Colonel Armstrong is staying at the "Planters' House," the chief hotel
in the town of Natchitoches. Not a very grand establishment,
nevertheless. Compared with such a princely hostelry as the "Langham"
of London, it would be as a peasant's hut to a palace. Withal, in every
way comfortable; and what it may lack in architectural style is made up
in natural adornment; a fine effect, produced by trees surrounding and
o'ershading it.
A hotel of the true Southern States type: weather-board walls, painted
chalk-white, with green Venetian shutters to the windows; a raised
verandah--the "piazza"--running all around it; a portion of this usually
occupied by gentlemen in white linen coats, sky-blue "cottonade" pants,
and Panama hats, who drink mint-juleps all day long; while another
portion, furnished with cane rocking-chairs, presents a certain air of
exclusiveness, which tells of its being tabooed to the sterner sex, or
more particularly meant for ladies.
A pleasant snuggery this, giving a good view of the street, while its
privacy is secured by a trellis, which extends between the supporting
pillars, clustered with Virginia creepers and other plants trained to
such service. A row of grand magnolias stands along the brick banquette
in front, their broad glabrous leaves effectually fending off the sun;
while at the ladies' end two large Persian lilacs, rivalling the
indigenous tree both in the beauty of their leaves and the fragrance of
their flowers, waft delicious odours into the windows of the chambers
adjacent, ever open.
Orange-trees grow contiguous, and so close to the verandah rail, that
one leaning over may pluck either their ripe golden globes, or white
wax-like blossoms in all stages of expansion; these beautiful evergreens
bearing fruit and flower at the same time.
A pleasant place at all hours this open air boudoir; and none more
enjoyable than at night, just after sunset. For then the hot atmosphere
has cooled down, and the soft southern breeze coming up from the bosom
of the river, stirs the leaves of the lilacs into gentle rustling, and
shakes their flower-spikes, scattering sweet incense around. Then the
light from street lamps and house windows, gleaming through the foliage,
mingles with that of the fire-flies crossing and scintillating like
sparks in a pyrotechnic display. Then the tree-crickets have commenced
their continuous trill, a sound by no means disagreeable; if it were,
there is compensation in the song of the mock-bird, that, perched upon
the top of some tall tree, makes the night cheerful with its
ever-changing notes. Sometimes there are other sounds in this shady
retreat, still more congenial to the ears of those who hear them. Oft
is it tenanted by dark-eyed demoiselles, and their Creole cavaliers, who
converse in the low whisperings of love, to them far sweeter than song
of thrush, or note of nightingale--words speaking the surrender of a
heart, with others signifying its acceptance.
To-night there is nothing of this within the vine-trellised verandah;
for only two individuals occupy it, both ladies. By the light from
street lamps and open casements, from moonbeams shining through the
lilac leaves, from fire-flies hovering and shooting about, it can be
seen that both are young, and both beautiful. Of two different types,
dark and fair: for they are the two daughters of Archibald Armstrong.
As said, they are alone, nor man nor woman near. There have been others
of both sexes, but all have gone inside; most to retire for the night,
now getting late.
Colonel Armstrong is not in the hotel, nor Dupre. Both are abroad on
the business of their colonising scheme. About this everything has been
arranged, even to selection of the place. A Texan land speculator, who
holds a large "grant" upon the San Saba river, opportunely chances to be
in Natchitoches at the time. It is a tract of territory surrounding,
and formerly belonging to, an old mission by the monks, long ago
abandoned. Dupre has purchased it; and all now remaining to be done is
to complete the make-up of the migrating party, and start off to take
possession.
Busied with these preparations, the young Creole, and his future
father-in-law, are out to a later hour than usual, which accounts for
the ladies being left alone. Otherwise, one, at least, would not be
long left to herself. If within the hotel, Dupre would certainly be by
the side of his Jessie.
The girls are together, standing by the baluster rail, with eyes bent
upon the street. They have been conversing, but have ceased. As usual,
the younger has been trying to cheer the elder, still sad, though now
from a far different cause. The pain at her heart is no longer that of
jealousy, but pure grief, with an admixture of remorse. The Natchez
newspaper has caused this change; what she read there, clearing Clancy
of all treason, leaving herself guilty for having suspected him.
