She seated herself by the table, and laid her bowed head on her arms. The picture he had made was etched upon her heart: in it wronged and wronger had changed places.
The fire had died out in the grate, the room grew cold, her tears had ceased to flow; her shoulders were drawn up by the chill that had seized upon her. Her eyes, which she had turned away from Lamont, were fixed in a dull stare.
“You will never see Philip Leigh again,” said Lamont with emphasis. “He is a marked man, and will be killed by the Confederate sharpshooters in the first fight he enters, no matter what his disguise or nom de guerre.” He paused to note the effect of his words, but she neither moved nor spoke. “I love you,” he continued, resting a gentle hand on her wrist. “I can save you from your despair and loneliness. All else—this folly about the foundling daughter of old Taine, is a delusion, a farce—You are the only woman I love. You shall go with me, away from the bleak frigidity of this clime and people. We will go abroad—anywhere you will—until the war is over; and then we can come home, defying the world to live but for each other.”
He dropped on one knee beside her, and taking her icy hand in his warm grasp, pressed it passionately to his lips. He thought surrender imminent from the cessation of resistance.
“Yes, yes,” she muttered faintly, leaning towards him, and pressing his hand in her frozen clasp—“that will do very well—it will become me.”
Her face being still turned towards the wall, he had not been aware of the agony it portrayed, and mistook a quiescence which was the result of failing consciousness for capitulation. Her next words, which were even fainter and spoken through a painful sobbing, brought him to his feet:
“It will look well in my coffin: red and gold. It sounds very pretty—very pretty.”
She was sinking rapidly, and would have fallen headlong upon the floor if he had not supported her.
“Good God! what’s this?” he cried, “Josephine! Josephine!” Snatching the shade from the lamp he turned her face to the light, and was appalled at the fixed and deathlike stare. “She’s dying!” he gasped, as he bore her to the sofa, and stood beside her meditating what was best to do.
The calm and ready George Lamont was astounded by the turn his experiment had taken, and at once concluded that his best plan was to retire without delay. He did not wish that she should freeze to death, and, wrapping some rugs of fur about her, wrote on a leaf from his note-book in a disguised hand:—
“Mrs. Leigh very ill—help at once.”
He felt her pulse and listened to the beating of her heart to make sure she was still living, turned the lamp low, and stole away.
As he went he remembered his defeat by Philip Leigh in the game of chess they had played together. It was significant. As he left the room he picked up the stiletto and used it to fasten the leaf from his note-book to the gate-post.
“Don’t speak, Dan,” said he in a whisper, as he approached the carriage. Don’t say a word until we get out of the town. I’ll make this right with you.”
Dan drew the rugs from the horses’ backs and drove away quietly towards home. The night was dark, so dark that it would have been difficult to keep the road but for the gleaming crust of snow which, reflecting the starlight, made the way clear.
Lamont was exceedingly preoccupied during the drive, and for the first time for several years experienced that confusion and indecision of the will which is characteristic of feeble-minded men, but had seldom troubled him. His deliberate intention had been, even from the period of his first visit to Chestnut Grove, to marry Hagar under the name which had served him as a mask for two years; live with her as long as convenience and inclination would permit, as had been his custom with former victims, and abandon her to her fate whenever it should suit his whim; and, in the meanwhile, obtain as much money as he could from Mrs. Taine. While reflecting upon the subject as he went along that night he felt half inclined to forego this adventure, the anticipation of which had been so pleasant to his palate.
There seemed to be a warning and a menace in his night’s experience at Mrs. Leigh’s. There was no moment during his strange career when he had felt so fierce a struggle between conscience and inclination. But instead of forming then a settled resolution in favor of the right, he left the future, as he had the past, to chance.
On referring to his watch he found that it was but a few minutes before two o’clock, and he was made aware by familiar objects along the road that they were nearing Chestnut Grove. While one impulse pushed him on to the consummation of his present scheme, another, no less urgent, was prompting him to be gone from there at once.
“Her guardian angel standing at the gate to drive me back!” was his reflection as this feeling rebuked him like an invisible hand. “Well, let me see,” he went on, his conscience still debating with his passion. “She refused to elope with me, and it was partly in revenge for that, and partly to oblige “my dear Mrs. Taine,” that I decided to marry her. Now, if she still has sense enough not to elope I’ll spare her. No one could be more considerate than that! Let me see, the Buffalo train passes through Cleveland at four o’clock, stopping fifteen minutes. Plenty of time, she may go with me if she likes. I will leave it to her. Otherwise I will go alone and let Dan tell her when the hour for our marriage arrives to-day, that I am a married man, who, in spite of her charms, has decided to return to his wife. Ha! ha! Egad! here we are. Now if her guardian angel don’t stop me at the gate he certainly ought to prevent her from quitting her chamber at this hour on such a cold morning.”
The carriage stopped, and Dan jumped down to open the gate.
“Wait a moment, Daniel,” said Lamont, alighting from the carriage. “Are you cold?”
“No sah, on’y radder chilly ’bout the toes,” replied the darkey, who had been well bundled up in one of the horse-blankets.
“Never felt such air as this in the cotton country, eh, Daniel? Well, never mind, here’s another little warmer for you. You shall have more later on. And now listen to me. I don’t want you to unhitch your horses yet. You can drive inside and tie them, put on their blankets, and fetch them a good feed of oats. I’ll see that you get something to eat. Only keep perfectly quiet, ask no questions, and obey me as your mistress ordered.”
Dan, cold and sleepy, was surprised at Lamont’s orders. He began to mumble something by way of protest.
“No back talk, nigger!” said Lamont, angrily, “or I’ll have you sent home, where you belong, to work under the lash on Southern fortifications. Your owner, old Captain Leigh, is a general now, and will be glad to see you back.” The boy’s fears were fully aroused by these threats, and he was all compliance in a moment.
“I do jes ez you sez, Massa Smile—jes ez you sez—ebb’ry ting.”
“Very well, then, see that you do, and before daylight this shall be yours.” As he spoke he held out his gloved hand before the negro, whose bright eyes saw a gold coin shining in his palm.
Lamont left Dan to execute his order, and repaired to the house. As he expected, he found Mrs. Taine awaiting him in the cosy sitting-room; and, as he did not expect, Hagar there with her, aroused by his arrival from a restless nap on the sofa.
“Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Taine, throwing up her hands, “for heaven’s sake, what has happened?”
She embraced him with her usual enthusiasm, and began to unbutton his overcoat; but Lamont drew back, saying coldly, that he had scarcely a moment to remain. In short, he said, he had received bad news, and must be off at once. He kissed Hagar, who seemed worried and excited, and then said impressively:
“Yes, it is a great blow, my dear madame, and I feel that I ought not to repeat what has happened, to anybody but yourself.”
To have anything mysterious confided to her was, perhaps, Mrs. Taine’s keenest pleasure.
“Go, Hagar, child—go to your room, if it’s not proper for you to hear.”
“Be off at once, Benjamin?” said Hagar, in a tone of supplication, and clinging to him fondly. “Why, where can you go at this hour? What has happened? Have you forgotten that this is our—” She hesitated, and hung her head.
