Considering this custom, it was somewhat strange, that Henry Poindexter had not yet put in an appearance.
“Where can the boy be?” asked his father, for the fourth time, in that tone of mild conjecture that scarce calls for reply.
None was made by either of the other two guests at the table.
Louise only gave expression to a similar conjecture.
For all that, there was a strangeness in her glance—as in the tone of her voice—that might have been observed by one closely scrutinising her features.
It could scarce be caused by the absence of her brother from the breakfast-table?
The circumstance was too trifling to call up an emotion; and clearly at that moment was she subject to one.
What was it?
No one put the inquiry.
Her father did not notice anything odd in her look. Much less Calhoun, who was himself markedly labouring to conceal some disagreeable thought under the guise of an assumed naivete.
Ever since entering the room he had maintained a studied silence; keeping his eyes averted, instead of, according to his usual custom, constantly straying towards his cousin.
He sate nervously in his chair; and once or twice might have been seen to start, as a servant entered the room.
Beyond doubt he was under the influence of some extraordinary agitation.
“Very strange Henry not being here to his breakfast!” remarked the planter, for about the tenth time. “Surely he is not abed till this hour?
No—no—he never lies so late.
And yet if abroad, he couldn’t be at such a distance as not to have heard the horn.
He may be in his room? It is just possible.
Pluto!”
“Ho—ho! d’ye call me, Mass’ Woodley?
I’se hya.”
The sable coachee, acting as table waiter, was in the sala, hovering around the chairs.
“Go to Henry’s sleeping-room. If he’s there, tell him we’re at breakfast—half through with it.”
“He no dar, Mass’ Woodley.”
“You have been to his room?”
“Ho—ho! Yas.
Dat am I’se no been to de room itseff; but I’se been to de ’table, to look atter Massa Henry hoss; an gib um him fodder an corn. Ho—ho!
Dat same ole hoss he ain’t dar; nor han’t a been all ob dis mornin’. I war up by de fuss skreek ob day.
No hoss dar, no saddle, no bridle; and ob coass no Massa Henry.
Ho—ho! He been an gone out ’fore anb’dy wor ’tirrin’ ’bout de place.”
“Are you sure?” asked the planter, seriously stirred by the intelligence.
“Satin, shoo, Mass’ Woodley.
Dar’s no hoss doins in dat ere ’table, ceppin de sorrel ob Massa Cahoon.
Spotty am in de ’closure outside. Massa Henry hoss ain’t nowha.”
“It don’t follow that Master Henry himself is not in his room.
Go instantly, and see!”
“Ho—ho! I’se go on de instum, massr; but f’r all dat dis chile no speck find de young genl’um dar.
Ho! ho! wha’ebber de ole hoss am, darr Massr Henry am too.”
“There’s something strange in all this,” pursued the planter, as Pluto shuffled out of the sala. “Henry from home; and at night too.
Where can he have gone?
I can’t think of any one he would be visiting at such unseasonable hours!
He must have been out all night, or very early, according to the nigger’s account!
At the Port, I suppose, with those young fellows.
Not at the tavern, I hope?”
“Oh, no! He wouldn’t go there,” interposed Calhoun, who appeared as much mystified by the absence of Henry as was Poindexter himself.
He refrained, however, from suggesting any explanation, or saying aught of the scenes to which he had been witness on the preceding night.
“It is to be hoped he knows nothing of it,” reflected the young Creole. “If not, it may still remain a secret between brother and myself.
I think I can manage Henry.
But why is he still absent?
I’ve sate up all night waiting for him.
He must have overtaken Maurice, and they have fraternised.