprang out and accosted a sentry. A sergeant came with a lantern and ushered the staff-officer in among the snoring groups; for the men had thrown themselves in their blankets upon the wooden flooring. Presently they reappeared, and with them came Mr. Turpin, hurriedly adjusting his collar and cravat.
"Sheep always was a most excitable fellow," he was saying, "but this beats me. He hasn't been here at all, and I've no idea where he can have gone."
Leaving directions what was to be done in case he did appear, we drove away up Canal Street. It was then nearly two o'clock, but there were still loungers around the Clay statue; lights gleaming from one or two "open-all-night" bars and from the cab-lanterns on St. Charles Street. Our driver pulled up, and Mr. Parker sprang out and exchanged a few words with a policeman. I could not hear, but saw that the latter pointed up the street; and the aide came quickly back, —
"Drive on, – right out Canal, and keep a bright lookout for an officer on horseback," were his orders, as we whirled away over the smooth pavement.
"That policeman says he saw a young officer gallop out this way not ten minutes ago, and he's been wondering ever since what was going on. He walked up as far as Dryades Street to find out, thinking he might have stopped at the State-House; but all is quiet there, and the patrols told him the officer went on out Canal, riding like mad."
Evidently, then, Mars had stopped somewhere or had ridden elsewhere before going out towards the swamps. We peered eagerly up and down the dimly-lighted cross-streets as we whirled rapidly past them. The lamps along the broad thoroughfare grew infrequent; the street was deserted. Once in a while we passed a carriage-load of revellers returning from the shell road and a supper at the "Lake End." Well out towards the stables of the street-railway we caught sight of another policeman; hauled up, and hailed him with anxious questioning. No, he had seen no officer on horseback; his beat lay along Canal Street, but he had "taken a turn through a side street after a couple of s'picious-lookin' parties," and might have been gone four or five minutes. Crack! went the whip, and we pushed ahead. Gas-lamps now became few and far between; open stretches of level turf or prairie were visible here and there between the houses or garden-walls; the moonlight was tempered and shrouded by low-hanging clouds, and surrounding objects were only dimly seen. Still we whirled ahead over the smooth-beaten road, and at last drove rapidly between the high walls of the silent cities of the dead that bounded the highway near the crossing of the canal. Two or three loungers were hanging about the dimly-lighted portico of a saloon. Mr. Parker sprang out and made some rapid inquiries, then hurried back to the cab.
"He crossed here nearly half an hour ago, – went right on over the bridge," he exclaimed, as he sprang in and told the driver to whip up. "Turn to the right," he added. "Drive towards Lake End. It's the only place he can have gone." And in a moment more the wheels were whirring over the level track; a dense hedgerow of swamp undergrowth on our left; the dark waters of the canal on our right.
We passed two or three roadside hostelries, whose enticing lights still lured the belated or the dissipated into the ready bars. Mr. Parker scanned them as we drove ahead.
"He never drinks a drop, I hear, and it's no use looking for him there."
Nevertheless, our driver suddenly pulled up in front of a lamp-lighted entrance. "There's a couple of buggies and a horse in under that shed," said he.
The aide-de-camp jumped out and stepped briskly off in the direction indicated by the driver's hand. Our cab again pulled up. Presently he emerged from the darkness of the shed.
"It isn't Amory's horse. It's a Louisiana pony," said he. "Wait one moment and I'll see who's inside."
With that he sprang up the steps and walked rapidly towards the glass doorways of the bar.
He was in civilian dress except for the forage-cap, which he had hastily picked up when we left the office. Its gold cord and crossed sabres gleamed under the lamp as he sharply turned the door-knob and entered the room. Even without that cap I by this time would have known his profession; he had that quick, springy, nervous walk and erect carriage so marked among the younger West-Pointers. My eyes followed him until he disappeared; so apparently did others.
From the farther end of the gallery two dark forms rose from a sitting posture, and one of them came tiptoeing along towards the doorway. Our cab had halted near the steps at the end opposite them, and, despite our lights, the stealthily-moving figure seemed to pay no attention to us. Before I had time to conjecture what his object could be, the man crouched before the door, his hat pulled low over his forehead, and peered eagerly through the glass. Then he turned his head; gave a low whistle, and, almost at a run, the second figure, in slouch hat like the first and with overcoat pulled well up about his ears, hurried to his side; stooped; peered through, and shook his head.