“Our wedding day; I know, dearest Hagar, that it was to have been so, but it is impossible; I cannot delay one hour. Indeed, I have no right to be here now wasting the seconds it takes to say these words, and my coming to bid you farewell was only made possible by the fact that there is no train until four o’clock. Everything depends on my reaching Cincinnati at the earliest moment.”
“And when will you return?” Hagar inquired, anxiously.
“I may not be able to get away while the war continues. My labors will be among the wounded, and will require my constant attention.”
Hagar looked desolate, and poor Mrs. Taine was completely cast down. Her disappointment was a cruel blow.
“But,” exclaimed Lamont, cheerfully, “you must ‘speed the parting guest.’ I have but a quarter of an hour to remain with you, so while the horses are being fed, and Dan gets a bite, suppose—”
“Yes, suppose we have some supper? I would give anything I possess in this world to have you remain to carry out the little programme we arranged; but, of course, everything must give way to calls of duty, especially in time of war. Well, well! I’ll go and see if there’s not something ready in the kitchen.”
“I know, dearest Hagar,” said Lamont, after the old lady went out, “that you think it a cruel hardship to have me leave you at this time and in this way; but I have no choice, and we must comfort ourselves by reflecting that in the end it may prove to be for the best.”
“But you will often write me?”
“Oh, yes. Very often.”
“And after you are settled there, could I not join you? I shall be so lonely here when you are gone! And I am sure in the sad work you are going to do, you will need my help—I ought to be with you there.”
“No, Hagar, you could not make the long journey by yourself, and I shall be moving constantly from place to place; you must be patient, and await my return.”
“But can you not delay just till to-morrow, or even until this evening? Think how all has been arranged, and what a disappointment it will be to Father Taine. Think too what the gossips will have to say about you—about me—about us all. Must you go at once?”
“Indeed I must, Hagar, no matter what the sacrifice to myself or to those most dear. But there is still one way left by which we may forestall fate, and prevent the delay of our union.”
“There is? Then why did you say we must part?”
“Because the hazard is too much for you. It would necessitate your leaving with me, now, in a few minutes.”
“I am ready!” she answered.
He pressed her tenderly to his breast, and said in a low voice:
“Do not decide too rashly——think of the night, the bitter cold, my poverty——”
“But you will be with me. I cannot bear the thought of parting from you now, for I should be afraid it was forever.”
“Well then, if you are decided, you have not a moment to lose.”
“I am determined that you shall not leave me idly here. I must go with you!”
“Make haste then—and see: you shall wear this for my sake.” He placed a heavy gold ring on her wedding finger. “Now hurry to your room and pack a satchel with the articles most necessary to your present comfort. Put on your warmest wraps, and be quick and silent; Mrs. Taine might object if she knew your sudden purpose. As soon as you are ready go out the back door, enter the carriage waiting at the gate, and send Dan for your satchel, which you can leave at the door. When he has brought it and you are all ready send him here to tell me the horses have done eating. Then I will join you. Quick now, child, or Mrs. Taine will be back.”
Several minutes elapsed before Mrs. Taine returned, and in the interval Lamont’s brain was busy. He paced the floor restlessly, while flitting thoughts danced and circled in his mind like dry leaves in a whirl-wind.
“The guardian angel is off duty then,” he muttered. “Natural restrictions and conventionalities, luckily, save the mass of them; but few indeed are guarded by that angel with the flaming two-edged sword, Knowledge. No wonder men regard them as lawful game, the best specimens of which fall to the lot of the most valiant hunter. The syllogism runs thus: Women are either beautiful fools or beautiful devils; men are either villains or brutes, but are always pursuing the beautiful She. Ergo, villain catches fool, and brute, devil: thus monstrous vices are perpetuated. Some day I’ll write a book about it, to show how they court destruction, and how they only get their deserts. The more I see the stronger becomes my conviction that the readiness of woman to seize the serpent’s lure has cursed this mortal race. That story of Eden is probably much nearer the truth than many of my Christian friends suppose. Perhaps she may falter yet. If she can think one thought, she is safe: the madness of flying thus at dead of night with a stranger, a man of whom she can know nothing. But folly binds her; she will come. Nothing ever balked me like last night’s scene with Josephine. I wonder what it was? It seemed like death;—from fear or desire? Both are said to kill sometimes. Perhaps she feared violence and took some drug. Could I know that she possessed the soul of Lucrece, I’d turn anchorite and she should be my saint. God! how beautiful she was!”
He heard Mrs. Taine knocking on the door with her foot, and calling “Let me in!” He admitted her and relieved her of a laden tray bearing cold meat, and chicken, a beefsteak pie steaming hot, and a hot mince pie that exhaled an odor of spice and brandy.
“I must go back for the drinkables,” said Mrs. Taine. “Where is Hagar?”
“She has just gone up stairs.”
“Poor girl! I quite imagine how she feels, and I sympathize with her fully.” She went back to the kitchen returning in a moment with a small tray containing the simmering tea-pot and a jug of chocolate.
“I must call Hagar: she’ll need something after being up all night,” remarked the old lady after she had served her guest.
“Please do not disturb the poor child, my dear Mrs. Taine,” pleaded he, “She is very sad, and I have excused her. However, if you permit me, I will take her a cup of chocolate and anything else you think she might like.”
Mrs. Taine prepared a plate, and the gallant bore it up the stairs as noiselessly as a practiced valet. He tapped gently at Hagar’s door. She opened it slightly to see who was there, then let it swing half way open, and took the plate and cup from him with whispered thanks. A sweet girlish smile played about her lips as she said:
“I am nearly ready.”
A small valise lay on the bed packed ready to close, and beside it her cloak and shawl. She had on her fur lined overshoes, and was tying a warm hood when he entered. He paused long enough to give her an encouraging smile, and to throw her a kiss from his finger tips. Whispering: “Now is your time to leave the house,” he descended as quietly as he had come.
“Poor child!” he said, sympathetically, as he reentered the sitting room, “it is too bad that this should have happened to disturb her. I think she is retiring, and I trust, dear Mrs. Taine for my sake, you will not have her called until she is thoroughly rested.”
“She shall have the entire day undisturbed, I will see to that. I don’t intend to do much myself except rest to-day, for my nerves are completely unstrung.”
While Mrs. Taine talked on with her usual animation, Mr. Lamont ate heartily, and interlarded her remarks with many comments, not more indicative of his knowledge of her weaknesses, than grateful to her pride and vanity. Presently, after having mapped out an expedition for herself and Hagar to Cincinnati, which was to end in a brilliant wedding, she drifted around to a topic which Mr. Lamont was glad to find her approaching.
Cash was a commodity which he rarely lacked: at the same time he had never found himself in possession of more than he could spend. His wants always increased in proportion to his funds, and on that one point he considered himself a wise man. She broached the subject with extreme delicacy, hoping he would not take it amiss if she insisted upon his accepting the three thousand dollars in cash which she held at his disposal, to use for himself, or for the good work in which he was engaged.
“You must promise me, my dear Benjamin, that you will call on me at any time for whatever ready money you need. I have only saved because I had no good object to spend for, and now my means are wholly at your disposal.”
