CHAPTER XIV

The waters had not yet disappeared from the face of the earth when the routine at Great Oaks mansion was reëstablished. Those ghastly events, the coroner’s inquest, the identification and removal of the flatboat-man’s corpse, the ante-mortem statement of the wounded prisoner, and the subsequent capture and incarceration of the river pirates, followed in a rapid succession that seemed incongruous with their importance. The horrified and superstitious servants now went about their duties with casual cheerful faces; the tutor had resumed his pedagogic struggles with the young idea; Chubby, in the intervals of his labors as a student, sat upon the railing of the veranda and fished in the overflow, his skill being now and again rewarded by the splashing of a finny trophy at the end of his line, whereupon long and serious conferences ensued between him and the cook as to the best methods to prepare certain piscatorial dishes considered of small gustatory value by the epicure, and always served in a single platter for Chub alone. Mrs. Faurie had resumed her plaints against the dullness and general vapidity of Great Oaks, but not her lassitude. For there was much to do. The preparation for repairs and rebuilding incident to the destruction wrought by the overflow to the farm machinery, the miles of fencing, the tenants’ cabins, brought the manager of the place, now returned from Vicksburg, almost daily to the house, with estimates and suggestions and discussions of ways and means. There were many problems presented, difficult of solution even to one of his experience, and Mrs. Faurie had come to dread the sight of him, with his perplexities, paddling up to the veranda in his dugout, the glister of the blinding sun on the expanse of waters narrowing his keen gray eyes to mere slits, corrugating his brow, burning his complexion almost to a scarlet hue, incongruous enough with his straight yellow hair and straw-colored full beard, for he wore his straw hat on the back of his head.

Mrs. Faurie had begun to say often, “Let us ask Mr. Desmond,” when the alternative propositions of plans and computations of approximate expenses involved them both in doubt and anxiety, and he had found the clear-headed views of a man of judgment, progressive yet prudent, of value in appraising possibilities and reaching conclusions, despite Desmond’s inexperience in the questions at issue and need of information in the premises at every step. He was so quick to comprehend, so willing to take instruction, so cautious of precipitate decision, of such keen acumen and justice of reasoning, that Mr. Bainbridge was glad of his counsel and to be able to cease to confer only with a woman, albeit the owner of the interests involved. He broached the suggestion himself one day in his big, hearty voice, “Let’s submit the whole idee to Mr. Desmond”; then, abashed, perturbed, he looked up fearfully from under his bushy blond eyebrows, perceiving the many untoward inferences to be drawn from his reference to this arbitration.

But Mrs. Faurie discerned none of them. “The very thing,” she concurred, touching the bell. Then as the servant appeared, “Ask Mr. Desmond if he can’t come here for one tiny minute. Tell him to lock Chubby up in the mahogany cupboard, or fasten him in the letter-press, or kill him a little,—anything, to get rid of him,—and come here quick.”

She, too, relied upon Desmond’s judgment implicitly, and sometimes he was disposed to protest. “What will you two say if all this goes wrong? You know that I am as green as a gourd to this business.”

“Ah, but it cannot go wrong,—it is instinct with right reason. I couldn’t devise it myself, but I can discriminate its value. You have the happy hand; everything you touch is successful.”

Mr. Bainbridge sat demurely by, scarcely daring to breathe for the temerity of the thought in his mind, his eyes discreetly downcast. Would the widow really sacrifice her great income for this man of pinched conditions? “Mighty smart man, though!” he was sufficiently just to say to himself when out of her presence, as he flung himself into his dugout and took up his paddle. “Mighty glad he is here. Don’t know how in the world I’d ha’ made out to git along with all these perplexity fits with just a woman’s whims to control things.” For Desmond often boldly battled with Mrs. Faurie’s preferences and prejudices in the cause of her best interests, and demonstrated what was most worth while, and what was idle and useless expense in the rehabilitation of the wreckage of the overflow; and though she disputed with spirit, she was open to reason, and if convinced, was willing to concede.

There were other visitors at Great Oaks in these days, and mightily surprised to find the trio in one of these heady discussions were Colonel Kentopp and Mr. Loring, rowing in a skiff up to the veranda steps and ushered into the parlor before the wranglers well knew that intruders were upon them. At the sight of the papers piled upon the table, the account-book in Desmond’s hand, and the budget of letters that Mr. Bainbridge held from Mrs. Faurie’s “machinery man,” as she dubbed a great factory, Colonel Kentopp’s face clouded.

