The day before the stage left which was to carry the young apostate and his Gentile sweetheart beyond the mystic boundaries of the Mormon Kingdom, Spencer sought a final interview with Bishop Langley. Several suspicious circumstances had arisen within the last few days which caused him considerable uneasiness, and there was serious reason for him to fear that he would not be suffered to depart without trouble.
It was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for an apostate to get out of Zion in those days, and Spencer knew it well. He had seen the children throw stones at persons who dared to cast off the Church yoke, and the ghastly story of poor Robinson’s fate still recurred to him with sickening vividness.*
[Footnote *: The Robinson case is historical.]
“No.” said Langley, in reply to his question, “Brigham knows nothing about that or other murders. He might, I believe, discover the assassins if he saw fit, but it is contrary to his policy. He preaches blood-atonement, and believes in it: these crimes are the result. But while he wields absolute power as at present, and as he will continue to do for years to come, they will go unpunished, and there will be ten chances for a Mormon who kills an apostate to escape hanging, to one for a Gentile who is caught stealing a Mormon’s horse.”
“What do you think of our prospects, Bishop?”
“You will get away without further trouble, thanks to a lucky circumstance of which I have just learned: General Connor is sending a Cavalry Company to escort a supply train from Fort Bridger, and has consented to have them travel to that point with the stage. It will make the journey a few days longer, but your safety will be greatly increased. I have received a confirmation of the plot to ditch the stage at night in the Weber River, and I hope that the miscreants who have planned that job will just try to carry it out. But of course they will be warned of the picnic that has been prepared for them.”
After telling Spencer that he would give him such financial aid as he might need to make a start in life, and assuring him of the keen interest he should always feel in the success and happiness of himself and Hagar, the Bishop appeared greatly mollified by his reflections and said:—
“What I have lately passed through has been a cruel and bitter experience. But I feel that it was a direct punishment inflicted upon me by Providence for my fiendish wrong to Hagar’s mother. It smites me now like a lash of adder’s stings laid on by an avenging spirit! From the moment I met my daughter I felt a mysterious change stealing into my heart—into my very life’s blood, and ere long was ready to forsake everything else in this world for her. She was like a will-o’the-wisp leading me on to my ruin, and I pursued until literally hurled into the yawning gulf. It is a wonder I did not lose my mind—God has indeed been merciful. From that day I swore that I would either die or mend my life. The solution came at last. That sweet girl whom I abandoned, cursed, and counted among the dead, has come here, brought by you, to save me from damnation, and to snatch you from a life like mine! Oh, Charles! you will cherish her with all the tenderness and sensibility of which you are capable. Lavish on her the sweetest and truest attributes of your nature, and soothe and guard her ever as your better self. The good wife is the good man’s visible soul—the immortal part of him which dwells beside him day by day and keeps him in the right. Should you ever feel a pang because of the accident of her birth—”
Here the Bishop’s emotion choked him so that he could not proceed.
Spencer, laying his hand on his shoulder, replied:
“No, Bishop Langley, your contrition is the only atonement you can make for that, and Hagar’s nobility of character leaves no room to doubt that, to whatever extent you wronged her mother, she, at least, was true.”
“Yes, I alone am guilty, and must sometime bear the punishment for all the chain of evils that has resulted from my act.”
He dwelt upon the moral aspects of his history, but made no attempt to excuse himself except on the ground of ignorance, and even retreated from that by admitting that his conscience warned him. Reverting then to his Mormon experience, he continued:—
“I curse the day I went into polygamy even more than the day I pretended to accept Joe Smith as a prophet. To be entirely frank with you, I have regarded the whole thing as a fraud from the first. I was wild, self-willed, ignorant, and nothing less extravagantly grotesque than Parley P., as I met him in Ohio, or the Saints as I found them in Nauvoo, could have satisfied my notions at that time. I held nothing sacred, and regarded polygamy as a huge joke like many others who secretly accepted it at Nauvoo. It may prosper so long as we are isolated as at present, but cannot stand contact with the world. Utah will never be admitted to the Union until this practice is abandoned, and a majority of the population will soon prefer the solid advantages of statehood to this sickening privilege, which is practically the only inducement the Church now has to offer.”
“I sincerely hope your prediction will be fulfilled. But a state with Brigham Young as its chief magistrate would be, if possible, one step worse than the present regime. As matters stand the non-polygamous majority which might, and probably does, at heart, prefer statehood to the privilege of plural marriage, is placed at a disadvantage.”
“That is true,” replied Langley. “Those of the majority are cowed by the polygamous minority; and every time Brigham threatens them for failing to fulfil their obligations to the church, they hurry into polygamy as if afraid the lightning might strike them if they disobeyed. The European peasant element, which is necessarily ignorant and oblivious of American customs and ideas, is led or driven at will; and (luckily, perhaps), like the crowd everywhere, they ‘lack gall to make oppression bitter.’ Being under momentary obligations to the church fund for emigration or other favors, they shut their eyes to the injustice and tyranny of the priesthood, knowing that their present interests are best subserved by their silent obedience. Hypocrisy walks with bold and shameless front in high places. In my recent speculations one of my thoughts has been to raise a party for statehood and monogamy. In a covert way I hinted my plan to several of my intimates whom I know to be mere time-servers, taking care to egg them on without disclosing my secret. They could criticise in a whisper, oh! yes, and say plainly enough in the dark what they thought of this and that, and how they disapproved thus and so. But their eagerness for pickings outweighs their convictions. They prefer present ease and safety at the cost of self-respect, to an honest manhood at the expense of court favor. I shall, therefore, secede alone, and set my house to rights in my own way. I will provide honestly for my wives and children, but will no longer live in open defiance of my country’s laws to keep the favor of a despotic priesthood.”
This announcement was wholly unexpected, and for a moment Spencer gazed at the Bishop with mute surprise.
