Chapter XV

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.”*

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[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.]