Chapter 2

When luncheon was announced, Gordon asked to have something light sent in to him, as he wished not to be disturbed in his investigation of the documents. He had scant need to apprehend interruption, however, while the long afternoon wore gradually away. The universal Southern siesta was on, and the somnolent mansion was like the castle of Sleeping Beauty. The ladies had sought their apartments and the downy couches; the cook, on a shady bench under the trellis, nodded as she seeded the raisins for the frozen pudding of the six-o'clock dinner; the waiter had succumbed in clearing the lunch-table and made mesmeric passes with the dish-rag in a fantasy of washing the plates; the stable-boy slumbered in the hay, high in the loft, while the fat old coachman, with a chamois-skin in his hand, dozed as he sat on the step of the surrey, between the fenders; the old dog snored on the veranda floor, and Mrs. Keene's special attendant, who was really more a seamstress than a ladies' maid, dreamed that for some mysterious reason she could not thread a needle to fashion in a vast hurry the second mourning of her employer, who she imagined would call for it within a week!

Outside the charmed precincts of this Castle Indolence, the busy cotton-pickers knew no pause nor stay. The steam-engine at the gin panted throughout all the long hot hours, the baler squealed and rasped and groaned, as it bound up the product into marketable compass, but there was no one waking near enough to note how the guest of the mansion was pacing the floor in a stress of nervous excitement, and to comment on the fact.

Toward sunset, a sudden commotion roused the slumbrous place. There had been an accident at the gin,--a boy had been caught in the machinery and variously mangled. Dr. George Eigdon had been called and had promptly sewed up the wounds. A runner had been sent to the mansion for bandages, brandy, fresh clothing, and sundry other collateral necessities of the surgery, and the news had thrown the house into unwonted excitement.

“The boy won't die, then?” Geraldine asked of a second messenger, as he stood by the steps of the veranda, waiting for the desired commodities.

“Lawdy,--_no_, ma'am! He is as good as new! Doc' George, _he_ fix him up.”

Gordon, whom the tumult had summoned forth from his absorptions, noted Geraldine's triumphant laugh as she received this report, the toss of her spirited little head, the light in her dark blue eyes, deepening to sapphire richness, her obvious pride in the skill, the humanitarian achievement, of her lover. Dr. George must be due here this evening, he fancied. For she was all freshly bedight; her gown was embellished with delicate laces, and its faint green hue gave her the aspect of some water-sprite, posed against that broad expanse of the Mississippi River, that was itself of a jade tint reflected from a green and amber sky; at the low horizon line the vermilion sun was sinking into its swirling depths.

Gordon perceived a personal opportunity in the prospect of this guest for the evening. He must have counsel, he was thinking. He could not act on his own responsibility in this emergency that had suddenly confronted him. He was still too overwhelmed by the strange experience he had encountered, too shaken. This physician was a man of intelligence, of skill in his chosen profession, necessarily a man worth while in many ways. He was an intimate friend of the Keene family, and might the more heartily lend a helping hand. The thought, the hope, cleared Gordon's brow, but still the impress of the stress of the afternoon was so marked that the girl was moved to comment in her brusque way as they stood together on the cool, fern-embowered veranda.

“Why, Mr. Gordon,” she exclaimed in surprise, “you have no idea how strange you look! You must have overworked awfully this afternoon. Why, you look as if you had seen a ghost!”

To her amazement, he recoiled abruptly. Involuntarily, he passed his hand over his face, as if seeking to obliterate the traces she had deciphered. Then, with an obvious effort, he recovered a show of equanimity; he declared that it was only because he was so tousled in contrast with her fresh finery that she thought he looked supernaturally horrible! He would go upstairs forthwith and array himself anew.

Gordon proved himself a true prophet, for Rigdon came to dine. With the postprandial cigars, the two gentlemen, at Gordon's suggestion, repaired to the sitting-room to smoke, instead of joining their hostess on the veranda, where tobacco was never interdicted. Indeed, they did not come forth thence for nearly two hours, and were palpably embarrassed when Geraldine declared in bewilderment, gazing at them in the lamplight that fell from within, through one of the great windows, that now _both_ looked as if they had seen a ghost!