“This is a sudden resolution—one that you have formed since——”
“Since Hagar came! Ah! God knows I am penitent, and that I humbly pray for forgiveness! I told my daughter she was an angel sent to save me, though I could not then see in what lay my salvation. Polygamy has wrought nothing but misery. ‘The abomination of desolation,’ even King Solomon the wise was ruined by it. Its effect is to pamper the baseness of man’s nature, and at last damn him like any other great sin. It has chained me body and soul. But, as I was among the first to give my support to the error, I should not now complain if I reap a large share of the punishment. The sweet face of my wronged child is the mirror in which I see what a villain I have been.”
Edwin Langley’s remorse was genuine, and before the stage which bore the young couple over the plains had reached the Missouri river, Zion was shaken to its center by his public renunciation.
The night before they started he could not sleep, but paced his room goaded by unhappy reflections, and hatching plans for the future.
Next morning he went early to Ben Halliday’s office and arranged all details for the long and perilous journey. A crowd began to gather in the street hours before the stage was expected to start, and as the day advanced there were so many symptoms of disorder, that Bishop Langley and the young travellers were relieved when it was announced that a squadron of cavalry was coming. Not until then would the Bishop allow Hagar or Spencer to leave the house. There was a tearful scene of leave-taking at the Bishop’s, and while driving to Halliday’s Langley remarked to Hagar that he hoped she would not go away hating him or others she had seen in Zion.
“No, Bishop Langley,” replied Hagar, “I haven’t much capacity for hating; but I shall always think kindly and gratefully of you for your goodness to us. I am sorry for all who suffer, and your religion (I mean polygamy) seems to bring only misery to those who practice it. A state of wretchedness is bad enough when it comes as one of the accidents of life; but it seems to me not only a folly but a crime to make wretchedness the foundation of a system, and to call such a system divine. I pity the sorrowing women and the neglected children, and pray for misguided men not only here but everywhere, for my feeling towards them is that of sympathy rather than hate.”
“Yours is a rare and heavenly soul,” said Langley.
“No, I only strive to give others what I know that I require myself.”
“Then, in your benevolence, will you not sometimes think and pray for me?”
They were nearing the stage station and the loud blast of a bugle warned them that the stage was about to start. There was a weak attempt at cheering by the crowd as the Bishop’s carriage drew up, but at a gesture from Langley the mob gave way and the young people who were the object of so much vulgar curiosity, were enabled to gain their places in the coach. At a second blast from the bugle a portion of the Cavalry formed in the street ahead of the stage, the rest closed up the rear and the procession moved off at a good pace towards Emigration Canon, a narrow gorge leading through the mountains on the eastern side of the valley.
The fatigues and discomforts incident to that lonely and perilous journey through the American Wilderness are not to be equalled now. The old Concord jogged along both night and day, the horses or mules being changed at intervals of from twelve to twenty miles, and the stops and stations were usually brief. With few exceptions the stations consisted of a solitary stockade built of logs in the mountains, and of mud on the plains, and there were not more than half a dozen places between the Mormon Capital and the Missouri river where anything approaching a wholesome meal was to be obtained. For the most part, bacon, corn dodgers and coffee were the staple diet. But it takes an Argonaut of those good old days to appreciate the luxurious palace cars and the sumptuous refreshment stations which have long since superseded the swaying Concord, and the grizzly stockade.
In the course of those monotonous stretches over plains that were like the sea, and along mountain roads where the sensations of the traveller alternated between uphill and downhill weariness, Hagar first learned how delicate, thoughtful and kind Charles Spencer really was. She bore the hardships of the pilgrimage with becoming fortitude, and put the other passengers (all of whom were men,) on their metal by her unfailing good nature. It was undoubtedly due to this spirit of contentment that she reached her destination in such excellent condition after a task which severely tested the endurance of strong men.
One fine day in July the old coach was ferried over the broad Missouri, and drove up to the little town of Council Bluffs. The first news the passengers heard was that Vicksburg had been captured by General Grant, and that General Lee had been repulsed at Gettysburg; and as Hagar stepped out of the stage she found herself in the arms of a Union officer. It was James Taine.
Colonel Taine had become so familiar with Western life and character in his youth that he was not at all surprised to hear that all the passengers had vied with each other in the gallant deference of their demeanor towards Hagar. He had secured the best available accommodations at the hotel for her, and was so bright and lively that she soon forgot the chain of sad memories that was awakened by this unexpected meeting. Spencer grasped his hand warmly and said:—
“I ask you now for what I once refused you. The wall of icy bigotry which then held my heart has been melted away.”
“We shall be friends—nay, brothers, till death.”
James was determined that no reference to Hagar’s misfortune should be made if he could prevent it.
“So, like a true missionary,” he said to Hagar when they reached their apartments at the hotel, “you return bearing your sheaf with you?”
His good nature was contagious.
“I am not her only convert,” said Spencer. “She counts a Bishop and I do not know how many lesser magnates of the priesthood to whom she brought a light before unknown to them.”
“Well, I am delighted. Before your first telegram came in reply to my letter I was so depressed about Hagar’s fate that my wounds would not heal, and I was in danger of fatal consequences. From that day I began to mend, and this meeting has effected a complete cure. If it were not for my game arm I should not know I had been hit, and would feel called upon to hug you both.”
His left arm was still carried in a sling, a portion of the bone above the elbow having been removed.
During the evening plans were discussed, and Colonel Taine would not listen to anything which did not begin with a visit to Chestnut Grove.
“The place is desolate and wants cheering up. It is Hagar’s home, and will be always whether she is married or single.”
Spencer had serious scruples against anything which seemed like dependence, and would only consent to a temporary visit to the Colonel on the condition that he and his wife were to be left to their own resources as soon as the marriage ceremony was performed.
With this understanding they took the train for Cleveland.
During the siege of Vicksburg there was a hot combat one evening on the banks of the Big Black River between a scouting party under Brig. General Philip Leigh and a Rebel force which had mysteriously found cover in the woods at the Union rear. The fighting was at close range and, in part, hand to hand. The Confederates were put to flight, but not until many men on both sides had perished. Near the close of the fight General Leigh was pierced by a musket-ball and fell from his horse. The surgeon to whom he was carried by some of his loving comrades thought the wound was mortal, but an ambulance with a strong guard was dispatched with all haste to take him to one of the field hospitals in front of Vicksburg.
