[CHAPTER VI.]
HER OATH.
In a spacious chamber of a great, gloomy mansion, an old man sat alone, his gray head bowed upon his trembling hands, which rested upon a cane. A few blocks away the hum and traffic of the Crescent City filled the air; but here all was still and quiet. An up-town mansion, embowered in huge live-oaks—a shady, silent place, the sight of which made one feel gloomy, and caused a slight chill to pass involuntarily over the frame. The great house looked like an enchanted palace, with old Bernard Dane the presiding genii, all alone and lonely like the last leaf upon the tree.
The moments came and went, and still he sat there silent and alone; once in awhile a few muttered words would pass his grim lips, and the wrinkled hands upon the cane-head would clinch each other savagely. At last he lifted his head, and turning slowly in his arm-chair, pressed the electric button in the wall at his side. A moment later, an obsequious servant entered—a black servitor in the Dane family for years.
"Any news, Simons?" asked Bernard Dane, eagerly.
The man shook his head.
"No, sah; nothing—nothing 'tall, sah—not yet. We only got de tellygram from Marse Ken sayin' dat he done arrive safe—dat's all, sah. Kin I do anything for you, Marse Bernard?"
"No—no; nothing. Of course not. I want nothing in the wide world but to see that boy back again, with his errand done as I directed him. It was a wise thought of mine—a wise thought to send him. Ha! ha! Throw two young fools together, under the circumstances, and they'll fall in love with each other as sure as they live! Love? Bah! if I had my way, that word should be stricken from the lexicon. It is the cause of all the trouble, all the sin, all the sorrow in the world—Confound it, Simons! are you there yet? Do I employ you to stand listening to me in this way? Do I? Answer me, sir!"
"No, sah—no, sah; in course not," stammered Simons, in confusion. "I beg pardon, sah; but, you see, Marse Bernard, I—I thought—"