To her own mind it was merely bread cast on the waters, a subsidy for favors to come. Lamont, after many protests, and lavish expressions of gratitude, accepted the money, which was in the form of U.S. greenbacks, and having placed it carelessly in his pocket, rose from the table, and imprinted a most filial kiss on the old lady’s forehead.
“But this is not all,” she continued earnestly, “I have been to Mr. Baldwin, my lawyer, and had him make out my will, by which I leave the bulk of my property to you and your heirs forever.”
In the midst of one of Lamont’s most gracious and promising speeches, there was a knock at the door leading to the verandah. Mrs. Taine opened the door, and saw by the whites of two large eyes that Dan was the intruder. She called him inside and shut the door.
“All ready, Dan?” enquired Lamont.
“Yes, sah, de hoss’es done finish dere oats, sah.”
“Then we must be off. Here Daniel, swallow this cup of chocolate, and you can eat the lunch your mistress has put up for you as we go along.”
Wonder, doubt, and fear had done their worst for poor Dan, and he now gave Lamont the impression of a being with no more brain or humanity than a baboon. He was so dazed by the night’s events that he gulped down the scalding chocolate without seeming to mind it, and glared about the room with a wild and startled look, until bidden to return to the carriage.
Mr. Lamont took a hurried but affectionate leave of Mrs. Taine, and a few minutes later he and Hagar were being driven at a rapid pace towards Cleveland.
A few days after Hagar’s flight Dr. Taine died suddenly in his study at the Tabernacle from heart disease. He had been overcome with grief when the news first reached him that she was gone, but as the truth became more clear and he realized that in spite of his apprehensions he had permitted her to fall a victim to a scoundrel, the wound sank deeper, and reached a fatal spot when he learned that her betrayer was a rebel spy and that he had taken her to Canada. Mrs. Taine clung to her faith in her “dear Benjamin” up to this crisis. Then she repented her error in sackcloth and ashes, had the paper she had drawn up in favor of “Smiles” destroyed, and made a deed conveying the bulk of her property to James Taine if he survived the war. In case of his death it was to be devoted to the Union cause.
The dismissal of the charge against Adam Joyce was a natural result of current events. Knowing that all the prosecuting witnesses were out of reach, Mr. Amicus Fish pompously moved a nonsuit, and the court sustained the motion. The bloodless victory thus gained by circumstances for this shyster of the legal slums brought him many another such client, and from that day both he and Joyce became powers in local politics. The latter had long been distinguished as an effective “heeler” at the polls and now swore that Fish should go to Congress if he and the ‘boys’ had to ‘clean out’ the district to put him there. The ‘rise’ of Mr. Amicus Fish dated from this period, and was so rapid that, although he was still ignored by respectable members of the bar, he was soon very busy before the courts and made political capital by some of his achievements that promised to raise him to those golden advantages which so often fall to gentlemen of his stripe, under our glorious system of grog-shop politics.
On a bleak and dreary night in February a few days after the dismissal of Joyce, Charles Spencer, the apostle of Mormonism, arrived at Cincinnati. He had left Cleveland about the end of December, and had come the entire distance through snow and mire on foot, preaching the ‘new and everlasting covenant’ at every town and village by the way in which he could obtain a hearing.
Most people regarded him with curiosity or disgust and treated him with indifference; some thought him insane and pitied him. The fanatics of other sects, and the idle ruffians of country villages who were on the lookout for diversion, thought him an excellent target for ridicule and snowballs, and on a few occasions talked of amusing themselves by dressing him in tar and feathers. The very few persons who were fair enough to observe him without undue prejudice, were convinced that he was an intelligent and earnest young man who had, unfortunately, gone clean astray from truth and common sense. He was doubtless sincere, they said, else why did he tramp through the country at that inclement season to teach his doctrines, existing upon the charity of chance acquaintances to whom his missionary character was his only introduction.
To him that wintry tour through Ohio had proved a great hardship, and the simple fact that he had accomplished it argued well for the fervency of his faith and the strength of his resolution. In winter time Ohio is a dismal land for a man without money, home or friends. Long stretches of prairie and wood-lands had to be traversed where there was no broken track to mark the road through the deep snow, and the towns were often so far apart that the distance from one to another could not be covered between daylight and dark if the traveller faltered, or deviated from his path. On one occasion he went astray on a by-road in a heavy belt of timber just as night was coming on, and was obliged to pass the night, hungry, weary and enfeebled as he was, there in the leafless forest where all around wore the aspect of death.
Several times during his journey he had been nearly famished, when, failing to find a stranger who would offer him shelter and food, he had crawled into a hayloft or a cow-shed with fodder for his bed and a handful of corn his only fare. But these exigencies neither surprised nor discouraged him, for he had assumed at the commencement of his mendicant career, that he must face everything, even martyrdom itself, if need be, in defense of the great truths he was sent to teach. Therefore, through all his trials he hugged himself serenely, drawing vast comfort from the conviction that never failed him, that he was a man apart, who was doing all this for the Gospel, the real and only divine religion, and for heaven’s own great latter day prophet. He even succeeded in converting and baptizing a few persons in the course of his dreary pilgrimage and they subsequently sold their homes and moved to “Zion in the mountains” in fulfillment of the behests of the new religion.
And at last, weary and footsore, much emaciated by want, and hardened by exposure, he had arrived at the metropolis of southern Ohio where he proposed laboring during the remainder of his mission. For the past month he had been without news or advice from either friends or superiors, but hoped to find letters awaiting him at the post-office. Meanwhile, however, he was penniless and had nothing of value on which a dollar or the fractional part of one could be raised. It was nearly nine o’clock and a pitchy darkness hung over the suburbs of the city through which he was making his way more dead than alive. His clothing had been wet through by a rainy sleet which poured down upon him some hours previously, and the frosty night wind had turned his jacket into ice and chilled him to the marrow. His boots, which were the worse for wear, were as hard as wood, and his pantaloons to a point above his knees were frozen to his legs; the mud and sleet being matted upon them in icy cakes. He had not eaten what might be called a meal since the morning of the preceding day since when he had walked some thirty miles on a diet of crusts and a few ears of dried corn.
In the hope of finding a hospitable door he had approached two or three houses during the afternoon; but from each the men were evidently absent, and the women, taking alarm at his desperate appearance, shut the door in his face without waiting to hear his errand. Though these good people could not have had the slightest idea of his real calling, he resignedly bore their treatment as another affront to his religion, and stalked forward with grim determination sustained by the hope of meeting with better luck in the town. The slights which had nearly brought him to the last stage of his endurance, he sneeringly designated in the mental colloquy that he kept up as he went along, as examples of ‘christian charity.’ It did not occur to him that the country was infested with deserters and stragglers from both armies, and by spies, renegades and nondescripts of various kinds who had committed many depredations, and that he, good saint though he undoubtedly was, greatly resembled one of these vagabonds, who was likely to cut a throat or a purse as occasion might demand.