In gathering up the wounded late at night another officer in Union dress was found whom none could identify. He was removed with others to a field hospital next day, and when a train of wounded was sent North a little later to escape the dreadful heat, both he and General Leigh were taken to the great Union Hospital at Covington.
From some of the Rebels who were captured it was learned that the expedition had been sent to carry out a device, formed by its Commander, to abduct or murder General Grant. None of them could or would tell who the Commander of the Rebel force was, or who had sent it on its mission of treachery, but it was ascertained that many of the officers and men were clad in the uniform of Union Soldiers, and that the contingent was composed of some of the worst desperadoes in Bragg’s army.
When General Leigh began to feel well enough to pay any attention to his surroundings he was interested in the gossip of the attendants on the subject of the Rebel bushwhacker who had been picked up as one of the Union wounded and was one of the patients in Orchard Ward No. 7, where the General lay. The ward was a tent of the new hospital type, and contained six beds. By the time he was able to get up there were no other patients left in the ward except himself and the Confederate, and the latter had only begun to speak intelligibly within a few days. One day while the doctors were removing the bandages from the stranger’s head General Leigh went to the bedside and was nonplussed on finding that the man was none other than the Rev. Mr. Smiles. The blond hair and beard were long and unkempt, and the face bore marks of suffering, but there was no doubt of the man’s identity and General Leigh experienced much difficulty in suppressing the exclamation of surprise that rose to his lips. He reflected that here was a kind of retribution.
On the cot before him, with sightless eyes and life fast ebbing away, lay the betrayer of the innocent Hagar; and the Rebel bandit whose well-matured plan to murder the Union Commander at Vicksburg, he himself had frustrated by the narrowest chance and almost at the cost of his life. The case supplied him an interesting subject for speculation, and served to render his own captivity less irksome. It was in vain that Doctor Bruce advised him to make the journey by slow stages to his home near Cleveland, for he was determined to remain in the hospital until he should be able to return to the field of action.
A few days later Lamont began to show symptoms of improvement and became very talkative. At first he would only speak in French, and when General Leigh asked him in that tongue if he knew where he was, he said:—
“Yes, I am in New Orleans. I have struck the blow that saved our cause, and from this long sleep I shall soon wake to see the South triumphant. Won’t you take off this bandage, Doctor?”
“I am a fellow-invalid.” said the General, “but I heard the doctors say that the bandage must remain across your eyes for the present.”
“But I will have it off!” exclaimed Lamont. He seized the bandage with his bony fingers and tore it off. “What’s the matter? Is it night? Where’s the light? Where are you?” By this he had raised himself to a sitting posture and stretched forth his emaciated arms feeling out in every direction.
“I would advise you to be patient. We are in a Union hospital, and you are suffering from a wound on the head which temporarily affects your sight. There is no attendant here just now and you may injure yourself.”
“Am I blind?” demanded Lamont.
“Temporarily, yes; but if you will be quiet a moment I will call an attendant, from whom you may hear more definitely about your situation.”
As General Leigh went out Lamont brushed his hands across his eyes uneasily, and said to himself:
“Is it so bad as this! Am I deprived of that blessed sense without which the world is a blank and barren mystery? Oh, God! rather let me die than live like this in utter blackness. It is worse than anything I had ever conceived.”
As the days went by Lamont became very friendly and confidential toward his invisible companion, and the assurance given him by the doctors that he would almost certainly recover his sight with his restoration to health, made him so cheerful that he appeared to have regained a measure of the buoyancy and good nature which had characterized his impersonation of the Rev. Mr. Smiles. Philip found him a decidedly interesting study. Lamont guessed from his accent, that he was a native of the South, and Philip took care to state that he was from Louisiana leaving the confederate to infer that he had found a colleague as well as a compatriot in the Union Hospital. The intimacy grew apace, and one day Lamont gave a full account of the plot he was about to execute at Vicksburg when his force was surprised and overthrown.
One night when Lamont was fast asleep the General sat musing beside his pallet and fell into this vein of reflection: “Here is my opportunity to acquaint myself with the career of this libertine, and I shall practice whatever deceit I find necessary to draw him out. I feel a strange and fascinating curiosity to pry into the life of this man who has made himself so perfect a villain, and at any cost I must know the secret of his stay at Newberg when I unwittingly made him an invalid, and left him there to become Josephine’s patient and guest. This is a test within my grasp, and I have a right to make it—at the peril of weal or woe.”
He spent a miserably restless night, and next day after making a tour about the hospital grounds returned to the ward. Taking a chair quite near Lamont’s cot he said:
“Well, I have come back to hear something more about your adventures. I find it infernally dull here. I always was a bad one to endure confinement or pain, and am more than ever of opinion that a musket ball through the body is not a first-class nerve remedy if the patient happens to live.”
“You have at least one advantage over me. You can see what is going on about you, and if you should get a letter from your wife and sweetheart you wouldn’t have to ask the footman to read it for you.”
The General was aware that a negro had called with several messages, and listened attentively. Lamont went on:
“For my own part, I should be as meek as a dove and as patient as a lamb if I could only see the sweet-voiced angels whose presence here at times seems to perfume the air. Some of my most pleasant moments have been passed in a sick room where I was the interesting invalid, and Beauty danced attendance beside my bed. But, I am sorry to say that my susceptibility in the direction of the fair sex is about to cost me rather dear.”
“Yes? how so? Are you a faltering Benedict who is to receive his chastisement in kind?”
“Oh no—my wife is another Lucrece, but she has found me out and insists upon taking a ridiculously serious view of the matter.”
“What a pity it is that some women and often very good ones at that, will persist in regarding our peccadillos as venal.”
“Perhaps my wife has better cause than most of them to complain, for my last conquest, which happened at the North while I was executing a special commission, created an uncomfortable scandal in which my real name, and so on, figured somewhat too prominently. I was travelling, of course, under a nom de guerre: you may have heard of the case, some months back, at Cleveland, Ohio? The Northern papers were full of it, and it was circulated all over the South as the elopement of a Confederate spy with an old Yankee parson’s daughter.”
