Chapter XIII

Oblivious to the fact that both the civil and military police of Cleveland were that day on the lookout for an agent of the “Disciples,” Mr. Smiles drove into the city late in the afternoon. Having posted several letters, and sent a number of despatches in cipher, he attended to other business matters and finally called at one of the branch telegraph offices to forward this brief telegram:

“Madame Adamanti, No — —— St., Cincinnati: Expect me with a recruit soon. March.”

Before reentering the carriage, he held a quiet conversation with Dan, who then drove out of the city and took the road towards Newberg. Though the evening was cold Smiles was mopping the perspiration from his forehead. His face showed more expression than usual; the veins of his neck and temples were purple and distended, and a pallid ring like a chalk mark encircled his mouth. He made an effort to shake off these ague-like symptoms, but without success. He strove to convince himself that Josephine had recognized him during his stay at her house. Her refusal to come to the wedding he thought a strong proof, and what could be more conclusive than the fact that she had remained constantly with him for a month instead of flying to her husband who was detained at Cincinnati by his professional duties?

“It is enough, and more than enough; why should I hesitate? The case of poor Hagar is rather a hard one anyhow, and while this enterprise, if it is successful, will probably throw her into a fever, it may save her from—well, from something worse! And this will be a sweet revenge on Leigh for crushing my head and breaking my leg.”

The carriage stopped at the Leigh cottage, and Mr. Smiles was quite his natural self again, seeing still beyond the hazard, the certainty of success.

“I wonder if she is alone?” thought he as he noticed that the blinds were closely drawn, and that only a thin streak of light was visible at one side of a window. He looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. As he alighted from the carriage he remarked that the school house in the square was lighted, and muttered scornfully:—

“Another infernal concert, I suppose!”

“Dan,” said he softly, as he buttoned his overcoat closely about him, “blanket your horses and sit inside the carriage, I won’t be long. And look here, I’m going to give you more for to-night’s work than Dr. Taine gives you in six months, provided you do just as I tell you. In religious matters there are many things to be done that you won’t understand, so all you have to do is obey orders and ask no questions, you see?”

“Oh yes, I ’stan fust rate, Mars’ Smiles, dem’s jest my orders from missus, an’ I ’beys her ebbery time,” said Dan, imitating the low voice of his present master.

“It may be that some of these cheeky villagers will stop to ask you whom you have brought here to-night. If they do, you can tell them it’s Mrs. Taine who has called on her way from town to take Mrs. Leigh home for Miss Hagar’s wedding. You might say on your own account that it is not likely Mrs. Leigh would care to have a neighbor drop in.”

One of Mr. Smiles’s proverbs was that no man could be a thoroughly good rogue unless he was an adept at lying, and he was not averse to trying his skill now and then in the latter art.

He had laid his crutch aside in the morning and walked with a slight limp; but he approached the door with a light tread and rapped gently with his knuckles. No answer. He rapped a little louder.

“Come in,” was the languid summons of a voice which he recognized as that of Mrs. Leigh.

He entered, hat in hand. She was alone, and sat with a small table drawn near the fire reading a volume of poems. She had attired herself as attractively as when expecting Philip to come home, and was thinking of his gloomy bivouac somewhere in the wilds of Tennessee when the knock awoke her from her reverie.

“You, Mr. Smiles!” she exclaimed in a startled voice. The apparition of her late patient was not a pleasant surprise; but she quickly resumed her composure, and rising, advanced a step towards him to offer him her hand.

“What a vision!” he muttered to himself, as she came forward. “I am afraid I have disturbed you, my dear Mrs. Leigh,” he continued as he shook her hand ceremoniously; “but the fact is, I could not find it in my heart to leave this part of the country without calling to see you once more, and this was my only opportunity. Am I forgiven?”

“I am sure it was very kind of you to think of me, Mr. Smiles,” said Mrs. Leigh, with cordiality. She resumed her rocking chair, and beckoned him to be seated. “You have quite recovered, it seems, as you have discarded your crutches?” she added, glancing at him a look of interest.

“Yes: only a slight lameness remaining, thanks to your tender care, and Hagar’s, of course.... She was very devoted for one so young, was she not?”

“I think Hagar a model of unselfishness, and true womanly gentleness. I have seen very few like her.”

“I have seen at least one who was her equal in these beautiful traits. But why recur to that now? I have called with another object besides merely seeing you, Mrs. Leigh: But, tell me, why were you so startled when I came in?”