His situation was desperate. He knew nothing about the city in which he was wandering like a lost sheep, and yet it was essential that he should find shelter at once. All around him were the mansions of the rich, and he still had presence of mind enough to realize how fruitless would be an application for help at one of their doors. On the contrary, he knew that the place for a man in his condition to seek relief was in some squalid quarter where the people had nothing to lose and were, in consequence, not afraid of doubtful looking intruders. He pressed on as well as he could, but his steps became slower and he was falling into a reverie: How quickly the rich man’s door is bolted against the angel in disguise on the pretext of shutting out a robber; but his punishment is that his pride of gold effectually prevents him from discerning an angel no matter in what guise it might appear. His musing was interrupted by a passer by jostling rudely against him. The Mormon turned and tried to ask the way to the river front, feeling instinctively that there among the sons of toil he would find at least a warm shelter and a crust of bread. But the man hurried on as if afraid of him. The next one he met did the same, and as he stood waiting at a corner with the wind whistling through his frozen garments, a strange indifference took possession of him; he walked on a few paces, looking up at the cheerful lights that gleamed through richly curtained bay-windows, and listening to strains of music or the notes of happy voices that spoke in melody of the comforts and delights of home. He felt his blood grow warm under these cheering influences, and crouched nearer to the iron railings to catch the tones of a sweet voice that seemed familiar.
Yes, it was the very song his little Mormon sweetheart had sung for him the day he left “Zion” and with this belief a dreamy sensation stole over him and he thought he was near her home on a balmy summer night. He could smell the fragrant locust blossoms, and see the pretty night-hawks floating in the moonlight above the trees! He sank down in the snow near the carriage steps wrapped in seraphic peace. He was freezing to death.
He had lain there nearly a quarter of an hour, when a Brougham drew up at the same steps. The horses snorted and pranced restlessly, and refused to approach. A footman jumped down from beside the driver, and taking them by the bits with a gentle but firm “whoa!” tried to lead them up to the landing. Still they plunged and snorted as if afraid. One of the carriage windows was now lowered and a handsome woman looked out, calling to the coachman:
“Are you blind, Tom? Don’t you see there’s a man lying by the steps? The horses are frightened to death. Stop at the next steps and we will get out there.”
The driver obeyed, and the two ladies alighted at a neighbor’s landing and hurried back to their own to see if they knew the man in the snow.
“Strike a match, Tom,” said the one who had spoken from the carriage, “and see if you know his face. We must send word to the police, for the poor devil will freeze if he stays here.”
The young negro did as directed and started back as if he had seen a ghost.
“Oh! Lord, Missus Clare,” he exclaimed, springing to his feet, “he’s done frozen stone dead already!”
“A man dead at my gate! Is he white?”
“Yes ’um—black an’ white—skin like chalk, ha’r an’ beard like tar.”
The missionary was lying in the deep snow near the curbstone, and the women stood on the cleared walk several feet from him.
“What shall we do, Ida?” asked the same woman of her companion who seemed to regard the circumstance with utter indifference, and to be thinking only of getting inside the warm house.
“Why, let him alone of course,” she answered. “We don’t keep a coroner’s office or the city dead house. I’m nearly froze to death, myself; so come in. Send Tom to tell the police if you like, but don’t worry yourself about an unknown sot—he don’t belong to our set.”
“What does he look like, Tom?” insisted the other woman.
“Looks a poor man ’bout de clo’s—but ’bout de face he ’pars to me like a gemman.”
The woman plunged through the snow and stooped over the prostrate form while Tom struck matches to light up the features.
“Why, Ida!” she exclaimed, “he is positively handsome—and a stranger too, who has come from a long tramp. Poor fellow! we must carry him inside. I expect he is a deserter who has escaped from battle to meet this horrid fate.” With the matches still burning, she turned his head to one side to see if there was any mark of foul play, and as she did so the frozen man sighed distinctly. Tom was frightened: the woman was not.
“He’s not dead, and there’s no smell of liquor on his breath, so he can’t be drunk. There’s been foul play, that’s certain. Quick, Tom—run to the house and fetch Jerry to help you carry him in—and tell one of the girls to bring a brandy flask. Hurry or we’ll be too late!”
Tom bounded away, and the woman knelt by the stranger and began chafing his hands and temples. Ida grew impatient and would have gone into the house only that she feared it would not be good policy. But she had not long to wait: The two stalwart young negros raised the man to their shoulders as if he had been a sack of shavings, and bore him into the house.
As this unexpected procession entered, several persons crowded to the door.
“Oh! Dr. Cavin, I’m so glad you are here to-night; there will be a chance for you to try your skill at saving life,” cried Mme. Clare Adamanti in a tone of raillery, with an emphasis on the verb.
“If I succeed it will be my second case, at least,” replied a small gray-bearded man with eye-glasses, “for you must admit that I once saved the life of my dear Lady Clare.”
“Yes, Soppy my boy, that’s so; and if you save this young fellow I’ll forgive you for it—there now!”
“I shall do my best, for your sake, Lady Clare, but if you have brought me a dead patient to experiment upon, I shall send you the bill.”
Dr. Cavin hastened up to the room where Tom and Jerry had carried the stranger, and shortly afterward sent word to Lady Clare that he believed the man might be restored by careful treatment.
The other persons flocked into the drawing room to hear Lady Clare’s account of her windfall.
“Who is he?” asked several voices in chorus.
“Likely a case of small-pox,” said Ida, ill-humoredly, and in a voice so low that her superior did not notice her.
“He is the son of a rich old Yankee, who, having grown weary of camp life at this time of year, was on his way home to his mother, (probably without leave) when he took an overdose of frost and laid him down to die at my gate. It is solely because I know him to be so rich a prize that I have taken him in. If Soppy brings him to—and he says it’s merely a case of suspended animation induced by too much cold externally applied—why, we shall get at least ten thousand dollars for salvage; don’t you see? Ha! ha! ha!”
They all knew that she was mocking them, and continued to make merry over the affair until she wheeled around abruptly and left the room. This conduct seemed to excite no surprise, for it had been understood for some time among the frequenters of “Castle Adamant,” (as her house was called) that she was becoming more peculiar every day.
“I did n’t approve of Aunt Clare bringing the man into the house,” said Ida. “But all that about prize-money is sheer rubbish; she knows no more about the man than you do, but she is a very kind hearted woman, and that accounts for what she has done. I think it’s foolish; but the house is hers, you know.”
Thanks to a sound constitution Spencer mended rapidly. The first two or three days he suffered intensely; but thenceforward he was free from pain except what he experienced from his left foot, which was badly frozen.
Each day Lady Clare paid him a visit, and her orders were strict that he was to have every comfort and attention which her house and servants could supply. When the doctor said he was well enough to talk, she asked him if he wished to send word to any of his friends, or if there was anything he would like procured from outside. This was probably meant as a delicate hint that he would be none the worse for slight additions to his wardrobe; but he only replied that he would thank her to send to the post office for his mail.
Jerry was immediately despatched with a note to the postmaster, and returned with quite a budget of letters and parcels, among the latter being two Wells Fargo express packages containing money. Here was conclusive evidence that the young man had somebody who cared for him, and various members of the household, including Ida, took considerably more stock in him after Jerry’s flourishing account of the big bundle of letters and money he had brought from the post office.