“Yes,” said Philip, with affected urbanity, “Yes, I have heard of it—an interesting episode, I should say.”
“Very—and that adventure was interwoven from its beginning almost to the end with another hardly less absorbing.”
“Is it possible?” As General Leigh said this he experienced a sensation of deadly sickness. A sudden chill seized him for an instant, then left him with his teeth almost chattering, and his hands and feet as cold as ice.
Before Lamont could resume his talk the negro, Colt, came in, bearing a letter and a small parcel which he took to the invalid. General Leigh got up with the intention of withdrawing, but Lamont hearing his movement, said:—“Stay, my friend. Colt only brings a curtain lecture in cold ink, which I am going to ask you to read for me. This gentleman here, Colt, is a scholar and man of the world who is perfectly congenial to me. He is going to help me to set things right, if I need any help. Now, what message from my fair lady to-day? Any hope of reconciliation? The doctor said yesterday that there would be no objection to her coming to see me now, and the children also; but if she will not come herself she might, at least send them. What did she say in answer to my submissive greeting?” General Leigh said he would be back presently, and went outside.
“Madam is in a sad state of despondency, sir, and sent no message to-day except that she would permit one of the children to visit you if you thought it perfectly safe. But she says that the odors about a hospital are very unhealthy, and that she is afraid that either of the children might receive a dangerous shock from seeing you stretched upon this pallet in your present distress.”
“Pshaw! a child would know nothing of my condition, it would be satisfied when told that I am lying down with a headache. But did you tell her all the details of my last enterprise, how I labored and planned to ruin the Yankee armies in Mississippi, and how I have suffered since my fall—all of which I have done and endured as an atonement for my sins to her? Are you sure you made it all clear?”
“I am, sir,” replied Colt, ”and she was greatly moved by it. But, as I told you yesterday, the torn letter in your handwriting which Mrs. Green brought to her after the ghost-like visit of that young woman, who declared that you had ruined her, did more to embitter her against you than everything else combined. It was a misfortune that madam ever went to that house. But she took the matter into her own hands sir, and I was unable to prevent it.” Colt, who was a tall and fine looking man with a very slight tincture of Caucasian blood in his veins, quietly wiped away a tear.
“Well, never mind, Colt. Hurry back and tell your mistress that my only hope is that she will forgive me. I shall make no arguments against the genuineness of letters or other evidence that is intended to ruin me, but you can bear in mind that for aught she knows, these things are forgeries—”
“I am sorry, sir, very sorry, but she has compared this letter with several of those she received from you at about the same time, and found the writing identical. But, not satisfied with her own judgment she called at a leading bank with the two specimens of your hand-writing, and submitted them to an expert who declared that both were undoubtedly written by the same hand, and apparently at the same sitting. I must, therefore, tell you frankly, sir, that there is much more hope that she will pardon you than that she will believe you innocent.”
“Well then, tell her that I cast myself unconditionally at her feet where I shall remain and perish unless she stretches forth her hand to raise me up. The doctors agree that I shall recover my sight when they are able to remove a clot of blood which temporarily encumbers the nerves at the base of the brain. Hence I shall not be a wretched blind-man who cannot find his road away from home, but a good, old-fashioned, bourgeois husband who will henceforth seek for beauty only in his wife’s boudoir. Yes, Colt, I shall turn over a new leaf, and do my best to regain her esteem and respect, which I have so justly forfeited. Hurry back and tell her all this, and bring at least one of my darlings as soon as you can. I guess by that poor devil’s moaning that the doctors are in the next tent, so they will call here in a moment. Assure Mrs. Lamont of my humble submission and my abject penitence—(to a religious woman like her, you can’t say too much about penitence, you know, Colt,) and tell her that I am in a frenzy to see the babies. You ought to get back here with them in an hour, for the hospital smells are most offensive to those from the outside, towards evening.”
“It will take about an hour and a half but I shall not lose a moment. In this small parcel is the Johnny-cake you wished Dinah to send you. She said it was made in the home style.”
“Thank good old Dinah for me,” said Lamont, taking the packet in his hand, “and now be off; remember, you can not make it too forcible that I am dying to see the children, for there is nothing that is so gratifying to a good mother as proofs of the father’s affection for her children, and mine, you know, is genuine and sincere.”
A doctor now entered the tent and sat down at Lamont’s bedside. Colt hurried away, having left the parcel that contained a piece of Johnny-cake from old Dinah, on the table.
“Good day, Doctor,” said Lamont, after the surgeon had greeted him. “I want you to inform me if there is anything in the medical code which renders this contraband?” He had torn the paper from the square chunk of johnny-cake, and held it towards the doctor.
“Not that I am aware of,” he replied.
“Then I may eat it?”
“Yes, provided you do not take too much at a time.”
“Thanks, doctor, thanks. I only wish we could get up a little miracle by which to prescribe a two pound loaf of similar quality to each hungry “Johnny” on the Southern side of Mason and Dixon’s line!”
The doctor remained with him about half an hour, talking quietly, and observing his case, which the physicians considered an extremely interesting one. After he went out and the attendant had put things to rights about the ward, General Leigh came in.
Lamont was even more loquacious than before. “What do you think I have here?” he asked holding up the loaf of johnny-cake.
“Something from home, I presume.”
“Yes, and its delicious aroma calls up pleasant memories of days when the South was happy—when, in place of the sulphur fumes of battle, we had the air perfumed with the breath of sweet flowers and of lovely women;—when, instead of the shrieks and groans of wounded and dying men, we heard only laughter and song.”
Soon drifting away from these poetic memories he began again about his exploits, and told how he had been victimized by designing women.
“That is the only way to put it,” said he, “for they claim that we are irresistible, and we must set up a counter claim. Mine is that they are irresistible.”
“Perfectly valid, I should say—perfectly so. And it is clear that your conquests among the fair have been many and terrible.”
“Many—and—blissful to them—terrible to me—now that I am found out. I shall want your help. It needs a scholar to induce a woman to see these matters in their proper light. If I hadn’t been raised a priest I should enlist the good offices of one of that trade; but they have a pious habit of pressing negotiations somewhat too far on their own account, so that I prefer a scholar—”
“In spite of your eventful life it is clear that you have yet had time for observations somewhat critical.”