But, oh! such an _eclaircissement_! Obtained at the expense of a life
dear to her as her own--dearer now she knows he is dead!
The newspaper has furnished but a meagre account of the murder. It
bears date but two days subsequent, and must have been issued subsequent
to Mrs Clancy's death, as it speaks of this event having occurred.
It would be out at an early hour that same morning.
In epitome its account is: that a man is missing, supposed to be
murdered; by name, Charles Clancy. That search is being made for his
body, not yet found. That the son of a well-known planter, Ephraim
Darke, himself called Richard, has been arrested on suspicion, and
lodged in the county jail; and, just as the paper is going to press, it
has received the additional intelligence, that the mother of the
murdered man has succumbed to the shock, and followed her unfortunate
son to the "bourne from which no traveller returns."
The report is in the flowery phraseology usually indulged, in by the
south-western journals. It is accompanied by comments and conjectures
as to the motive of the crime. Among these Helen Armstrong has read her
own name, with the contents of that letter addressed to Clancy, but
proved to have been in the possession of Darke. Though given only in
epitome--for the editor confesses not to have seen the epistle, but only
had account of it from him who furnished the report--still to Helen
Armstrong is the thing painfully compromising. All the world will now
know the relations that existed between her and Charles Clancy. What
would she care were he alive? And what need she, now he is dead?
She does not care--no. It is not this that afflicts her. Could she but
bring him to life again, she would laugh the world to scorn, brave the
frowns of her father, to prove herself a true woman by becoming the wife
of him her heart had chosen for a husband.
"It cannot be; he is dead--gone--lost for ever!"
So run her reflections, as she stands in silence by her sister's side,
their conversation for the time suspended. Oppressed by their
painfulness, she retires a seep, and sinks down into one of the chairs;
not to escape the bitter thoughts--for she cannot--but to brood on them
alone.
Jessie remains with hands rested on the rail, gazing down into the
street. She is looking for her Luis, who should now soon be returning
to the hotel.
People are passing, some in leisurely promenade, others in hurried step,
telling of early habits and a desire to get home.
One catching her eye, causes her to tremble; one for whom she has a
feeling of fear, or rather repulsion. A man of large stature is seen
loitering under the shadow of a tree, and looking at her as though he
would devour her. Even in his figure there is an expression of sinister
and slouching brutality. Still more on his face, visible by the light
of a lamp which beams over the entrance door of the hotel. The young
girl does not stay to scrutinise it; but shrinking back, cowers by the
side of her sister.
"What's the matter, Jess?" asks Helen, observing her frayed aspect, and
in turn becoming the supporter. "You've seen something to vex you?
something of--Luis?"
"No--no, Helen. Not him."
"Who then?"
"Oh, sister! A man fearful to look at. A great rough fellow, ugly
enough to frighten any one. I've met him several times when out
walking, and every time it's made me shudder."
"Has he been rude to you?"
"Not exactly rude, though something like it. He stares at me in a
strange way. And such horrid eyes! They're hollow, gowlish like an
alligator's. I'd half a mind to tell father, or Luis, about it; but I
know Luis would go wild, and want to kill the big brute. I saw him just
now, standing on the side-walk close by. No doubt he's there still."
"Let me have a look at those alligator eyes."
The fearless elder sister, defiant from very despair, steps out to the
rail, and leaning over, looks along the street.
She sees men passing; but no one who answers to the description given.
There is one standing under a tree, but not in the place of which Jessie
has spoken; he is on the opposite side of the street. Neither is he a
man of large size, but rather short and slight. He is in shadow,
however, and she cannot be sure of this.
At the moment he moves off, and his gait attracts her attention; then
his figure, and, finally, his face, as the last comes under the
lamp-light. They attract and fix it, sending a cold shiver through her
frame.
It was a fancy her thinking she saw Charles Clancy among the tree-tops.
Is it a like delusion, that now shows her his assassin in the streets of
Natchitoches? No; it cannot be! It is a reality; assuredly the man
moving off is _Richard Darke_!
She has it on her tongue to cry "murderer!" and raise a "hue and cry;"
but cannot. She feels paralysed, fascinated; and stands speechless, not
stirring, scarce breathing.
Thus, till the assassin is out of sight.
Then she totters back to the side of her sister, to tell in trembling
accents, how she, too, had been frayed by a _spectre in the street_!