Spencer was delighted to receive news from home, and good counsel and approval from the President of the mission. He was also pleased to get the cash; though its amount was meagre enough, it seemed a small fortune to him. He found Jerry discreet, intelligent, and obliging, and entrusted him with a large part of his capital to invest in a suit of ready-made clothes, and other apparel; and when the boy returned with his purchases, Spencer was obliged to admit that he had managed much better than he could have done himself.
During his stay of nearly two weeks under her roof nothing transpired to give his hostess any real clue to his identity or his profession, and the only information he had gained concerning her was what the negro boys had casually given out—that she was a wealthy Southern lady from New Orleans who had moved to Cincinnati on account of her health only a few months before the breaking out of the war. The postmark “Chicago” on his letters had been taken as indicating his place of residence; but the fact was that they received that mark by being forwarded from the Mormon agency there. As he improved in health and began to think once more of launching forth in pursuit of candidates for the only true religion, a lively curiosity to know more about him was awakened in the breasts of certain members of the household. But he was resolved to keep his secret until the hour of his departure, when he would tell Madame Adamanti all that it was necessary for her to know.
He had been introduced to Ida, who was presented as “Miss Benner, my niece,” by his hostess, early in his convalescence; and more recently to Miss Alice Benner, Ida’s younger sister, Miss Belle Ross, a dear friend and school-fellow of the nieces, and several other young ladies, as well as a number of rakish looking young men who were regular visitors. He was at first puzzled and then astounded by the motley gatherings he encountered there; but he asked no questions and determined to get away as soon as possible.
The graceful but ignorant Ida had been remarkably assiduous in her attentions to the Elder ever since the arrival of the money parcels, and one evening told him flatly that she had taken a decided fancy to him the very first time she saw him. His teeth were regular and good and his breath free from tobacco or other disagreeable taint—things which the coquette had carefully noted. He seemed merry too in this company; shared the card-table and the wine with cheerful cordiality, justly priding himself on his science as well as his exceptional good luck at seven-up, euchre, and poker, and halting at the first glass of wine with consistent firmness. He was truly the apostle of a “new dispensation.”
One evening shortly before his intended departure from “Castle Adamant” he was sitting alone in the snug little parlor adjoining his bedroom reading a Mormon paper and nursing his frozen foot, when he heard a gentle tap at the door. It was Ida. She partly opened the door and with affected shyness, said:
“May I come in, Mr. Spencer?” By the time she had finished the words, she was standing beside him.
“I knew you was alone,” she continued gayly, “so I thought I’d come and see if you wouldn’t like me to play for you.”
It would have been awkward even for a saint to say no to such a proposition, and Spencer was too fond of music of any kind to miss a chance of hearing it. He therefore assured her of his gratitude for her thoughtfulness, and promised to listen attentively as long as she cared to play. But it was evident even to him that this arrangement did not meet her expectation. She seated herself at the piano, however, and dashed off a light operatic melody. The Elder lolled back in his easy chair and dreamily closed his eyes, as if to detract nothing by the exercise of the other senses from the divine sensation. Miss Benner continued to play, though greatly exasperated by his insensibility. She said afterwards that she had never seen a man so nearly resembling a clam. The more rapturous she endeavored to make the music the deeper seemed to grow his lethargy; so she stopped short in the middle of one of her most ravishing selections, and exclaimed in a tone of disgust:
“Good lord, Mr. Spencer! have you gone to sleep!”
The Elder was startled by this explosion, and protested most earnestly that he was listening with the greatest attention, and had only closed his eyes to enjoy the music the more—to render the illusion more complete. His thoughts had been far away among the Rocky Mountains—but she had no idea what he meant. He waked up sufficiently to offer a well-turned compliment on her performance, and asked her if she sang, adding that he heard a superb voice singing in that house on the night of his arrival at Cincinnati, and before he fell unconscious at Madame Adamanti’s gate.
“I sing?” cried Ida dubiously. “Well, not much, my voice might do for singing “water-cresses!” But it couldn’t ’a been me, anyhow, for I was at the theatre with Aunt Clare. And, do you know, it was a good thing for you it was a poor play that night?—by a Yankee, of course, a Boston Yankee, so we left after the second act. And if we hadn’t, you’d ’a been under the sod two whole weeks ago. What do you think of that? You can ask Aunt Clare if it ain’t so.”
This was Spencer’s first real tete-a-tete with Miss Benner, and the opinion he had formed from meeting her casually in other company was not enhanced by her language and manner on this occasion. To tell the truth she was rather too much for his comprehension and he was beginning to study out a suitable plan for getting rid of her. But what was his surprise when she suddenly came up to him, gave him a sharp slap on the shoulder, and demanded:
“Who and what are you, anyhow?”
The Elder did not wish to appear angry with the pretty little vixen, so he replied in a mild voice:
“I think I have already told you, Miss Benner, that I, and all my friends, are in sympathy with the South.”
“Oh, you know very well I don’t mean that!” she replied, stamping her foot impatiently. “You have fooled us all, even to Aunt Clare, and I’ve made up my mind to find you out: I want to know what you do, and where you’re from.”
“Excuse me, Miss Benner. You will admit that I am not responsible for my presence in your aunt’s house?”
“Well, does that prevent you from being kind to a poor girl who is dying of curiosity,” she asked, catching a corner of her handkerchief in her teeth, and eying him pettishly.
“I should be glad to oblige you, Miss Benner, but I think I am not at liberty to state any further details about myself until I leave here (which will be in a day or two), when I shall explain my case fully to your aunt.”
“Oh, do tell me, Mr. Spencer; I won’t say a word to anybody,” she cried, and at the same moment threw her arms around his neck, and added in impressive tones—“Won’t you trust me—won’t you trust Ida!”
The astonished saint made a highly commendable effort to disengage himself from the tender embrace of the would-be enchantress, but the state of his frost-bitten foot would not admit of a vigorous physical demonstration, and she clung so tightly that he gave up the struggle, saying, quietly:
“You are exceedingly friendly, Miss Benner, and I appreciate your kindness, but as I am already engaged I really must not permit myself—”
He could say no more. Miss Benner uttered two or three shrill yells and almost gave him lock-jaw by coming down in a heap on his lap. The healing of his poor foot was indefinitely delayed by that young lady’s bad manners; but at this moment he was relieved by the timely appearance of Dr. Esop Cavin and Miss Ross.
“What’s the matter, Ida dear?” demanded Miss Ross with well feigned anxiety.
Miss Benner made no reply, but seemed to be sobbing and pressed her face against the Elder’s shoulder. Spencer, though greatly embarrassed, half suspected that this was a preconcerted trick, and begged them to take Miss Benner away as she was crushing his foot. The intruders laughed covertly at the mirth-provoking tableau, and Miss Ross drew Ida away, saying scornfully,
“Come, my dear, we will leave Dr. Cavin to deal with this young man.”
Spencer stammered something by way of protest, but the ladies withdrew, and the doctor was left to deal with him.
“Well, Spencer, I’m waiting. What have you to say for yourself?” asked Dr. Cavin, sitting down with his hands in his pockets, his legs extended, and glancing curiously at the Elder.
