I closed the door on the silence, and stole quietly downstairs. There was no movement, no sound in the great house. The front room, hideous in its grimy disorder, was vacant, and I opened the front door noiselessly, and stepped forth into the spectral gray light of the dawn. The first glimpse about was depressing enough. I had no conception of what I was confronting, or of what was to be revealed by my explorations, but the dismalness of the picture presented to that first glance gave me a shock impossible to explain. The house itself, big and glaring as it was, was nevertheless little better than a ruin, the porch beams rotten, the front blinds sagging frightfully, the paint blistered by the sun. Several of the windows were broken, and the steps sagged and trembled under my weight. The front yard, a full half acre in extent, was a tangled mass of bushes and weeds, a high, untrimmed hedge shutting off all view of the road. The narrow brick path winding through this mass of vegetation was scarcely discernible, apparently seldom, if ever, used. I was unable to determine the position of the gate so luxuriant was the weed growth, and thick the shrubbery. From the foot of the steps a narrow passage trampled into the dirt circled the corner of the house, disappearing within a few feet. This was the only sign visible of human occupancy.
Convinced that this must lead to the rear, and possibly the negro cabins where Coombs slept, I followed its tortuous windings, although half afraid to desert my guardianship of the house even for this purpose. Still there was little to be feared so long as Mrs. Bernard remained securely locked in her room. I was freer for exploration now than I would be later, and must know at once the conditions with which we had to contend. Beyond doubt the woman was still asleep, and, perhaps, by the time she aroused and appeared below stairs I could find a reasonable explanation of all this mystery—something to smile over, rather than fear. While this was but a vague hope, it still yielded me a measure of courage as I picked my way cautiously along the south side of the house, avoiding the windows as much as possible, until I emerged into a somewhat clearer space of ground at the rear. The kitchen was an ell, constructed of rough boards, but with shingle roof. The door stood ajar, and I glanced in, only to find the room empty, the pots and pans used the night before still unwashed.
There was nothing there to interest me, and I crossed a narrow space of grass to where a broken picket fence was visible amid a fringe of weeds. No description can fitly picture the gloomy desolation surrounding that ramshackle place. It got upon the nerves, the decay, the neglect apparent on every side. The very silence seemed depressing. Evidently this fence, now a mere ruin, had once served to protect a garden plot. But I saw merely a tangled mass of wild vegetation, so thick and high as to obstruct the view. Narrow footpaths branched in either direction, and I chose to follow the one to the right, thinking thus to skirt the fence, and learn what was beyond, before approaching the negro cabins on the opposite side. To my surprise, I found myself suddenly standing on the bank of a narrow bayou, the water clear, yet apparently motionless, the opposite shore heavily timbered. Owing to a sharp curve I could see scarcely a hundred yards in either direction, yet close in beside the shore a light boat was skimming over the gray water. Even as I gazed, the fellow plying the paddle saw me, and waved his hand. In another moment the bow grounded on the bank and its occupant came stumbling up the slight declivity.
He was a medium-sized, wiry-looking fellow, with olive skin and small mustache, dressed in brown corduroy, a colored handkerchief wound about his head in lieu of a hat. As he came to the level where I stood, he stopped suddenly, staring into my face.
"Sacre! I thought eet vas Coombs. Who are you, M'sieur?"
"I came in last night," I replied evasively, "and was just looking about a bit."
"So! you know Coombs, hey?"
"I 've met him—yes."
The black eyes searched my face, and I noted his right hand touch the hilt of a knife in his belt.
"What water is this?" I asked, ignoring his action, "bayou?"