Despite their efforts to sustain the interest of the conversation, they were obviously distrait, and had a proclivity to fall into sudden silences, and Mrs. Keene found them amazingly unresponsive and dull. Thus it was that she rose as if to retire for the night while the hour was still early. In fact, she intended to utilize the opportunity to have some dresses of the first mourning outfit tried on, for which the patient maid was now awaiting her.

“I leave you a charming substitute,” she said in making her excuses. “Geraldine need not come in yet--it is not late.”

Her withdrawal seemed to give a fresh impetus to some impulse with which Rigdon had been temporizing. He recurred to it at once. “You contemplate giving it to the public,” he said to Gordon; “why not try its effect on a disinterested listener first, and judge from that?”

Gordon assented with an extreme gravity that surprised Geraldine; then Rigdon hesitated, evidently scarcely knowing how to begin. He looked vaguely at the moon riding high in the heavens above the long, broad expanse of the Mississippi and the darkling forests on either hand. Sometimes a shaft of light, a sudden luminous glister, betokened the motion of the currents gliding in the sheen. “Last night,” he said in a tense, bated voice--“last night Mr. Gordon saw the phantom of Bogue Holauba, Stop! Hush!”--for the girl had sprung half screaming from her chair. “This is important.” He laid his hand on her arm to detain her. “We want you to help us!”

“Help you! Why, you scare me to death!” She had paused, but stood trembling from head to foot.

“There is something explained in one of Mr. Keene's papers,--addressed to Mr. Gordon; and we have been much startled by the coincidence of his--his vision.”

“Did he see--really----?” Geraldine had sunk back in her chair, her face ghastly pale.

“Of course it must be some illusion,” said Rigdon. “The effect of the mist, perhaps----”

“Only, there was no mist,” said Gordon.

“Perhaps a snag waving in the wind.”

“Only, there was no wind.”

“Perhaps a snag tossing in the motion of the water,--at all events, you can't say there was no water.” Dr. Rigdon glanced at Gordon with a genial smile.

“Mighty little water for the Mississippi,” Gordon sought to respond in the same key.

“You know the record of these apparitions.” Leaning forward, one arm on his knee, the document in question in his hand, Rigdon looked up into Geraldine's pale face. “In the old days there used to be a sort of water-gypsy, with a queer little trading-boat that plied the region of the bends--a queer little old man, too--Polish, I think, foreign certainly--and the butt of all the wags alongshore, at the stores and the wood-yards, the cotton-sheds and the wharf-boats. By some accident, it was thought, the boat got away when he was befuddled with drink in a wood-chopper's cabin--a stout, trig little craft it was! When he found it was gone, he was wild, for although he saw it afloat at a considerable distance down the Mississippi, it suddenly disappeared near Bogue Holauba, cargo and all. No trace of its fate was ever discovered. He haunted these banks then--whatever he may have done since--screaming out his woes for his losses, and his rage and curses on the miscreants who had set the craft adrift--for he fully believed it was done in malice--beating his breast and tearing his hair. The Civil War came on presently, and the man was lost sight of in the national commotions. No one thought of him again till suddenly something--an apparition, an illusion, the semblance of a man--began to patrol the banks of Bogue Holauba, and beat its breast and tear its hair and bewail its woes in pantomime, and set the whole country-side aghast, for always disasters follow its return.”

“And how do you account for that phase?” asked Gordon, obviously steadying his voice by an effort of the will.

“The apparition always shows up at low water,--the disasters are usually typhoid,” replied the physician.

“Mr. Keene died from malaria,”

Geraldine murmured musingly.

The two men glanced significantly at each other. Then Rigdon resumed: “I mustered the hardihood on one occasion to row up to the bank of Bogue Holauba for a closer survey. The thing vanished on my approach. There was a snag hard by, fast anchored in the bottom of the Bogue. It played slackly to and fro with the current, but I could not see any way by which it or its shadow could have produced the illusion.”

“Is this what you had to tell me?” demanded Geraldine pertinently. “I knew all that already.”

“No, no,” replied the Doctor reluctantly. “Will you tell it, Mr. Gordon, or shall I?”

“You, by all means, if you will,” said Gordon gloomily. “God knows I should be glad never to speak of it.”