Josephine had sunk back quite languidly in her cushioned rocking chair, and was listening to Mr. Smiles with friendly interest.

“I must really ask your pardon, Mr. Smiles; I was surprised to see you, for I had not dreamed of such a ceremonious caller.”

“But why were you surprised at my apparition—did you think I should prove so ungrateful as to go away without even bidding you good-bye? Well, it is enough that I was not so. I have been looking forward to this hour when I might offer you a memento of my esteem and gratitude. Will you accept it?” Leaning towards her he held open in his hand a tiny velvet case from which the glare of a brilliant diamond set in a heavy gold ring, flashed in her eyes. She took it mechanically, and raised the massive jewel from its socket. Her only emotion as she held it up was that of delighted curiosity which women usually exhibit at the sight of anything rarely beautiful. But of a sudden as she examined it, she let it fall from her shaking hand, and stared into his face. He had not expected the ring to produce exactly this effect, and felt slightly disconcerted. He sprang forward to her support, but she quickly recovered herself.

“It is nothing—only a slight faintness—I have been sitting too near the fire.”

With much courteous fluster he proceeded to move the table and her chair away from the hearth, saying as he did so that the room was decidedly warm.

“Will you please bring me a glass of water from the next room. You will find a carafe on the sideboard.”

Immediately he turned, she took a hurried but searching look at the ring, and then replaced it in the case and laid it on the table. As she did so she muttered to herself:—

“It is; it is!”

In those few seconds the incidents of years thronged through her memory, and as he returned to her side she scrutinized his features closely, but without detecting anything to justify her in connecting him with her former acquaintance with the dazzling gem.

She moistened her lips with the water and thanked him for his trouble. Mr. Smiles felt puzzled. Could she still be ignorant of his identity after having recognized the ring? Or was this merely a bit of comedy to try him? After a moment’s pause he took the jewel from the table and exclaimed in an injured tone:

“What! you have abandoned the souvenir?”

“You owe me nothing Mr. Smiles, and I can accept nothing from you for the poor hospitality I could offer you when you were nearly killed in my husband’s defence.”

“You do not like the ring?”

“Oh, yes—I think it the finest one I ever saw.”

“You may well say so, for there are few like it, and yet you refuse it? It is old and of historical fame. I bought it from a foreigner years ago, and you are the only friend I have had whom I deemed worthy of it.”

“But you have not owned it long, you say?”

Mrs. Leigh asked this question calmly, but she felt a fearful apprehension stealing over her.

“Oh, yes, I have,” replied Smiles quickly, “Nobody except myself has ever owned it—in this country—I have had it for ten years.”

Mrs. Leigh was silent for a moment. She was unable to speak. Breaking the pause with an effort, she said:

“Then, pardon me. Should you not give it to your bride rather than to a stranger?” Again she took the opportunity to scan his features, and a sense of dreamy bewilderment took possession of her, as she once more failed to recognize the man.

“May I not give what is my own to whom I choose?—provided, of course, the chosen one will accept. But it is plain you do not like my offering. It does not please you; therefore, I must urge you no further, but will take my leave with all proper apologies.” At this he rose and looked steadily at her to observe the effect of his words. They were evidently more welcome than he had hoped, and he felt annoyed. ‘So she really wanted him to withdraw,’ was his reflection. Very well, then, since he could not induce a chase by a feigned retreat, he would return again to the direct attack. He resumed his chair.

“From a remark you made a moment ago, Mrs. Leigh, I judged you thought you had seen that ring before. Was I right?”

She was about to rise to bid him good night, and felt a slight relief at the thought of his departure. But now her faintness returned, and it was with considerable difficulty that she said:

“If so, it was merely a fancy,—I presume there are many rings alike—”

“But,” pursued he, “there is not another in the world like this. It is an amulet: but indeed you may have seen it before. Suppose I say that I am sure you have? Suppose further, that I should tell you the time and place?” He drew near her: the ring flashed in her face.

“Look at it again!”

“Please pardon me, Mr. Smiles,” she said imploringly, “if I ask you to leave me. I have been ill and harassed for some time, and am even worse than usual to-night. I beg you, therefore, leave me, and if my obstinacy offends you, you may let the ring remain here, and when my husband returns I will ask him if I may accept it.”