“Nothing,” he replied, briefly.
“Oh! oh! Nothing, eh? And you are soon to leave us, I understand?”
“That is my intention, unless one of these young ladies crushes the life out of me before I get started.”
“I should like to ask you in what light you view your conduct towards Miss Benner, compromising her as you have done?”
“Perhaps you would like to ask what I think of her conduct towards me, compromising me as she has done!” retorted the Mormon with a touch of his native vim.
“That’s very good indeed! Excellent, ha! ha!” said the Dr. with a dry, forced laugh. “I see you are a wag, Spencer a natural born wag, a fellow who wasn’t would never have put it that way. But it won’t do, you know, there are proprieties which—which we must all observe—”
“I would advise you to try your lecturing powers on Miss Benner. I never met with a better subject for a professor of propriety to practice upon!”
“A touch of the old Adam in him too! Still blaming the woman,” observed the doctor wisely. “But there’s not a bit of use of our getting out of temper, not the least in the world. I’m your friend: I have saved your life, with the aid, of course,—the very efficient aid—of the ladies here, who have evinced towards you the most extraordinary devotion. But, I may say, must say, in fact, that we are all considerably surprised, astounded, in short, at your conduct on the eve of your departure. There must, of course, be some reason, best known to yourself, why you have been so careful to conceal all particulars about your calling and your family. Your education and intelligence denote that you are well-connected, and have enjoyed good social advantages. The extent of your mail, and the reception by you of money parcels at various times, all point to the conclusion that your people are rich and high-toned, as well as very fond of you. But further than this meagre outline, we are wholly in the dark, and we consider that this silence on your part is hardly a proper return to people who have been so pre-eminently your benefactors, and specially in view of—of the—the familiar attitude you have assumed towards a certain member of—of the family.”
Spencer smiled and looked so interested that the doctor continued talking with renewed vigor until he had nearly exhausted his stock of cheap moral precepts.
“No,” said he, at last, “there is nothing so essential for a young man as to avoid even the appearance of equivocation in word or action.” He paused and began to fumble in his coat pockets. “I certainly had that little account in one of my pockets! Ah! that’s it—there it is—my little bill for medical attendance to yourself,” said he, holding the slip of paper towards the Mormon, “you will observe that my charges are extremely moderate.”
Spencer took the bill, and it almost took away his breath to perceive that it was for $50.
The impecunious Elder had seen from the first that he was the subject of a good deal of speculation, and had been inwardly amused in contemplating the probable effect when he should make his confession. He now realized that he had not lost anything by postponing the denouement. He assured the doctor that the matter should have his attention, and the latter withdrew, saying he would come back to have a further conversation with his patient, after he had dressed for the theatre.
Spencer was still suffering with his foot, but his new dilemma now filled the chief place in his thoughts. That bill for $50 floored him altogether. The total sum he had received in the parcels that had produced so much comment, was exactly $65, which had come in three separate instalments, and the first of which containing $20 had been mailed at Salt Lake in November, about three months before it reached him. Nobody but himself could realize the sacrifice and self-denial that had enabled his poor mother to send him even that small sum! She had earned it by doing the washing of officers at Camp Douglas, and had stinted herself in every way that her boy might have it to help him to ‘spread the gospel.’ How keenly and vividly this fact occurred to him that night. And now more than two thirds of the treasure earned by her dear toil was demanded by this quack—and for what?
He had never had any experience with doctors nor seen one of their bills before. In “Zion” he was accustomed to see a combination of faith, poultices, castor oil, and catnip-tea, as applied gratis by some old woman, work miracles of healing; or, when these failed, and the patient died of a simple malady for want of proper treatment, it was “the will of the Lord,” and “Zion” prospered as usual.
He probably could not fully realize the narrowness of his late escape from death, and he felt a vague sense of jealousy for the Lord that a doctor had stepped in to share with Him the honor of having restored His servant! There was something out of joint with a doctor in the case, anyhow; but what was he to do about that $50?
It was in truth a serious matter. The young man had no means of his own to draw upon; in those days the church allowed nothing to its missionaries, and his father was only a clerk in the tithing office at Salt Lake drawing a salary of one thousand dollars a year in potatoes, carrots and other farm products, and having three wives and their numerous progeny to whose support he felt in duty bound to contribute. Nevertheless, the Elder did not despair of coming out of his difficulty without being badly damaged. He had been “dragged up” in a hard school, was accustomed to scaling obstacles, and above all he was at all times inspired by a firm conviction that “the Lord would see him through.”*
[Footnote *: Let not the reader suppose that any disrespect, either to the Deity or to the Mormon Elder, is intended by the apparently trivial use made above of a sacred name. Whatever the merit, or otherwise, of this peculiarity of the Mormon character, it is a genuine characteristic. At the period of which I am writing, it was so common a habit among them to talk in this way that it had ceased to be cant and became a household word. Boys of twelve or fourteen would talk about the number of fish the Lord would enable them to catch. The younger copied from the elder, and the Deity became to the average Saint—as has been the case among many other sects—a sort of superior kind of familiar spirit, who possessed great power either to help or harm, according to His caprice. As late as the period at which the Union Pacific Railroad was completed—1869—there was a common belief among a large portion of the rising generation of Salt Lake City, which they had, of course, imbibed from their seniors, that Brigham Young would continue to preach and to lead the people until he attained the age of one hundred years, when the Lord would restore him to a young and vigorous manhood, and he would become, by the Lord’s direct help, ruler over the entire United States. It was an unwonted freak of modesty that caused them to stop short of the whole world.]
In the evening Dr. Cavin told the Elder that Lady Clare expected him to take a hand at euchre in the drawing room. Spencer at first declined, but on second thought decided to avail himself of a last opportunity to observe the life and the characters at Castle Adamant. He had fully determined to make his adieux next day, to escape, if possible, the bill of Dr. Cavin, and the rudeness of Miss Benner. He rightly believed that they had been playing him a trick to which his hostess was not a party.
In the course of his stay Spencer had never seen the drawing room look so brilliant as it did on this occasion. The room was large and luxuriously furnished, and a hundred gas-jets flung down their light from the great central chandelier of prismatic glass through crystal shades of many hues. The entrance was through a wide double door-way at one side of the room, so that, upon entering, a full survey of the apartment was had by a glance to the right and left. At either end were marble fireplaces in which were open fires of pink flamed anthracite, partially concealed by embroidered screens of Chinese silk and Mexican feather-work. On the walls hung a few choice paintings which Madame Adamanti had bought in Paris some years previously, and a portrait of herself by Healy, which looked very little like her now, but had been a striking likeness ten years before, when she had not only been called the ‘handsomest woman in New Orleans,’ but had ranked, during her stay abroad, among the dashing beauties of the French Capital. Mirrors, flowers, rich artistic porcelains, and small groups of statuary, tastefully arranged and displayed, completed the decoration of the room. But the brilliant ensemble was not a little enhanced by the fashionably dressed occupants, who were few, but just numerous enough to give animation to the scene. Madame and Miss Benner sat near a flower-decked table, busily occupied with their embroidery, and near them stood two or three gallants, who seemed in a lively mood, but who took good care to betray no signs of impropriety in Madame’s presence, as she had issued a decree against it, and would admit no person to her house who did not respect her wishes. Alice and Miss Ross, with two other young women, all of whom wore superb toilets, were amusing other visitors at the further end of the apartment, and Spencer paused on the threshold as his foot pressed the thick velvet carpet, deeply impressed with the strange, dazzling glamor of the scene.
