The Phantom of Bogue Holauba | Page 2

the best of the
situation. Being to a degree a man of the world and of a somewhat large
experience, he began to argue within himself that he could scarcely
have expected a different reception in these conditions. The great river
being at the stage known as "dead low water," steamboat travel was
practically suspended for the season, or he could have reached his

destination more directly than by rail. An accident had delayed the train
some seven hours, and although the gasoline launch sent to meet him at
the nearest way-station had been withdrawn at nightfall, since he did
not arrive, as his sable attendant informed him, the dug-out had been
substituted, with instructions to wait all night, on the remote chance
that he might come, after all.
Nevertheless, it was with an averse, disaffected gaze that he silently
watched the summit-line of foliage on either bank of the river glide
slowly along the sky, responsive to the motion of the boat. It seemed a
long monotony of this experience, as he sat listless in the canoe, before
a dim whiteness began to appear in a great, unbroken expanse in the
gradually enlarging riparian view--the glister of the moon on the open
cotton-bolls in the fields. The forests were giving way, the region of
swamp and bayou. The habitations of man were at hand, and when at
last the dug-out was run in to a plantation landing, and Kenneth Gordon
was released from his cramped posture in that plebeian craft, he felt so
averse to his mission, such a frivolous, reluctant distaste that he
marvelled how he was to go through with it at all, as he took his way
along the serpentine curves of the "dirt road," preceded by his guide,
still with eyes averted and sullen mien, silently bearing his suit-case.
A few turns, and suddenly a large house came into view, rearing its
white facade to the moonlight in the midst of a grove of magnolia trees,
immense of growth, the glossy leaves seeming a-drip with lustre as
with dew. The flight of steps and the wide veranda were here cumbered
with potted ferns and foliage plants as elsewhere, and gave the first
suggestion of conformity to the ways of the world that the adventure
had yet borne. The long, broad, silent hall into which he was ushered,
lighted only by a kerosene hand-lamp which the servant carried as he
led the way, the stairs which the guest ascended in a mansion of
unconscious strangers, all had teerie intimations, and the comfort and
seclusion of the room assigned to Gordon was welcome indeed to him;
for, argue as he might, he was conscious of a continuous and acute
nervous strain. He had had a shock, he was irritably aware, and he
would be glad of rest and quiet.

It was a large, square, comfortable room in one of the wings,
overlooking a garden, which sent up a delectable blend of fragrance
and dew through the white muslin curtains at the long, broad windows,
standing open to the night. On a table, draped with the inevitable
"drawn-work" of civilization, stood a lamp of finer fashion, but no
better illuminating facilities, than the one carried off by the darky, who
had made great haste to leave the room, and who had not lifted his eyes
toward the ill-omened "ghost-seer" nor spoken a word since Gordon
had blurted out his vision on Bogue Holauba. This table also bore a tray
with crackers and sandwiches and a decanter of sherry, which genially
intimated hospitable forethought. The bed was a big four-poster, which
no be-dizenment could bring within the fashion of the day. Gordon had
a moment's poignant recoil from the darkness, the strangeness, the
recollection of the inexplicable apparition he had witnessed, as his head
sank on the pillow, embroidered after the latest fads.
He could see through the open window that the moon was down at last
and the world abandoned to gloom. He heard from out some
neighboring swamp the wild lamenting cry of the crane; and then, listen
as he might, the night had lapsed to silence, and the human hearts in
this house, all unknown to him, were as unimagined, as unrelated, as
unresponsive, as if instead of a living, breathing home he lay in some
mute city of the dead.
The next moment, as it seemed, a sky as richly azure as the boasted
heavens of Italy filled his vision as he lifted himself on his elbow. A
splendid, creamy, magnolia bloom was swaying in the breeze, almost
touching the window-sill. There was a subdued, respectful knocking at
the door, which Gordon had a vague idea that he had heard before this
morning, preceding the announcement that breakfast was waiting.
Tardily mindful of his obligations as guest,