“You have fallen upon evil days, Mr. Bainbridge,” he said, gripping the hand of the manager, for he made it a point to be hearty and cordial with all sorts and conditions of people in the conservation of his reputation for popularity. “You will raise more crayfish than cotton this year,” he continued, with that agreeable manner of making a distasteful remark which serves the double purpose of indulging one’s ill-humor at an interlocutor’s expense while complimenting him with conversation.

“Not at all,” interposed Mrs. Faurie, for she had an affinity with success, and resented evil prognostications in her affairs as intrusive. “Mr. Desmond says that if the water recedes in time to get cotton planted properly, the alluvium of the overflow will enrich the land and materially increase the yield.”

“Much virtue in an ‘if,’” Colonel Kentopp contended, as he came around the table with a rolling step and flung himself into one of the big armchairs. “I did not know that Mr. Desmond is an agricultural authority,” he continued with a large air of jocularity as he crossed his legs. “I thought his knowledge of rural matters was contained in the Georgics of Virgil—ha! ha! ha!” And he sent a glance of rallying laughter at Desmond from out his round, dark, glossy, unamused eyes.

“Mr. Desmond knows a great deal about many things,” Mrs. Faurie retorted promptly, unaccustomed to contradiction or discipline, and restive under the slur of ridicule cast upon Desmond.

“So _we_ found out who had the pleasure of being his fellow guests at Dryad-Dene,” said Mr. Loring, who had a very bland aspect for a wooden man, as he sat in the group before the fire. He had a great respect for money in the abstract, and Mrs. Faurie represented large aggregations of wealth and thus commanded his interest. He was disposed to soften to her liking the tone of the conversation, which he thought ill-taken. Moreover, he had not often had the opportunity of meeting her, and the sight of the great beauty was an event of moment. He was not a “ladies’ man” in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but he had the successful man’s reverence for preëminence in any form, and the splendor of her personal gifts appealed to his appreciation of the predominant. Her beauty was always so striking that whatever she wore seemed cunningly designed to enhance it,—even to-day, when her costume was a sheer lawn blouse and a plain black skirt. Her arms and shoulders were so dazzlingly white through the soft fabric; its absolute simplicity made so undeniable a demand to mark how the lack of effort or ornamentation brought into higher relief and added importance all the fine details of her perfect face, the exquisite tints of her long-lashed gray eyes, the lustre of her rich brown hair rolled up so plainly from her fair brow, the beautiful shape of her hands and arms, shaded only by a simple ruffle at the end of her elbow-sleeves. She was in Mr. Loring’s eyes a woman whose wishes were to be considered, whose station and wealth were to be respected, whose beauty was to be worshiped, and he wondered at Kentopp’s fatuity when, catching his cue, he said:—

“Indeed, Mr. Desmond was greatly appreciated at Dryad-Dene,—especially by the young ladies!” with an arch glance at the tutor.

Loring thought of the dim, pale attractions of Miss Kelvin and Miss Allandyce in comparison with the resplendent vision before him, and he deemed Kentopp mentally a poor creature.

“Of course Mr. Desmond has not had agricultural experience, but he has a very good article of common sense, and with what mind Mr. Bainbridge and I have left, since the overflow fairly crazed us both, we think we are going to make out mighty well,” stoutly insisted Mrs. Faurie.

“I’ll be bound you do,” said Mr. Loring, admiringly.

“But Mr. Desmond is due at Dryad-Dene,” protested Kentopp, now on the back track. “He took French leave of us, and our week-end party is not yet dispersed, though the week has. The overflow gave us that boon, at all events. They haven’t been able to get away.”

“You are very kind, but it is impossible for me to return,” said Desmond, courteously.

“Oh, I’m so glad,” cried out Mrs. Faurie, unexpectedly, and in a tone of girlish glee. “I was so afraid that Edward might accept.” Then, turning to the amazed Kentopp, she added. “You know that he is the source of all our courage. We were in a state of siege here. We look upon him as if he were as powerful as an army with banners.”

“Killed two of the men with your own hands; I believe the testimony at the inquest showed that,”—Colonel Kentopp’s lip curled as if in distaste. “Painful necessity.”