“Well, yes,” continued Lamont. “By nature I was a moralist. But early in life I bumped my head against destiny in such a way as to make me see stars, and there has been an “im” before my morality ever since. My friend, whether you be young or old, beware yourself and let your sons and daughters beware of any man or set of men whose positions depend, not upon their character or their good works, but upon their talent for cringing, their taste for hypocrisy, and, especially, their devilish love of intrigue. The favors of women in these days to their ante-nuptial lovers are admittedly most generous, but those they accord to their priests extend to the full period of their halcyon days.”
“This is no parable;” observed Philip. “Come, come, a case in point. You say that you were raised as one of these holy men?”
“Yes, and for that reason, I shall have nothing more explicit to say in this connection.”
“But what about ‘the favors of women to ante-nuptial lovers?’”
“Of that presently. But I want to tell you now that I have taken soundings on the moral question. A short sentence solves the riddle. There are three institutions in this country which are absolutely controlled by women, namely: Fashion, Expense, and Morals. Concerning the first and second, I may write a book later in life, but of the last here is the verdict: Women foster immorality in a variety of ways,—by their own wantonness; by defective training of their children; by their toleration and admiration of the most abandoned libertines, and by giving themselves up to vicious lives. I speak as an expert, and as one who should have been a moralist but for the accident to which I have alluded. For as my favorite Armstrong sang:—
“Every woman is the architect of her own morality, and no man can add a particle of material to the structure without her permission. You are not one of the common herd who will laugh at hearing morals discussed by a worldling, for you can thoroughly appreciate the saw, that ‘it takes a thief to catch a thief.’ No man can size up the frailties of woman like a holy priest, as none other grows so fat upon them.”
“While admitting the general truth of your remarks, I submit that you seem to speak with something resembling the rancor of an apostate whenever you pronounce the name of ‘priest.’ I confess that for personal reasons there is associated with the thing more than the name, in my mind, something loathsome and accursed: but I am curious to know why it acts as so serious an irritant to one who is Sir Placidity with regard to most other subjects. The Republic offers a free field for all men to ply their trade, you know, and I have no doubt the Confederacy will do likewise, when it is established.”
“It is the women in the case that irritate me. Every honest man must have a woman, and no man could get more than one at a time if women were what they should be. But the priest being denied the one which is his just due becomes a brute by taking such viands as are offered along the shady paths of his dark life, and daily trespassing on others’ moors. Being outwardly the custodian of morals, he is secretly the victim of the seductive aberrations of his patients. The Middle Age barbarism, of which he is the logical product, is being perpetuated here inside high walls and castles with labyrinths of secret passages where sealed lips and broken hearts keep forever the hideous mysteries which are blacker than those of the grave. You might laugh as I have often done, could you but hear a model abolitionist orator prate about giving the thick-skinned African his freedom, while thousands of tender victims of his own blood are sent to the ghostly prisons which frown on every eminence in the land by the mandates of a foreign despot. And for what? My friend, time is long and the gods never peach upon the serpent ways of men. It takes a Garibaldi to lay them bare, and nations should learn the lesson taught by the spectacle. These poor fools who are immolated with so much holy pomp are the worst of all slaves, held in bondage to give a fiendish lie a pestilent life. The dumb foreign minions who toil here and grow sleek under the Latin lash of the prince of tyrants, are by him deprived of rights and liberties which are theirs by virtue of our laws; and (O! sweet Consistency!), while the North looks on and smiles at this iniquity, it cuts our throats for keeping the blacks in chains!”
“You are becoming interesting,” said General Leigh, surprised at the warmth of this man, whom he thought a strange mixture of talent and perversity, upon so eccentric a theme. “You have certainly struck the true channel in this case when you reduce it to a question of the right of a foreign power to corporeal control over our citizens.”
“Exactly. If I attain to a post of influence in the Confederacy, as I no doubt shall, I shall champion a law to forbid wherever our power extends, the imposition of monastic vows or monastic life upon either men or women. It should be done for the same reason and in the same spirit as that which moved the English Government in India to abolish the infamous suttee and the horrid Car of Juggernaut; and as that which moves the North to legislate against Mormon polygamy. For men and women will do anything, no matter how monstrous, under the pressure of priestly dictation and the insidious monitions of superstition. They want protection from themselves, from their ignorance and stupidity as well as from robbers and assassins. Let theologies flourish so long as they may, but in the name of decency let us prune them of their exotic Dark Age fungi if they are to exist within the reach of our laws.”
Lamont continued talking for some time on this subject, and finally said:—
“But, I must return to my own little story.”
“Yes, to the ‘parallel adventure.’”
“I had gone to Ohio to bring back a traitor—the son of old Captain Leigh who was recently killed on one of the Bayous. The youngster had settled down, and married a woman whom I had known well as a girl. She was to be educated in a convent and I was a novitiate not far off. She was beautiful. I told her that I was going to stay in the world for her sake, or else she must leave it for mine. Well, I don’t know which was the most tempted, but we both fell—” As Lamont continued in his calm narrative style, General Leigh looked as if he had been struck dumb, and sat staring at him with eyes glaring like those of an infuriated animal. “It was only a little bit of a sin, but the poor girl, poor Josephine, was inconsolable, and disappeared the same day entirely out of my sight. I never met her again until I went to Leigh’s house one evening prior to having him forwarded to the South. In the melee I was knocked down and badly hurt, and dwelt there with her as her patient for a month. Strange, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, very.” replied the general. Though racked by a miserable feeling of dread, he was determined to hear this tale to the bitter end.
“After I had been there a few days, I began to fancy that she had recognized me, though I had changed so much that it was absurd for me to suppose such a thing. Her distant and abstracted manner was entrancing. She was like the moon, shedding her soft and gentle radiance all around, but keeping herself clean out of reach. I was never more impressed with a woman’s superiority, but I determined to put her to the test. There was no opportunity for this experiment until later, for my bonny little Hagar was constantly there, and seemed to copy the other’s dignified graciousness while all the time loving me to distraction. At length an occasion presented itself the very evening before I left Ohio and took Hagar to Canada. I never entered upon a conquest with more spirit and determination. Going to the house quite early in the evening, I soon ascertained that she was entirely alone, and took precautions to prevent an interruption. She never looked so well. She was really superb. I am an expert in these things, you know, and “superb” is not too strong a term. Had she been some Spanish donna dressed to receive her lover she could not have been more bewitchingly sweet to look upon.”
