Now fairly inaugurated, the new colony gives promise of a great success;
and the colonists are congratulating themselves.
None more than their chief, Colonel Armstrong. His leaving Mississippi
has been a lucky move; so far all has gone well; and if the future but
respond to its promise, his star, long waning, will be once more in the
ascendant. There is but one thought to darken this bright dream: the
condition of his eldest daughter. Where all others are rejoicing, there
is no gladness for her. Sombre melancholy seems to have taken
possession of her spirit, its shadow almost continuously seated on her
brow. Her eyes tell of mental anguish, which, affecting her heart, is
also making inroad on her health. Already the roses have gone out of
her cheeks, leaving only lilies; the pale flowers foretelling an early
tomb.
The distressing symptoms do not escape the fond father's observation.
Indeed he knows all about them, now knowing their cause. Only through
the Natchez newspapers was he first made aware of that secret
correspondence between his daughter and Clancy. But since she has
confessed all--how her heart went with her words; is still true to what
she then said. The last an avowal not needed: her pallid cheeks
proclaiming it. The frank confession, instead of enraging her father,
but gives him regret, and along with it self-reproach. But for his
aristocratic pride, with some admixture of cupidity, he would have
permitted Clancy's addresses to his daughter. With an open honourable
courtship, the end might have been different--perhaps less disastrous.
It could not have been more.
He can now only hope, that time, the great soother of suffering hearts,
may bring balm to hers. New scenes in Texas, with thoughts arising
therefrom, may throw oblivion over the past. And perchance a new lover
may cause the lost one to be less painfully remembered. Several
aspirants have already presented themselves; more than one of the
younger members of the colony having accompanied it, with no view of
making fortunes by the cultivation of cotton, but solely to be beside
Helen Armstrong.
Her suitors one and all will be disappointed. She to whom they sue is
not an ordinary woman; nor her affections of the fickle kind. Like the
eagle's mate, deprived of her proud lord, she will live all her after
life in lone solitude--or die. She has lost her lover, or thinks so,
believing Clancy dead; but the love still burns within her bosom, and
will, so long as her life may last. Colonel Armstrong soon begins to
see this, and despairs of the roses ever again returning to the cheeks
of his elder daughter.
It would, no doubt, be different were the blighted heart that of his
younger. With her the Spanish proverb, "_un clavo saca otro clavo_,"
might have meaning. By good fortune, Jessie needs no nail to drive out
another. Her natural exuberance of spirits grown to greater joy from
the hopes that now halo her young life, is flung over the future of all.
Some compensation for her sister's sadness--something to cheer their
common father. There is also the excitement attendant on the industries
of the hour--the cares of the cotton-planting, with speculations about
the success of the crop--these, with a hundred like thoughts and things,
hinder him from so frequently recurring to, or so long dwelling on, that
which can but cruelly distress.
It is the night succeeding that in which the mestizo made his private
pyrotechnic display; and Colonel Armstrong with his future son-in-law is
seated in the former refectory of the mission, which they have converted
into a decent dining-room.
They are not alone, or, as in French phraseology better expressed, _chez
eux memes_. Six or seven of their fellow-colonists of the better class
share the saloon with them--these being guests whom they have invited to
dinner.
The meal is over, the hour touching ten, the ladies have retired from
the table, only the gentlemen remain, drinking choice claret, which
Dupre, a sort of Transatlantic Lucullus, has brought with him from his
Louisiana wine bins.
Armstrong himself, being of Scotch ancestry, has the national preference
for whisky punch; and a tumbler of this beverage--the best in the
world--stands on the table before him. His glass has been filled three
times, and is as often emptied.
It need not be said, at this moment he is not sad. After three tumblers
of whisky toddy no man can help being hilarious; and so is it with
Colonel Armstrong. Seated at the head of his dining-table, the steaming
punch before him, he converses with his guests, gay as the gayest. For
a time their conversation is on general topics; but at length changes to
one more particular. Something said has directed their attention to a
man, who waited upon them at table, now no longer in the room.
The individual thus honoured is Dupre's confidential servant Fernand;
who, as already said, is house-steward, butler, _factotum_ of affairs
generally.
As is usual with such grand dignitaries, he has withdrawn simultaneously
with the removal of the tablecloth, leaving a deputy to look to the
decanting of the wine. Therefore, there is nothing remarkable in his
disappearance; nor would aught be observed about it, but for a remark
made by one of the guests during the course of conversation. A young
surgeon, who has cast in his lot with the new colony, is he who starts
the topic, thus introducing it:--
"Friend Dupre, where did you get that fellow Fernand? I don't remember
having seen him on your Louisiana plantation."
"I picked him up in Natchitoches while we were organising. You know I
lost my old major-domo last fall by the yellow fever. It took him off
while we were down in New Orleans. Fernand, however, is his superior in
every sense; can keep plantation accounts, wait at table, drive a
carriage, or help in a hunt. He's a fellow of wonderful versatility; in
short, a genius. And what is rare in such a combination of talents, he
is devoted to his duties--a very slave to them."
