Within two days the city had regained its customary calm. It had, in
fact, settled down to a more placid mood than at any time since the
murder of Chief Donnelly. Immediately after the lynching the citizens
had dispersed to their homes. No prisoners except the Mafiosi had been
harmed, and of those who had been sought not one had escaped. The
damage to the parish prison did not amount to fifty dollars. Through
the community spread a feeling of satisfaction, which horror at the
terrible details of the slaughter could not destroy. There was nowhere
the slightest effort at dodging responsibility; those who had led in
the assault were the best-known citizens and openly acknowledged their
parts. It was realized now, even more fully than before the event, that
the course pursued had been the only one compatible with public safety;
and, while every one deplored the necessity of lynchings in general,
there was no regret at this one, shocking as it had been.
This state of mind was reflected by the local press, and, for that
matter, by the press of all the Southern cities where the gravity of
the situation had become known, while to lend it further countenance,
the Cotton Exchange, the Board of Trade, and the Chamber of Commerce
promptly passed resolutions commending the action of the vigilance
committee. There was some talk of legal proceedings; but no one took it
seriously, except the police, who felt obliged to excuse their
dereliction. Of course, the stir was national--international, indeed,
since Italy demanded particulars; but, serene in the sense of an
unpleasant duty thoroughly performed, New Orleans did not trouble to
explain, except by a bare recital of facts.
In spite of the passive part he had played, Blake was perhaps more
deeply affected by the doings at the prison than any other member of
the party, and during the interval that followed he did not trust
himself to see Vittoria. There was a double reason for this, for he not
only recalled their last interview with consternation, but he still had
a guilty feeling about Myra Nell. On the second afternoon after the
lynching Bernie Dreux dropped in to tell him of his sister's return
from Mobile.
"She read that I took a hand in the fuss," Bernie explained, "but, of
course, she has no idea I did so much actual shooting. When she told me
she was going to see you this afternoon, I came to warn you not to
expose me."
"Do you regret your part?"
"Not the least bit. I'm merely surprised at myself."
"You surprised all your friends," Blake said, with a smile. "You seem
to have changed lately."
In truth, the difference in Dreux's bearing was noteworthy, and many
had remarked upon it. The dignity and force which had enveloped the
little beau for the first time when he stood before the assembled
thousands still clung to him; his eyes were steady and bright and
purposeful; he had lost his wavering, deprecatory manner.
"Yes, I've just come of age," he declared, with some satisfaction. "I
realize that I'm free, white, and twenty-one, for the first time. I'm
going to quit idling and do something."
"What, for instance?"
"Well, I'm going to marry Felicite, to begin with, then maybe some of
my friends will give me a job."
"I will," said Blake.
"Thanks, but--I'd rather impose on somebody else at the start. I want
to make good on my own merits, understand? I've lived off my relatives
long enough. It's just as bad to let the deceased members of your
family support you as to allow the live ones--"
"Bernie!" Blake interrupted, gravely. "I'm afraid I won't marry Myra
Nell."
"You think she won't have you, eh? She has been acting queerly of late;
but leave it to me."
Norvin was spared the necessity of further explanation by the arrival
of the girl herself. Miss Warren seemed strangely lacking in her usual
abundance of animal spirits; she was obviously ill at ease, and the
sight of her brother did not lessen her embarrassment. During the brief
interchange of pleasantries her eyes were fixed upon Blake with a
troubled gaze.
"We--I just ran in for a moment," she said, and seemed upon the point
of leaving after inquiring solicitously about his health.
"My dear," said Bernie, with elaborate unction, "Norvin and I have just
been discussing your engagement."
Miss Warren gasped and turned pale; Blake stammered.
With a desperate effort the girl inquired:
"D--do you love me, Norvin?"
"Of course I do."
"See!" Bernie nodded his satisfaction.
"Oh, Lordy!" said Myra Nell. "I--can't marry you, dear."
"What?" Blake knew that his expression was changing, and tried to
stifle his relief.
As for Bernie, he flushed angrily, and his voice rang with his newly
born determination.
"Don't be silly. Didn't he just say he loved you? And, for heaven's
sake, don't look so scared. We won't devour you."
"I can't marry him," declared the girl, once more.
"Why?"
"Be-because I'm already married! There! Jimmy! I've been trying to get
that out for a month."