Smiles replaced the ring in its case, and slipped it into his pocket. Mrs. Leigh was not aware he had done so, but was surprised that he did not heed her request to withdraw.

“Am I in any wise the unhappy cause of your indisposition, my dear madam? Or can I be of any service to you?” He leaned forward and grasped her hand passionately. But his touch had the effect of awakening her to an ecstacy of rage and ferocity. She sprang to her feet and demanded in a subdued but threatening voice:

“Well sir, what is the meaning of this? You, a minister of the gospel, and not know how to treat a woman? Begone, sir!”

“Be calm, my dear madam, please be calm. I was merely going to wish you good night.... But that was a splendid flash of passion, Josephine—it was indeed! Ha! ha! ha! You might have been a second Rachel, if you had only taken to the stage instead of to—er—marriage.” As he uttered these phrases in a tone of taunting raillery, he took a few steps backward to reach the key in the front door which he turned.

“You take offense too soon, my dear Josephine; you do, upon my soul. Why, if all your sex took fire in this way the world would not be fit for any man of spirit to live in! But I was going to tell you of the ring. Do you recall a fine young priest whose crown was not two months shorn; a Maying party, and a very secluded glen near Vicksburg, in 1854? It was when the birds were mating; you were not such marble then, by the confession that gay young neophyte made to me. Oh! the magic ring; can it have lost its charm?”

As he spoke, Josephine moved to the further side of the room where her work basket lay. She kept her eyes fastened on him, and felt in the basket until she found a small embroidery stiletto the only weapon she had.

Smiles never forgot how terribly beautiful she looked as she stood there at bay.

Moving towards her, he said, “I really thought you knew me, Josephine!”

“How dare you use my name sir! Begone at once, or I will cry for help!”

“No, Josephine, not yet, ma chere, you might be sorry for it.”

He regarded her steadily: she felt some mesmeric influence projected by this glance which paralyzed her power of resistance.

“No wonder you do not know me. I was a lean, unripe stripling then, not the finished man of the world you see me now. Have I not improved?”

Josephine flinched perceptibly at these words, and thought of one whose memory she had cursed in her heart for nearly seven years.

“Silence!” she cried, “I know you now. George Lamont, the villain for whom—” she hesitated as if choked by passion. He caught up her words—

“For whom you crossed the Rubicon, Josephine. The same: as always, at your service.”

She fixed her eyes on him and came towards him, the keen steel gleaming in her hand. He watched her like a lynx: sprang forward and seized her with his strong grip, and she dropped the weapon on the floor. He kicked it aside, and forcing her into a chair, said:

“Now Josephine, you will listen to reason. You are in my power: I can ruin you completely, or I can render you the envy of your sex. You want to talk, of course; but don’t say a word until I finish. It is ten minutes past nine. I can only allow you half an hour to arrive at a decision.”

“You threaten in vain,” she said with strange composure. “In half an hour my companion, Miss Wilson will return; until then, I defy you.”

“Very well,” he replied, with a suggestive smile. “Now suppose you listen to me as patiently as I have heard you? Don’t go on railing, for I also can do that if occasion demands. Mind, you have threatened to murder me here to-night. And yet I know you love me!”

“Coward!”

“Hark! I have here in my pocket the note you wrote me appointing the tryst which, for me, proved such a fatality. There, there, don’t say a word: I was an innocent lamb just entering my novitiate in grace, when you came upon the scene and ruined me.”

“Have done, George Lamont, your effrontery is more than I can bear!” She moved towards the door. He stepped back, and taking the key from the lock, held it up before her.

“This note,” he then said, leisurely, “bears no date, is as fresh in appearance as if written to-day, (I have kept it carefully) and I know your writing has not altered much. It begins with “my darling” simply, and ends with “Josephine” precisely as I have seen it signed to notes you have written Hagar.” She made a second move to pass him, with the terror of a hunted creature in her eyes.

He grasped her wrist fiercely and swinging her around forced her again into her chair. Then, his lips close to her ear, he continued in a shrill whisper:—

“You know that your husband, Philip Leigh, the renegade, hates you.” She started as if she had been stabbed. “You know it, I say. But he more than hates you, he suspects, distrusts you, thinks you a wanton. I heard him say as much to Mark Kilbourne one night at Chestnut Grove.”

Josephine’s head sank. She was crushed by shame and terror. Like a tortured child she at last burst into tears. Suddenly her tears were checked as were his words. They heard a sound of laughter at the gate.