“It must have been a vivid picture to so impress a man of your experience.”
“Yes, it was—it was a vivid picture. I happened to have with me a splendid diamond ring which I had given her at Vicksburg where our last meeting had taken place, and which she had abandoned to one of my friends after she had ‘stooped to folly.’ This I determined to offer her again, but she refused it, and parried every effort I could make to gain her sympathy. The night was wearing out, and I was compelled to retreat in a state of inglorious disgust.”
“Why did she not kill you?” asked Philip, with a look which indicated the struggle that was taking place within him.
“She would have done so, but there was no weapon at hand more formidable than her bodkin. She assailed me with that, and, of course, I was more importunate than ever. That is what I call my negative adventure—there’s not another exactly like it in my catalogue.”
“A man would be a brute to wrong a woman like that.”
“Oh; all is fair in love and war, you know,” replied Lamont.
“Treachery at all times and under all circumstances is unfair; and I hold that a deserter who delivers his comrades up to slaughter, is a milder type of villain than a man who has the heart to ruin and abandon the woman he pretends to love.”
“And yet, would you believe it, her husband, who was a brave and gallant fellow (and is still if he’s above ground) treated her like a drab? But for all that I believe he loved her, and I know that she worships him. There’s not a truer or more beautiful woman living, but it seems that a suspicion or positive knowledge of her ante-nuptial sin has damned her in his sight. We have all heard of such cases, of course; but, as a rule, the interested parties come to grief after a day or two, or exist together in life-long misery. Here is a case in which the man should forget and be happy; perhaps he might if he only knew the truth; and I have thought since my discovery that I would sometime write an anonymous letter to Leigh to tell him what a jewel he is trampling under foot. But now that I have such a troublesome kettle of fish at home, I am afraid I shall not be able to do much in the role of domestic pacificator.”
As Lamont went on in this strain General Leigh was suffering the most poignant agony of spirit. Every feeling of hatred or vengeance he had experienced towards his stricken foe, was passing away, and he thought now only of oblivion for himself. In that dense mist of confusion and shame which seemed to envelope him, his life presented neither charm nor hope, and the one attractive possibility ahead was to court death on the nearest battle-field. Summoning a few brief words of apology he turned away and walked outside the tent.
Towards evening the negro, Colt, returned with a message that his mistress was overcome by her husband’s contrition and the sufferings he was enduring for the sacred cause of the South, and had determined, if she could get permission, to visit the hospital the following day with her children.
At dusk General Leigh went in. A candle was burning on the table near Lamont’s cot and the wounded man was rolling about restlessly. The General resumed his former place and said after making a common-place remark about the threatening weather of the evening:—
“What became of the old parson’s daughter after you left her?”
“I don’t know. She probably took the common road, the only one that is, ordinarily, open to women who “stoop to folly,” and “find too late that men betray.” But life’s too short to speculate on the fate of these dainty atoms in the great cosmic laboratory. Poor little thing! She might, quite possibly, have met with a worse fate, for she had suitors two, when I found her,—one a farmer’s bumpkin of the neighborhood, the other a mendicant Mormon elder. These were my rivals. But the girl was an honest little creature, and I admit that I had to play an unfair game.”
General Leigh was silent.
“But now, my friend,” continued Lamont, “You must help me. In spite of the rather eccentric route I have pursued through life, I feel a lingering tenderness for my faithful wife, and something akin to adoration for her children. For a year I have not seen them, and Colt brings me word that she will come here to-morrow to lay her dear hand on my miserable head and forgive all my sins. The hope of this meeting thrills me with a transport of joy.... I wish the wind wouldn’t howl like that—has it put out the light?”
“No,” replied General Leigh, “the attendants have made all secure. The draft we feel here comes through the cracks in the floor and is not likely to affect the light much.”
“But the rain is coming through; I hear it dropping.”
“The first heavy shower in one of these sudden storms will send a spray through the best of canvas; but, when once wet, a tent like this is as good as iron for a steady down-pour.”
“Do you think it will soon pass over?” asked Lamont nervously, as a rattling thunder-clap seemed to linger just above the tent roof.
“Oh, yes: these squalls never last long, I believe.”
“If you were never deprived of your sight, you cannot imagine how horrible it is to lie here helplessly and have the lightning flash through your very brain. There must be little the matter with my eyes, for before each roar of the thunder this place lights up with the glare of a furnace. You will not leave me till the storm subsides?”
“No. I shall not go outside again to-night, and am in no hurry to retire.”
As if oppressed by a presentiment of evil, Lamont found it impossible to pursue the subject of conversation he had begun, and kept reverting to the changing aspects of the storm. At one moment the rain came down in sheets, and, as it lulled, flash on flash of lightning seemed to annihilate material things and take entire possession of the world. The thunder came nearer, making the very air tremble, while the writhing wind, now with a strange moan, now with an exulting rush, was like a fierce ally of the storm, having power to walk the earth and smite its cowering creatures.
Both men had been silent for some time, hushed by the din of the elements that made the loudest human voice like the whisper of an infant, when one of the tent-ropes on the windward side, snapped, and the frail structure swayed ominously.
“What’s that?” cried Lamont.
“A rope has broken. I must call a guard, for another gust like that will blow the tent down.”
The gale seemed to answer with increased fury, and scarcely had General Leigh got outside when the roofpole broke and the tent collapsed.
Such was the havoc caused by the storm in the hospital encampment that the day and night forces of guards and attendants were all occupied, and it was some time before General Leigh found help.
It seemed an age to the blind patient in Orchard Ward No. 7, as he lay there pinioned to his cot by the weight of drenching canvas. When finally removed it was seen that he was suffering from acute nervous shock, and that his condition was serious. He could not speak, but when his wife and children came in the afternoon he made a sign that he knew them, and at sunset his name was added to the long list on the Register of the dead.