“Not all,—providential opportunity! Edward and I agreed that we would have no morbid sensibility over it,” declared Mrs. Faurie.

“Why, I should smile!” said the wooden man, in hearty indorsement, his slang literal. It was not his place, and he knew it, but he rose from his chair with the intention of himself terminating the visit and taking the malapropos Kentopp home. “You have much to do here; we had best be going.”

“If Mr. Desmond will not return with us,” said Kentopp, gathering his faculties together as best he could, and perceiving the light of elation in Loring’s eyes. Great Oaks Plantation would doubtless be soon on the market. Its overflow scarcely made against its value, though it might be utilized to cry down the asking price, since it was only the result of the nefarious crime of cutting the cross levee, that was hitherto a complete protection. Mrs. Faurie, evidently all unwitting of the future, was herself to defray the immense expense of its rehabilitation. Loring scarcely looked as wooden as was his wont, smoothing down his bristly mustache with a jaunty air, a secret smile behind his eyes, as it were, so confidential, so introspective, so self-communing was its expression. Of all the boons that his money had brought within reach of the millionaire, Great Oaks Plantation was the one he most coveted. Even its semi-grotesque amphibious aspect could not diminish his desire as he paused on the veranda, the water lapping about it, the great trees standing inundated, as if knee-deep, the glistening expanse of the overflow stretching out to the Mississippi proper, its channel only to be now discerned by the course of a steamboat ploughing her way through the illimitable floods, no vestige of a shore within view. He was cheerful in his leave-taking, and turned in the skiff, even after the darkey at the oars had rowed far down the submerged avenue, to wave his hand at the group on the veranda, while Colonel Kentopp moodily pulled his hat down over his eyes with a muttered “Confound this glare,” as the sun flashed blindingly upon the waste of waters.

The prominence of Desmond in the lady’s counsels was also noticed by old Mr. Stanlett, and he regarded it obviously with jealous distrust. He had been peculiarly favorably impressed by the young man during the earlier days of his stay at Great Oaks, and had taken pains to bestow upon him a kindly consideration and courteous attention, of which the tutor, then fresh to his duties and despondent, consciously out of his element, was very definitely sensible. Now, Mr. Stanlett seldom addressed Desmond, and when this was necessary he used a cold civility, in strong contrast to his former demeanor, and savoring very distinctly of a realization of the inferiority of the tutor’s position and a resolute intention of relegating him to his proper sphere. Whenever Mrs. Faurie spoke to Desmond, discussing her affairs and deferring to his opinion, Mr. Stanlett was wont to draw his heavy white eyebrows together in a very definite frown, scanning first one and then the other, an angry flush mantling his face, evidently minded to protest. One day at the table, when she chanced to address the tutor as “Edward,” Mr. Stanlett stared as if startled, then broke out with so satirical and frosty a laugh that she looked up in surprise, forgetting what she was about to say. She manifested no confusion nor self-consciousness, but Reginald flushed hotly to the temples, and Chubby paused, his fork in his hand, and remarked in callow affront: “Uncle Clarence seems to have a good joke that he keeps to himself.”

“Just so, Chubby,—a very good joke—ha, ha, ha!—and I wish to God I could keep it to myself!”

Mrs. Faurie had so far recovered her composure and the tone of her nerves, greatly imperiled in all the anxiety and jeopardy and stress of the tragic events of the overflow, that Desmond resolved on the evening after the visit of Kentopp and Loring to defer no longer to acquaint her with his discovery of the mystery of the spectral manifestations at Great Oaks mansion, and to surrender to her keeping the paper which he had seen so strangely and significantly concealed. From time to time he had furtively watched Mr. Stanlett, seeking to discern if he had become aware of the abstraction of the scroll from the secret drawer of the press in the blue room. He was sure that the old man would manifest such disquietude as would be ample evidence that his caution had gone amiss. But Mr. Stanlett maintained a genuine composure, absorbed in the simple routine of his day,—the mail from the packet, or the neighborhood news brought by some amphibian in a dugout scouting on various errands on the face of the waters; his cigars; sometimes humming an old song and looking from his easy chair placidly out on the waste of the overflow. Occasionally he occupied himself in telling one of the boys, or the three in conclave, old stories of war times, the gunboats on the Mississippi, the riders and raiders, the burning of cotton—bales, gin, and all—by the soldiers rather than let the precious staple fall into the enemy’s hands; and again he abounded in anecdotes of the palmy days of river travel and traffic, the tremendous loads of cotton the freighters carried, the choice company on the floating palaces, the phenomenally high play of the “gentleman gamblers,” the competitive speed of the steamers and details of the exciting races, the horrible accidents and the frightful picture a blazing boat presented, a tower of flames, as she came swinging around Deepwater Bend on her course. No; placidity was the keynote of his life save when his frown gathered as his eye fell on Desmond, and his manner stiffened, and his intonation grew crisp and icy.