She rose, inspired with new force. “Now, sir, begone before I deliver you into the hands of those who—” her voice faltered, and she staggered to the table.

“One word and you are lost!” the same hissing whisper came to her.

“I am here at your appointment. You understand? Your friends will know your hand-writing; I will read your note to them and let them decide which of us is in the wrong. But listen—they have seen the carriage at the gate, and passed on guessing rightly that you——have——company.”

Josephine looked about her helplessly, not realizing what he said, and still expecting help to come. The strain had been too great and she fell back, fainting. Disregarding her, he held his ear to the keyhole to satisfy himself that all was quiet outside. Dan’s report had proved satisfactory, and Miss Wilson had continued to her own home. He then approached the prostrate form of his victim and raised her gently to the sofa where he bathed her temples, and moistened her lips with water. She still remained unconscious and he went into the dining-room to look for brandy; but finding nothing stronger than a decanter of sweet wine, he brought a glass of that and applied it to her lips.

When she finally opened her eyes she saw the parson seated near her with an expression on his calm face which said as plainly as words: “I conquer.” All that had been passing was perfectly clear to her; she was not surprised to see Lamont there, but lay gazing calmly at him, half in wonder, half in entreaty.

“Drink this glass of wine, Josephine, it will revive you,” urged Lamont, tenderly.

“Did not Miss Wilson come in? I heard her voice.” He answered by pressing the glass towards her, but she declined to drink.

“No, she has gone home, and no one else will come here to night.”

“But you are still here, George Lamont. Why is this? What is your motive?”

“To tell you my love, and ask you to fly with me from this place forever.”

She had lain still on the sofa, but now she sat up and looked at him perplexedly.

“Fly with you? Fly with you!” she repeated with an expression of surprise and contempt, “you are a madman; I do not understand you.”

“You shall, then, in a moment. You told me that I was the first and only man you ever loved,” said he, as if beginning a narrative.

“And how you rewarded me for my confession!” she spoke with deep emotion, and in shame covered her face with her hands.

“Admit that we were both wrong then, Josephine: we can now repair that wrong—I to you, and you to me.”

“Blot out one sin by committing a greater? No, your sophistries cannot deceive me now! You speak of wrong: I never wronged you.”

“We shall come to that. You remember the profession I had chosen? I am going to exercise it now for the first time: I am going to preach.”

“Oh! for pity’s sake spare me! Remember my father’s friendship to you; your respect for your own sisters——”

“Gone, Josephine, gone with my loss of you. Your frailty was like a red- hot brand drawn across my life, blasting it through and through! I rarely speak my heart; but I speak it now, and you understand me! Your father befriended me and was my friend, until he proved my deadliest enemy in that he had not grounded his daughter’s character in virtue impregnable. I then possessed the truest qualification for the career I had chosen: Virtue! and you say you never wronged me, though you robbed me of that! Ah! yes, that conceit surprises you, as it would most women; but still it is true. I had not the art to tempt you then, but you had the wantonness to lure me on to ruin, and your fall not only killed the immortal part of me when first I broke my awful vows, but it robbed me of you, of my hopes, my ambition, my friends! From that moment you, the beautiful, the accomplished, the favorite of men and women alike, became an outcast in my sight. I despised you! I know you would say you yielded because of your love and trust in me, for them you should have resisted until death! The lover loathes the woman who yields to his unrighteous lust as the husband the wife who yields herself to a paramour’s embrace. So it was with me: what I had pursued so ardently, in one moment turned to ashes in my hand. I fled from my home; abandoned my fortune and my prospects; sought only for excitement and diversion. Everywhere I found women who were as compliant as I had proved you——”

“Oh! mercy, mercy—you are killing me!” She fell on her face before him.

“My fate since that day has been unmerciful. And yet you will not confess the wrong and seek its remedy. You are unhappy, so am I. Our union can repair all and our loss will prove a riddance to those we leave behind.”

“My brain is so weary.... I can not think,” she said, raising herself with feeble effort to her feet. “Wait until to-morrow,—you could come in the afternoon—and if I have wronged you as you say you shall have my life to pay for it. I have thought that you betrayed and deserted me with callous cruelty; but if I am wrong, and the wicked wretch you make me out, I am not fit to live. If you bring poison with you I will take it and so expiate my crimes.”

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.