Hagar’s return to her old home, combining, though it did, many elements of happiness, was saddened by gloomy memories of the past. The episode of her flight and its fatal consequences, came back with the vivid distinctness of a terrible nightmare. She met no more the kind look and gentle words of her dear Father Taine, to whom her final return for all his affection and care was an act of treachery. Spencer discerned that she was not happy, and a few days after their arrival he laid his case before Colonel Taine. The latter urged him to rest contentedly at Chestnut Grove, saying that he need not be in any hurry to seek employment, or think at all about ways and means, as Hagar’s home should be his.
“Half of what I have is Hagar’s already,” said the Colonel, “and to you and her I shall soon leave the rest. Content yourself here, my dear Spencer, and when the first flush of this girlish grief wears off, you’ll find your sweetheart brighter than ever and we shall have one of the merriest weddings and one of the happiest matches that was ever made in Ohio.”
But Spencer was not satisfied. He would never marry, he said, unless he could keep a wife by his own exertions. Much as he loved Hagar he would rather leave her there and go into the world to make a position for himself, than settle down to the enjoyment of another’s wealth, no matter how generously or rightfully it might be bestowed. And, despite Col. Taine’s protests, Hagar’s entreaties, and his own reluctance at being separated from the darling who held his heart like a spell, he tore himself away, and with a letter of introduction from Colonel Taine to the editor of the “Daily Globe,” went to Cleveland in search of work. His aptitude, enthusiasm and sterling good sense, were soon recognized by the editor, while his knowledge of short-hand, then an uncommon acquirement, made him extremely useful. It was scarcely a week before he wrote Hagar in his daily budget, that he had been assured $700 for the first year, and he thought they might be able to marry in the fall. She was not insensible to the true manliness displayed by his pluck and independence, and the process of writing one or two missives filled with wisdom and love, every day, and reading a like correspondence from him, had a marvellous effect upon her spirits.
One day she was sitting on the verandah occupied with a piece of embroidery, when Colonel Taine returned unexpectedly from a visit to Cincinnati. With him was a gentleman whom Hagar was sure she had seen before, but for some time she tried in vain to recollect when or where. At last she knew that it was Dr. Bruce, whom she had heard lecture on the Mormons at Cincinnati. She was visibly embarrassed, and Colonel Taine, with his left arm still in a sling, led his guest into the parlor. Leaving him there, he returned to Hagar.
“You are looking charming and happy, dear Hagar. May I not tell you of a pleasant surprise I have for you?”
“Oh,” she replied, “I have become so accustomed to surprises that nothing can astonish me now. Each event of the past two years has been a surprise; your meeting me at Council Bluffs was one; but the greatest surprise of all, is the wonderful kindness I have met with since my return.” Her lips quivered, and Colonel Taine interrupted quickly—
“Nonsense, my dear Sister, you are talking sheer nonsense. And now you shall have an opportunity to listen to facts. Or shall we rather call this a legend, a true legend? ‘Once upon a time there was a young lady named Hagar. In infancy she was stolen from her parents and left among strangers. The poor father died in the fruitless search for her, but the mother lived long enough to place her wealth in the care of a good man for the benefit of her darling, should she ever be found, and at a time when the said ‘darling’ was supposed to be lost by her adopted friends, she is found by the good man who holds a fortune at her disposal,’—Now what do you think of that?”
“It proves that you could compose an astonishing romance if you would only try.”
“As an opinion,” replied James, playfully, “that will pass. But please allow me to present the case in a light which will not permit of your reviewing my talents satirically. You remember, when we were children we used to lie awake nights talking about what we should do with our millions when we got them? You were then quite certain that you would squander yours upon dolls and cart loads of candy; and I was as surely going to devote mine to terrible expeditions to the West for the slaying of Indians and buffalos, and lassoing of wild horses on the pampas. I admit that I have considerably changed my plans, and I venture to think that if you were to suddenly find yourself in possession of a fortune, you would devote a larger portion of it to—well, say to charitable uses than to dolls and candy?”
“Yes, I think I should,” she said, smiling.
“But,” continued Colonel Taine, “I have strayed entirely from my legend, so we will permit it now to resolve itself into real elements; you are yourself the infant who was carried away and lost, and the fortune, amounting to a figure that I will not now repeat, is at your command.”
She was still incredulous, and for a while could not be induced to regard the matter as anything more than a joke. But when he told her that Dr. Bruce was the good man who held the fortune in trust, and that he had come to Chestnut Grove for the purpose of consulting her respecting the money, she became intensely interested, and her face flushed with excitement. Dr. Bruce noticed instantly that Hagar bore an unmistakable likeness to the unhappy woman whose last will he had come to execute, and was fully assured by this and other circumstances, that she was the heir intended by “Lady Clare.” He came thoroughly prepared in every way for the business he had to transact, but perhaps the most remarkable feature about his embassy was the delicate tact with which he evaded all questions which called for answers he had fully determined not to give. Left alone in the library with Hagar, he said:
“Your mother was by no means certain that you would ever be found, and therefore gave me no authority to ransack the family history. She had suffered greatly for many years, and was much broken in mind and spirit at the time of her death. In her will and in all the deeds to her property she mentions you, as you have noticed, by your present name; it was her wish that you should not change it. And now, as you are of age, I shall deliver my trust into your hands, firmly convinced that your own good sense and the counsel and friendship of Colonel Taine upon which you may rely, absolve me from further interference in the matter.”
When or where Hope Vincent died, he would not inform her, but eluded the subject in such a way as to almost make it appear of no importance.
“Oh! dear, dear mother! could we only have known each other!” Cried Hagar, mournfully.
“Look but a little further down the vista of the Future—beyond the purposes, the joys and hopes of the material world, and there in the beautiful region which we call the spiritual, just across the airy bridge we name Death, you shall find her and know her forever.”