Lady Clare received him kindly, and noting that he drew back as if disinclined to enter, she went to him saying in a tone friendly, but not loud enough to be heard by her companions:
“Come in my dear boy; you are as safe here as at home. You need not dread these dandies because they are well-dressed; you are my guest, and I am old enough to disregard, and influential enough, right here, to make acceptable, the cut of your coat. So come and make yourself happy. We shall give them a lesson at Euchre after awhile.” She made the first remark laughingly, and, taking him by the arm, drew him to a seat beside her table.
Dr. Cavin looked at his watch, and finding that it was eight o’clock, excused himself with the remark that he must be off for the theatre at once. But Ida ran to him and detained him with a confidential discourse. The intolerable little prig looked sleek and spruce in his black dress suit, with dazzling linen protruding some four inches at his wrists and nearly two inches at his neck; with his hatchet face shaven, the mustache and imperial (which were heavy enough for a man of three times his bulk) scrupulously dyed and waxed, and the costly eye-glasses which he wore, not that they assisted his sight, but because he thought they made him look so wise, dangling at his lapel.
There was no introducing at Castle Adamant. Each visitor approached and spoke to whom he chose. Spencer, therefore, was soon drawn into conversation by some of the sports, who took him for a countryman and casual caller at the “Castle.” Lady Clare whispered to him that he must not enlighten them, as they would shortly have an opportunity to test his skill at the card table. There was nothing now in which she took so much interest as gaming, and her attachment to Spencer was on that account; for, while he would not gamble himself, he did not mind playing as her partner, and she had never before had such exceptionally good luck at play. They were arranging for a game, and Dr. Cavin was hurrying away to the theatre, when Jerry came in with a card for Madame.
“Wait a bit, Soppy,” said she, beckoning to the doctor. As she went towards him with the card in her hand, he came back to meet her. He glanced at the card which bore, in lead pencil, the legend—“Rev. B. T. Smiles and wife,” and raised his eyebrows knowingly.
“I must wait, then, and see him. Confound the fellow, I’ve lost all sorts of things on his account, and may lose my head yet.”
Jerry was directed to show the visitors in, and Madame waited at the door of the drawing-room to greet them.
“Don’t forget to call him ‘Smiles,’” said she, as the doctor left her and proceeded to lose his miniature body amongst the group far down the room.
A moment later Lamont and Hagar were ushered in, and Lady Clare received them with cordiality. She was much struck with the perfect innocence and grace of her old friend’s latest victim, and quite forgot the game she was about to play, in the new born, but intense interest which the guileless young thing had instantly awakened. Her cold gray eyes surveyed the girl again and again. Yes, it was certain, as Lamont had reported: the girl was refined, well-bred, and pure-minded, a combination for which she had been seeking ever since she left New Orleans, but without success. And was it now possible that this bold and unscrupulous man, whom she had always regarded as a very devil incarnate (while she could not help admiring his skill and address), had placed within her grasp a means of final escape from the life she loathed but could not flee?
“It is true!” she muttered to herself, as she left Hagar’s side after a few moments’ conversation. “I shall escape now! With her in my power and obedient to my will, I can face the world anywhere as a new woman. Her innocence will shield me. My gold shall protect and prosper her. It is well then; for, at last, after living abroad, travelling, scouring the earth with her to convince her of my goodness and my bounty, I shall bring her back, restore her to her friends, and so breathe my last breath in untainted air beneath a respectable roof.”
Spencer had sauntered towards the farther side of the saloon, amusing himself with the works of art, and only caught a side-glance of the new arrivals, whom he did not recognize. They were quickly surrounded by members of the company who appeared to be acquainted with Lamont, so that Lady Clare’s momentary agitation escaped notice.
Hagar looked a little older, attired as she was in an ultra fashionable costume of brown silk. She met the friends of Charles Lamont with as much heartiness as they effected towards her. She told Lamont that she had never seen a house so nicely appointed, or women so elegantly dressed; and took him to task for not telling her that his friends were so wealthy and aristocratic. Their familiarity with him somewhat surprised, but did not offend her; and though she was at first embarrassed by the close scrutiny of the women, she soon felt perfectly at ease, and conversed with an ingenuousness which was decidedly novel within those walls.
Mr. ‘Smiles’ was scarcely recognizable. His light hair and mustache had been dyed jet black before leaving Canada, and the beard he had grown since quitting Chestnut Grove, was of the same hue. His dress was that of a well-to-do business man in excellent taste. He had thrown off his over-coat in the hall, so that his robust and symmetrical figure, which had always formed one of his chief attractions with women, was exhibited to the best advantage, as he had, no doubt, intended. But his disguise was so complete that none but a clever detective could have penetrated it, for besides the changes above alluded to, the peculiarly fair skin of his face, neck, and hands, had been given a dark tinge, and he had put on a pair of colored glasses when he entered the saloon. Mme. Adamanti had expected him, and had put those who knew and were interested in screening him, on their guard.
Miss Ross, who had been watching her opportunity, soon succeeded in drawing Lamont aside to ply him with questions about the stranger. In the earlier stages of her career at New Orleans she had been on very friendly terms with Lamont, and now regarded herself as privileged to say to him what he would have resented as impertinence from most women. He seemed to admit her claim most readily, and to accord his full sympathy and attention to her coarse and impudent raillery.
“What is she, Charlie, a preacher’s daughter, or a banker’s pet ward? Say, what’s her name, and where did you get her?—do tell me all about it,” she pleaded, leaning on his arm and leading him apart.
“I call her ‘Kitty’—she has no other name.”
“She’s very tony and stuck-up, I’m sure, and I wish you hadn’t brought her here. But go on; tell me about her. Anybody can see she’s not out of the gutter, and I just want to know how you came by her.” She had by this time cornered him on a soft divan in a window recess, where he amused her with a romantic little story invented for the occasion.
Meanwhile the attention of Madame Adamanti was engrossed with Hagar, whose sweet and gentle manner charmed her as nothing had ever done before. And when Lamont rejoined the group, with the remark that they had only dropped in for a moment on their way to the theatre, and must be going at once, Madame took occasion to say that she hoped to have the pleasure of a more intimate acquaintance with his young wife.
Their movement had attracted the attention of Miss Ross, and those with her; and they came forward with their glasses in hand. A general laugh followed and as Lamont turned to make some gallant remark to Miss Ross, his eyes met those of the Mormon Elder, who was standing beside her. Though considerably changed by the growth of hair on his face, Spencer was recognized instantly; but he was not yet aware of Hagar’s presence, and, therefore, did not imagine that he was so near his old friend, the “Rev. Mr. Smiles.”