To-night, as they sat by the parlor fire, he was busied in a game of chess, the fashion of his youth in which he excelled. He had taught Reginald to play with such skill as to give him difficulty enough to maintain his interest in reaching the finality of checkmate. The other two boys were on the rug romping with an Irish setter, and the dog was most unwillingly learning to sit up and shake hands and make a feint of smoking an empty pipe. Desmond could count on their absorption for some time as he passed the window on the veranda and saw them there thus occupied. The moon was beginning to steer clear of a surge of clouds that had hung in the sky all the afternoon, presaging rain, and as its long, golden slant fell upon the waste of waters Mrs. Faurie rose from her chair, laid her book on the centre table, and went anxiously to the window. As she saw Desmond standing outside, she naturally supposed that he, too, was absorbed in scanning the signs of the skies. With more falling weather the waters would rise anew and postpone, perhaps past feasibility for the season, all the plans for the rehabilitation of the plantation, and all the possibility of making a crop or even a half crop of cotton.

“Don’t you think that it looks less like rain?” she asked, slipping the thumb-bolt of the sash of the long French window and joining him at the balustrade.

“The rain has gone around this time,” he said. “I am very sure of that.”

It was difficult for him to bring his mind back to the weather signs, bent as he was upon the imminent disclosure, canvassing continually its best method. He was sensitive in submitting his own conduct for scrutiny, and eager for her approval. He was solicitous concerning matters of phraseology, knowing how she valued her uncle and cherished his age, fearful lest some unconsidered word offend, or, worse still, wound her. He was afraid that the disclosure might involve some shock to her nerves. He did not know, he could not imagine, what the paper so significantly hidden might contain, and how she might condemn his course in possessing himself of it. Indeed, she might deem that he had exceeded all the bounds of convention, and, declining to look at the paper, require him to surrender it to Mr. Stanlett and make confession of his unwarranted interference. He stood in silence, his meditative eyes on her face so long that she noted his absorption.

“What is it?” she said suddenly. “You look strange, troubled. Surely there is nothing more amiss.”

“Let us take a turn along the veranda. I have been waiting for days to tell you something.”

She assented in silent suspense, and together they walked along the broad, moonlit veranda, the shadows of the trees now and again falling athwart it, the sheen on the waters striking across the expanse for sixty miles, making a vast roadway of glister to the vague unknown of the shimmering distance. Her lustrous dark eyes with the moon in their depths were dilated, expectant, her face was ethereally white and quietly serious. Her dress was white, of a soft, clinging woolen fabric, with a stripe of satin at intervals, that shone itself with a moony lustre. The square-cut bodice was filled in with lace that rose and fell with the stir of her breath as she waited, intent and a trifle agitated.

Desmond began without preamble. “When I first came to Great Oaks, one of the boys, Reginald it was, told me of the step on the stair.”

She laid her hand on his arm, and he felt the quiver in its slim fingers.

“I had then heard the step, once,—it was about midnight; and I heard it again, twice,—the night of the attack on the house.”

“Oh, oh,—I cannot abide that idea,” she exclaimed, with a quiver of pain in her voice. “You never have heard me mention it. I am sure it must be some fallacy,—some”—She could not speak for gasping. Then she gathered her composure and resumed with dignity: “It is nothing,—it is some trick! It is an insult to the memory of the sacred dead. It was never pretended to be heard in the lifetime of Mr. Faurie.”

Desmond felt on difficult ground. “I think that no one has ever associated his name with the manifestation, though it is very natural that you should deprecate that idea. But the step is genuine, for I heard it distinctly twice that night; the last time I waited for it to approach, and it entered the room, and I saw the presence in the light.”