The business portion of the Doctor’s visit was finished before supper, and he decided to remain over Sunday as it was the first day he had spent away from the hospital for two years. At supper Hagar made inquiries about General Leigh, in reply to which he said:
“General Leigh has caused me much anxiety. His wounds are virtually healed, and at intervals he is well enough to be removed to his home. But his mind seems to be more affected than his body. His wife, whom we all regard rather as an angel than as a native of this earth, appears to be afflicted beyond remedy on account of some slight which his mental condition has caused him to inflict and is literally toiling herself to death in the wards. We cannot restrain her, for she will listen to neither advice nor threats, and as I am satisfied that nothing except the occupation in which she takes so much pride, prevents her from sudden and probably fatal collapse, I have not yet hit upon a way out of the difficulty. Though she has refused to enter the ward where he stays since he has been out of danger, she never misses an opportunity to enquire about him, and shows her undying tenderness and affection in many ways. What she needs is a complete change.”
“Oh! how I wish she would come here,” exclaimed Hagar.
“And so she shall,” replied Colonel Taine. “I urged her to come when I saw her in the hospital the other day and she promised to do so on receiving your invitation.”
Dr. Bruce mentioned the fact that General Leigh had been worse since the storm which caused so great damage to the hospital, but was prevented by a sign from Colonel Taine, from making any mention of the Lamont episode.
Josephine arrived at Cleveland a few days later and was met at the station by Colonel Taine, Hagar and Spencer. The latter then met Mrs. Leigh for the first time and did not drive to Chestnut Grove with them as his duties prevented. Josephine, however, liked his appearance, and congratulated Hagar upon her choice of a husband.
“If there ever was a thoroughly honest man, Spencer is one. But the best of the case is that they are both madly in love, and each thinks the other perfect,” said Colonel Taine.
Though a few years Hagar’s senior Josephine found her entirely congenial, and entered heartily into the discussion of her future. Colonel Taine declared that with her help he intended to arrange for the wedding immediately, and by his thorough good nature had put them in the best of spirits on the road to Chestnut Grove. On arriving at the gate, they were surprised and the horses startled at seeing a ragged and unkempt individual seated on the rustic bench just inside the fence. His stockingless feet which were tied up in the wrecks of two odd army shoes, were drawn under him on the seat, while his head, partly covered with a peakless cap that looked more gray than blue, was couched on his arms against the back of the bench, and his body inclined forward. His face was concealed by his ragged sleeves and he was evidently asleep.
“Some poor tramp or deserter,” observed Colonel Taine.
The opening and shutting of gates, the rattle of the horses’ iron shoes on the gravel and the sound of human voices did not disturb him in the least. The carriage was stopped, and Colonel Taine got out.
“He is evidently very tired, and no doubt hungry, so if you will drive on, I will arouse him and ask him to come to the house for some refreshment,” said the Colonel. The carriage proceeded to the house, and the officer went up to the tramp and tapped him on the shoulder. This did not arouse him, and it was a moment or two before the man looked up, seeming in a kind of stupor, but evidently not under the influence of liquor. When he caught sight of his disturber he clasped his arms around some of the timbers of the bench and held fast, glancing at the Colonel with a wild and furtive look.
“I am not going to hurt you, my friend,” said Colonel Taine, in a kindly voice, “I want to ask you to come in and rest yourself, and get something to eat.”
The man shook his head dismally, and took a firmer grip upon the bench.
“You have been a soldier?”
The man nodded an affirmative, and with another sad motion of the head let his chin sink upon his breast.
“Well, then, tell me what you wish and I will help you for I am a soldier myself. If you belong to these parts, I can send you to your home. Come, let me lead you to the house, and when you have had some dinner you can tell me what you like of your story, and I will aid you all I can.”
As the Colonel spoke, the man looked up several times and again bowed his head without making an attempt to answer. Though his features indicated that he was young, his shaggy hair and beard were streaked with gray. He appeared to be a hopeless wreck. But there was something about him which excited both the pity and interest of Col. Taine, who persisted in his effort to induce him to come to the house for food and rest.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
“From? from? Ha! You’ve never been there—but I see you’ve caught a wing shot, too—poor devil! From? Two hells,—the hell of fire, and the hell of ice! You don’t know them? But say, can you tell me where I am? I’ve been wandering about a hundred years, looking for her, for Hagar, and I know this old bench is hers and that old gate, and look here, that’s the last letter she wrote me. And is she here now—is she here?”
As he spoke he took a small scrap of dirty paper from a pocket in his ragged blouse, and his voice was very plaintive as he looked up into the Colonel’s face to ask the final question.
“Yes,” the latter replied, “Hagar lives here, but what is your name?”
At this question he raised his hand to his forehead, and again shook his head absently. He tried to speak, but appeared unable to command either voice or words. Colonel Taine finally took hold of his arm and led him to the house. He endeavored in vain to eat, and though he gazed vacantly at those about him, he did not recognize even Hagar. After taking a few sips of wine he spoke several coherent words among which were “Hagar,” and “this letter.”
It fell out from what he said, and upon examination of the note, which Hagar recognized as one she had written to her rustic young admirer William Sanders in the autumn of ’62, that this scarred and broken spectre was all that was left of that gallant recruit. Hagar was deeply affected by his condition, for with the clue she now had, she was certain that it was none other than her old friend, whose manly character and noble heart she had admired and almost loved.
What then could have happened to him?
Colonel Taine had the full reports of the Ohio Volunteers up to within a few weeks, at hand, and on referring to those relating to the regiment to which Hagar said he was assigned, found that William Sanders was reported among the missing after the second day’s battle at Murfreesboro. His fate was now clear. After he was wounded he had crawled into the woods to save himself from being trampled to pieces by the rushing cavalry; had been found there after the battle and cared for by some friendly inhabitant of the country, and probably wandered away in his half-demented state as soon as he could walk. Unable to give any account of himself he had doubtless roamed about for several months, and Providence had guided his feeble steps towards home at last.
The news was broken gently to his parents who still mourned the loss of the son who was their pride, and he was taken home to die after a few days of peace, with the kiss of his dear mother and of Hagar on his brow. The minister said that the brave spirit had remained with the shattered body just long enough to bring it home, and then sped away to that better Home where war and suffering come no more.