“Well,” Rigdon began slowly, “Mr. Gordon was made by his cousin Jasper Keene not only the executor of his will, but the repository of a certain confession, which he may destroy or make public as he sees proper. It seems that in Mr. Keene's gay young days, running wild in his vacation from college on a secluded plantation, he often lacked congenial companionship, and he fell in with an uncouth fellow of a lower social grade, who led him into much detrimental adventure. Among other incidents of very poor fun, the two were notable in hectoring and guying the old Polish trader, who, when drunk on mean whisky as he often was, grew violent and antagonistic. He went very far in his denunciations one fatal night, and by way of playing him a trick in return, they set his boat adrift by cutting the rope that tied the craft to a tree on the bank. The confession states that they supposed the owner was then aboard and would suffer no greater hardship than having to use the sweeps with considerable energy to row her in to a landing again. They were genuinely horrified when he came running down the bank, both arms out-stretched, crying out that his all, _his all_ was floating away on that tumultutius, merciless tide. Before any skiff could be launched, before any effort could be made to reach the trading-boat, she suddenly disappeared. The Mississippi was at flood height, and it was thought that the boat struck some drifting obstruction, swamped, and went down in deep water. The agents in this disaster were never suspected, but as soon as Jasper Keene had come of age, and had command of any means of his own, his first act was to have an exhaustive search made for the old fellow, with a view of financial restitution. But the owner of the trading-boat had died, spending his last years in the futile effort to obtain the insurance money. As the little he had left was never claimed, no representative could profit by the restitution that Jasper Keene had planned, and he found what satisfaction he could in giving it secretly to an old man's charity. Then the phantom began to take his revenge. He appeared on the banks of Bogue Holauba, and straightway the only child of the mansion sickened and died. Mr. Keene's first wife died after the second apparition. Either it was the fancy of an ailing man, or perhaps the general report, but he notes that the spectre was bewailing its woes along the banks of Bogue Holauba when Jasper Keene himself was stricken by an illness which from the first he felt was fatal.”

“I remember--I remember it was said at the time,” Geraldine barely whispered.

“And now to the question: he leaves it to Mr. Gordon as his kinsman, solicitous of the family repute, to judge whether this confession should be made public or destroyed.”

“Does he state any reasons for making it public?” demanded Geraldine, taking the document and glancing through its pages.

“Yes; as an expiation of his early misdeeds toward this man and, if any such thing there be, to placate the spirit of his old enemy; and lastly better to secure his peace with his Maker.”

“And which do you say!” Geraldine turned an eager, spirited face toward Gordon, his dejected attitude and countenance distinctly seen in the light from the lamp within the parlor, on a table close to the window.

“I frankly admit that the publication of that confession would humiliate me to the ground, but I fear that it _ought_ to be given to the public, as he obviously desires!”

“And which do _you_ say!” Geraldine was standing now, and swiftly whirled around toward Dr. Bigdon.

“I agree with Mr. Gordon--much against my will--but an honest confession is good for the soul!” he, replied ruefully.

“You infidels!” she exclaimed tumultuously. “You have not one atom of Christian faith between you! To imagine that _you_ can strike a bargain with the good God by letting a sick theory of expiation of a dying, fever-distraught creature besmirch his repute as a man and a gentleman, make his whole life seem like a whited sepulchre, and bring his name into odium,--as kind a man as ever lived,--and you know it!--as honest, and generous, and whole-souled, to be held up to scorn and humiliation because of a boyish prank forty years ago, that precipitated a disaster never intended,--bad enough, silly enough, even wicked enough, but not half so bad and silly and wicked as _you_, with your morbid shrinking from moral responsibility, and your ready contributive defamation of character. Tell me, you men, is this a testamentary paper, and you think it against the law to destroy it!”

“No, no, not that,” said Bigdon.

“No, it is wholly optional,” declared Gordon.

“Then, I will settle the question for you once for all, you wobblers!” She suddenly thrust the paper into the chimney of the lamp on the table just within the open window, and as it flared up she flung the document forth, blazing in every fibre, on the bare driveway below the veranda. “And now you may find, as best you can, some other means of exorcising the phantom of Bogue Holauba!”