For reasons he could hardly have explained Lamont was somewhat startled by the Mormon’s proximity, and as he made his way back to where Hagar stood talking to Lady Clare, though he seemed as lively and buoyant as ever, he was muttering savagely to himself:—
“What devil’s message has brought that Mormon here!”
When he came near enough to touch Hagar’s elbow, he said:
“Come, Kitty, we must really be off. Lady Clare will excuse us, I am sure.” Then having drawn her a little aside, he continued in a subdued voice:
“I see that the Mormon, Spencer, is here. If he should recognize you, you must ignore him. We will go at the earliest moment.”
Hagar had already begun to feel uncomfortable. She knew instinctively that there was something unwholesome in this place, and about the people she met here; and now the peremptory anxiety of her husband made her tremble. She had not failed to note, also, the strange hilarity of Lamont, and though she endeavored to ascribe, what she could scarcely regard as less than impropriety, to his talent (of which he boasted), for adapting himself to any and every class of society and surroundings, she was not satisfied.
“Yes,” she cried, anxiously, “do take me home, Benjamin; I do not like this place.”
He turned away, saying he would rejoin her in a moment. He and Lady Clare then paced slowly down the room together, engaged in earnest conversation. As he withdrew, some of the strange men spoke to her, but she found herself unable to show any interest, and gazed about in a bewildered and abstracted manner, almost ready to cry, like a child, who suddenly realizes that it is lost. Spencer had been attracted by something familiar he had detected in a side-view of her face, and by shifting his position a little, was astonished to find that it was Hagar. He was about hurrying forward to speak to her, when he noticed that she gave him a curious look and turned her face the other way. It was so palpable a cut that there was no mistaking its meaning; but, though keenly sensitive to the slight, Spencer moved away with the reflection that she was of the world, worldly; and that her ungraciousness and ingratitude would surely hurt herself more than him. He had read the accounts in the newspapers of her flight with ‘Smiles,’ alias Lamont, and now realized for the first time that her blonde betrayer was transformed into the dark man who had just left her. And though he knew, from the press reports, that this polished villain was a secret agent of the rebellious chiefs whom he and his people honored as the avengers of the Deity, he at once determined to track him, and, if possible, to deliver him into the hands of the law, that he might be punished for his detestable crimes.
“The doctor wants to speak with you before you go,” said Lady Clare to Lamont, as they went along.
“But I have no time to waste now upon our ‘Esop the wise.’ I should shrewdly conjecture that he has no news with which ‘my Lady’ is not familiar?”
“Oh, yes; I can tell you if you prefer. Your wife and children have arrived at New York, by steamer, on their way to this city.”
Lamont stopped as suddenly as if he had been paralyzed in every nerve.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. “It is impossible! I had letters from her at Cleveland, and the last received in Hamilton, Ontario, told of the severe illness of her mother, at whose bedside she was constantly detained. But what news has the doctor received on this subject?” he anxiously inquired, moving on slowly as before.
“It only came to-day, and I thought Soppy better tell you about it fully. He mentioned merely the fact to me, but he has a letter from Colt with full details. You remember, you instructed Colt several months ago, to communicate to him any facts that might serve you if he was unable to send me word direct; and it seems that both letters and telegrams regarding your wife’s move have been sent and lost. Colt is determined to shield you, while doing his best for his mistress; but it appears that she is terribly aroused by the newspaper accounts about you, and that her object in coming here is to endeavor to ascertain the truth. Her mother is dead.”
“Well, here is a pretty state of things! You should have informed me of this the moment after my arrival. I have received orders to join Bragg for a special service as quickly as possible, and shall set out to-night on my journey. I had little supposed that my enterprise would receive such a damper as this! But the arrival of my wife is not the most imminent danger. Where did you pick up that countrified plebe in the tweed suit?”
“You know him?” asked Madame, with surprise.
“Yes, but that is not the worst of it. He knows me, and, if he should penetrate my disguise, will give the alarm before I can get out of reach. You must take care he doesn’t get out of the house for at least three hours after I leave here. The address of the lodgings in Vine street is on that card. You must be sure and go there early to-morrow morning and fetch the girl away at once. I shall rely upon you and the doctor to manage Colt in such a way as to induce Catherine to return to New Orleans as early as possible. And, above all, tell him to do his best to keep the newspapers from her, for of all the damnable things in this world for causing trouble, they are the worst. My domestic affairs have always gone on with perfect harmony, and I don’t care to have them disturbed now by the ravings of a lot of grovelling penny-a-liners!”
Though Lady Clare was inclined to laugh at this outburst of righteous indignation, her thoughts were too much occupied with more serious matters.
“I see that the loss of his daughter killed the poor old man. Had she a mother living?” she asked.
“No; nor was she the lawful child of old man Taine, though she may have been his own all the same. She was an orphan—a foundling——”
“But all the reports I saw spoke of her only as “Miss Taine” or as “Dr. Taine’s daughter.” I did not see a line about her being a foundling—not a line! But are you sure?”
“Certain! Mrs. Taine, the second, who is childless, and has been the doctor’s wife for as many years as the girl is old, told me the whole story. I am surprised the scribblers did not get hold of it.”
“A foundling!” said Lady Clare to herself. She was, apparently, much moved, and wished to detain Lamont with further questions, but he had turned, saying he must not lose another moment, and was going rapidly towards the saloon door.
Taking his arm she accompanied him, and asked in a whisper:
“And what is her name?”
“I call her ‘Kitty,’ which you will continue for my sake.”
“That is merely a pet name, then? But what was her real name?”
“Oh! that’s too ugly! Her mother, who drowned herself in a pond near the Taine’s house, left a written request that she be called ‘Hagar,’ and so she was named, to appease the ghost of the suicide. Take good care of her—she is yours now, you know.”
As he said this carelessly, he went towards Hagar, who hastened out of the group of talkers to meet him.
Madame Adamanti gasped the word “Hagar!” in a suffocated tone, and almost swooned under a sudden pressure of emotion. But she rallied herself sufficiently to bid them ‘good night,’ and when they had passed into the hall, sank upon a sofa, calling somebody to bring her salts. Dr. Cavin and several others hurried to her side, but just then all present were alarmed by the sound of strange voices in the hall, and the breathless announcement of “soldiers! soldiers!” by Jerry. Spencer threw himself into a chair, exclaiming with saintly resignation.
“What next!”
But the rest of the company, including Lady Clare, who was supported by the doctor, rushed into the hall where a most unexpected tableau was presented. For a while there was considerable commotion. An officer in uniform and a picket of six Union soldiers with fixed bayonets, stood across the doorway, having entered when the bolts were drawn for Lamont and his companion to depart.
“This is our man,” said the officer, pointing to Lamont, “Or will be, when we put him through a little process of scouring. Beg pardon, Miss; sorry to interrupt you so unceremoniously. But the Rev. Mr. Smiles, alias Charles Lamont, alias ‘March,’ and so forth, is an enemy of the Union, and a spy whom we shall be obliged to take care of. If you are the young girl he carried away from Cleveland, as appears from your pretty face and your modesty, you will hear something for your benefit at the City Hall, I think. Permit me,” he said, as he locked a pair of handcuffs to Lamont’s wrists.