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 facade 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 cafe_ 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 _tete-a-tete_ 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."