"What breed may your admirable Crichton be?" asks another of the guests,
adding: "He looks a cross between Spaniard and Indian."
"Just what he is," answers the young planter; "at least says so. By his
own account his father was a Spaniard, or rather a Mexican, and his
mother an Indian of the Seminole tribe. His real name is Fernandez; but
for convenience I've dropped the final syllable."
"It's a bad sort of mixture, that between Spaniard and Seminole, and not
improved by the Spaniard being a Mexican," remarks he who made the
inquiry.
"I don't like his looks," observes a third speaker.
Then all around the table wait to hear what Wharton, the young surgeon,
has to say. For it is evident, from his way of introducing the subject,
he either knows or suspects something prejudicial to the character of
the major-domo. Instead of going on to explain, he puts a second
interrogatory--
"May I ask, M. Dupre, whether you had any character with him?"
"No, indeed," admits the master. "He came to me just before we left
Natchitoches asking for an engagement. He professed to know all about
Texas, and offered to act as a guide. As I had engaged guides, I didn't
want him for that when he said any other place would do. Seeing him to
be a smart sort of fellow, which he certainly has proved, I engaged him
to look after my baggage. Since, I've found him useful in other ways,
and have given him full charge of everything--even to entrusting him
with the care of my modest money chest."
"In doing that," rejoins the surgeon, "I should say you've acted
somewhat imprudently. Excuse me, M. Dupre, for making the observation."
"Oh, certainly," is the planter's frank reply. "But why do you say so,
Mr Wharton? Have you any reason to suspect his honesty?"
"I have; more than one."
"Indeed! Let us hear them all."
"Well; in the first place I don't like the look of the man, nor ever did
since the day of our starting. Since I never set eyes on him before, I
could have had no impression to prejudice me against him. I admit that,
judging by physiognomy, any one may be mistaken; and I shouldn't have
allowed myself to be led by that. In this case, however, a circumstance
has contributed to shaping my judgment; in fact, deciding me in the
opinion, that your fellow Fernand is not only dishonest, but something
worse than a thief."
"Worse than a thief!" is the simultaneous echo from all sides of the
table, succeeded by a universal demand for explanation.
"Your words have a weighty sound, doctor," is Colonel Armstrong's way of
putting it. "We are anxious to hear what they mean."
"Well," responds Wharton, "you shall know why I've spoken them, and
what's led me to suspect this fellow Fernand. You can draw your own
conclusions, from the premises I put before you. Last night at a late
hour--near midnight--I took a fancy into my head to have a stroll
towards the river. Lighting a weed, I started out. I can't say exactly
how far I may have gone; but I know that the cigar--a long `Henry
Clay'--was burnt to the end before I thought of turning back. As I was
about doing so, I heard a sound, easily made out to be the footsteps of
a man, treading the firm prairie turf. As it chanced just then, I was
under a pecan-tree that screened me with its shadow; and I kept my
ground without making any noise.
"Shortly after, I saw the man whose footfall I had heard, and recognised
him as M. Dupre's head-servant. He was coming up the valley, toward the
house here, as if returning from some excursion. I mightn't have
thought much of that, but for noticing, as he passed me, that he didn't
walk erect or on the path, but crouchingly, among the trees skirting it.
"Throwing away the stump of my cigar, I set out after him, treading
stealthily as he. Instead of entering by the front, he went round the
garden, all the way to its rear; where suddenly I lost sight of him. On
arriving at the spot where he had disappeared, I saw there was a break
in the wall. Through that, of course, he must have passed, and entered
the mission-building at the back. Now, what are we to make of all
this?"
"What do you make of it, doctor?" asks Dupre.
"Give us your own deductions!"
"To say the truth, I don't know what deductions to draw, I confess
myself at fault; and cannot account for the fellow's movements; though I
take you'll all acknowledge they were odd. As I've said, M. Dupre, I
didn't from the first like your man of versatile talents; and I'm now
more than ever distrustful of him. Still I profess myself unable to
guess what he was after last night. Can any of you, gentlemen?"
No one can. The singular behaviour of Dupre's servant is a puzzle to
all present. At the same time, under the circumstances, it has a
serious aspect.
Were there any neighbouring settlement, the man might be supposed
returning from a visit to it; entering stealthily, from being out late,
and under fear of rebuke from his master. As there are no such
neighbours, this theory cannot be entertained.
On the other hand, there has been no report of Indians having been seen
in proximity to the place. If there had, the mestizo's conduct might be
accounted for, upon an hypothesis that would certainly cause
apprehension to those discussing it.
But no savages have been seen, or heard of; and it is known that the
Southern Comanches--the only Indians likely to be there encountered--are
in treaty of peace with the Texan Government. Therefore, the nocturnal
excursion of the half-blood could not be connected with anything of this
kind.
His singular, and seemingly eccentric, behaviour, remains an unsolved
problem to the guests around the table; and the subject is eventually
dropped their conversation changing to other and pleasanter themes.