"Drive up there, quick!" I said. And, as hoof and wheel crunched through the gravel, the pair drew suddenly back; sprang noiselessly down the steps and in among the shrubbery out of my sight. Almost at the same instant Mr. Parker reappeared; took his seat beside me, and, before I could interpose, called out, "Drive on, – Lake End." And away we went, leaving the mysterious strangers in the dusk behind us.
"Amory has not been seen there, nor beyond. There are two young sports in there who came in from Lake End half an hour ago, but they are both pretty full. The barkeeper said there were two more gentlemen who came out from town with another buggy earlier, but they had gone outside."
"I saw them," answered I, "and they are bad characters of some kind. They stole up on tiptoe and peered after you as you went in, then sprang back out of sight as you came out. I wanted to tell you about them. They seemed waiting or watching for somebody."
"Gamblers or 'cappers' probably. Fellows who lie in wait for drunken men with money and steer them into their dens, – fleece them, you know. The streets are full of them day and night."
"Yes; but these men wore slouch hats and overcoats that muffled their faces, and they watched you so oddly. Why did they leap back as you came out?"
"That was odd," said Mr. Parker, thoughtfully. "Could you see nothing of their faces?"
"Nothing at all, except that the first man had a heavy dark moustache, and was tall and stoutly built; the other seemed young and slight; his face was hidden entirely."
The aide-de-camp leaned out and looked back along the dark road; then drew in again.
"No use to look," he said. "Even if they were to follow I could not see; their buggy has no lamps, our rig has to have them. Are you armed?"
"No; I never carry anything."
"Nor I, as a rule; yet had I thought we would come so far at this time of night I would have brought my revolver. Not that any attack is to be feared from those two unless there should be a crowd at their back; otherwise we would be three to two."
"But they are armed, and we are not."
"They think we are, all the same. The average citizen hereabouts goes prepared to shoot if he is on a night-prowl like this. I don't know why I asked if you were armed."
Then for some distance we rattled along in silence. The clouds had grown heavier; a few heavy rain-drops had pattered in on our faces, and the night air was damp and raw. We passed one or two more dark houses, and then came in view of the lights at Lake End. Here, despite the lateness of the hour, one or two resorts seemed still to be open and patronized. Directing the driver to turn towards the lights on the right, Mr. Parker again sprang out, looked in the carriage-shed, then into the bar-room; came out, crossed the way, and made a similar search in a neighboring establishment. Then I saw him questioning a sleepy-looking stableman, and then he came back to me. Perplexity and concern were mingled in his face as he stood there looking up at me in the glare of our lamp.
"Nobody has been here on horseback since midnight. These are the only places open since that hour, and now there are not more than half a dozen people out here – roysterers after a late supper. Where could Amory have gone? Do you suppose he knew his way back by Washington Avenue, and had turned to the left instead of this way?"
"He is an entire stranger in New Orleans, – never was out here before in his life, – and I don't know what to make of it."
He looked at his watch, retook his seat. "We must get back to the bridge," said he. "Driver, stop at Gaston's, – where we were before, – and go lively."
Now through the pattering rain we hurried on our return trip. We were silent, plunged in thought and anxiety. In some way those two skulkers at Gaston's had become connected in my mind with Amory's disappearance. I could not shake off the impression, and, as though the same train of thought were affecting my companion, he suddenly spoke, —
"You say that those men followed me as I went in, and sprang out into the shrubbery as I came back?"
"Yes; as though to avoid being seen by you."
He took off his forage-cap and looked disgustedly at it a moment.
"Confound this thing! Why didn't I wear my hat?" he muttered; then turned suddenly to me: "Mr. Brandon, when we get back to Gaston's let me have your hat, will you? I would like to take another look in there, and if you will stay in the cab, we will stop this side of the entrance, and I'll go ahead on foot. Here, driver, hold up a moment."
Cabby reined in his horse and turned towards us in surprise. The aide-de-camp sprang out in the rain and began working at the lamp.
"Don't put it out, sir; it's against orders," said the driver.
"Never you mind, driver; I'll be responsible for any row there may be over it. There is reason for it, and a mighty good one. Douse that glim on your side. That's right! Now go ahead, lively as you can, and stop just this side of Gaston's."