“Wait,—wait!” she exclaimed, and he paused, for she seemed unable to advance a step. The waters lapped about the veranda; the shadows of the great trees were weird and strange, falling across the surface of the flood flowing in the midst of the grove; the continual melancholy rise and fall of the voices of frogs sounded from woodsy tangles in lagoons and submerged marshes; the broad lunar lustre quivered on the expanse of the gray waters, and the moon rode high,—high in the dark sky.

“Let me tell you,” he urged. “I was standing at the window in the blue room—”

“The blue room,” she faltered, as if with some vague memory.

“Yes,—where the wounded man lay. I heard the stealthy step on the stair, as I had heard it twice before; a mere slip and then silence, and again a suggestion of a footfall, coming and coming up the stair; and I waited in the curtained recess of the dormer window,—and the step paused at the threshold; the door noiselessly swung ajar,—the step entered,—and it was Mr. Stanlett.”

“Mr. Stanlett!” she cried, standing suddenly erect and strong, her moonlit face showing a haughty displeasure; “why should you connect him with such mummery?”

“Because I had heard the step twice before and recognized it; because as I listened to this step it came straight to the door, and, as I say, Mr. Stanlett entered; because I identified his aspect with the description of an intruder who had silently appeared and disappeared at the door earlier in the evening, frightening the wounded man with a vague terror.”

“I am ashamed to listen, I am ashamed to question; but if only to have done with these mysteries, I will ask what action did you observe Mr. Stanlett to take while you lay _perdu_?” As she confronted him a proud indignation burned red in her cheeks and her eyes flashed in the moonlight.

Desmond took umbrage at her tone. His spirit mounted as he felt that his motives were entitled to some consideration on that night of all nights, when he had done so much for her and hers at the risk of his life. It was in his mind in self-justification to tax her with this, and demand the respect for his deeds due to the integrity of his intentions. But he, too, was proud. If she could forget her gratitude, he could waive its cause. He continued to describe, with a certain constraint in his voice, how the old man cautiously advanced to the bedside, and with fantastic cocked hat and disguising, muffling cloak watched the sleeping man to make sure of his unfeigned unconsciousness. She winced as she learned that the swift, skulking step took him straight to the press, in which he hid within an interior drawer a scroll of paper.

Desmond was surprised by her next words. “He locked the door of the press? I know that it has a key,” she stipulated.

“He _thought_ he locked it; but I saw that the bolt did not go home.”

She had every trait of wild agitation. “Did you not speak to him? Did you not warn him?”

“Why should I? Would he not have resented my presence as spying on him? when even you resent my disclosure of the fact that you may give the matter such weight as it deserves.”

“Resent it?—oh, no! no!” She laid both her cold hands on his as she stood looking up into his face. “I resent nothing from you; we all owe you too much, far too much! But I am frightened, mortified, uncertain. Can’t you see that that paper must be of the first importance to be so secreted—setting such a superstition afloat in a simple, domestic household—by the frankest, the kindest, the most gentle of men? Don’t you connect and interpret now the story of the step?—always heard just before we complete our preparations to quit the country, for he carries the paper with him,—always heard just when we return, for he brings it back and hides it again. And last week, that dark and dreadful evening when you say you passed the presence, the step on the stair, he thought that we must quit the house and he was doubtless bringing it down. But after you had rescued us—never, never imagine that I forget it for one moment!—he felt safe again and took it to its hiding-place once more. And oh, Edward, how could you—so unthinking, so heedless!— let him leave the door ajar believing that he had locked it,—an old man, Edward, a very old man,—and make off with the useless key in his simple satisfaction while that scoundrel lay on the bed,—oh, I shouldn’t speak harshly of the unjudged dead!—and his suspicions had already been excited, and perhaps he secured it, only having pretended slumber,—and oh, we must see if it is really there still. Say nothing to Uncle Clarence; let us go up first to the blue room and see if it is gone; get a lamp,—let us go.”

Desmond laid a restraining hand upon her wrist. “It is not there,” he said, looking down into her wild, eager, agitated eyes. “I saw the danger of leaving it there, and I secured it for safe-keeping until I could consign it to your care.”

“And what—what—is it?” she faltered.

“Can you imagine that I would so much as glance at it?” he replied sharply. “Stop; here we are at the library. I will give it to you now.”