Chapter XX

Hagar, after leaving Castle Adamant, wandered about the streets for a time entirely bewildered and oppressed by the wildest apprehensions. That quarter of the city was pervaded by the silence of Sunday. The air was cold, and the streets were comparatively deserted. She was alarmed by the fact that several men who passed her stopped and eyed her strangely, and hastened her pace with a vague idea of getting as far as possible from the ill-omened house where Ida had said all the inmates were “Hagars.” The name now had in it some fearful meaning, and the thought that they might pursue and capture her thrilled her with terror. She rushed along, not daring to look back lest she should see them coming.

Her first impulse was to go to Mrs. Green’s house, on Vine Street, to which Lamont had taken her when they arrived at Cincinnati. But suppose the people of the Castle should come there in search of her? No, the risk was too great. She must go there to get her effects but she would wait until to-morrow, and then, perhaps, she might take the train to Cleveland and seek forgiveness from Dr. Taine and the mistress of Chestnut Grove.

Lamont had kept her in ignorance of Dr. Taine’s death. She had written to him several times—once after she came to Cincinnati; but it suited her betrayer’s purpose not to send the letters, and he had destroyed them.

At length, dazed by her strange surroundings and well-nigh distracted by a sense of her desperate predicament, the words of the officer who arrested Lamont occurred to her:—“You may hear something to your advantage at the City Hall.”

By dint of persistently enquiring her way she finally found the City Hall. The place was silent and deserted, but she went slowly up the stone steps and was about to knock when the janitor opened the door.

In answer to her question he told her to call at ten o’clock next day, and she turned away more downcast than ever. Aimlessly she continued her wanderings, ignorant and indifferent as to where she was or whither her steps might lead. Her mental state was fast approaching that phase of melancholy which immediately precedes self-murder.

Towards evening she found herself in a quarter of the metropolis which, by its squalid and unwholesome aspect spoke of the pinching poverty and degradation of its inhabitants, and told by signs of awful significance, that even the most civilized part of the community was but one step removed from barbarism. Hagar instinctively felt that here she would be safe, as the denizens of the villa district would never think to seek her among the wretched and obscure. Her meditations now began to take a practical turn: Here she would find only people who worked hard for their daily bread. Her purse was almost empty. By her own act she had lost the friends who had loved her, and with whom she might always have had a home. What was to prevent her from earning a living by the work of her hands? Now and then, as she went along she heard the voice of some humble housewife singing merrily, and a bevy of factory girls who passed her were a picture of mirth and contentment.

Yes, she would exchange the clothes she had for some like those they wore, and, finding a lodging in their midst would hide herself and her sorrow in one of the neighboring factories.

A little further on she saw a group of women talking and laughing at the gate of a large manufactory. She accosted them on the pretense of inquiring her way, and when she said something about looking for work, some of them giggled, eyed her from head to foot, and made a sneering remark about “hunting work on Sunday.” One of the forewomen seeing her embarrassment and the tearful evidence of her distress, stepped forward, rebuked the girls, and said kindly:—

“You have met with misfortune? Come in, and I will help you if I can.”

Hagar was led into a neat little room which served as the forewoman’s parlor and bedroom. The latter introduced herself as “Miss Dayton” and explained that most of the regular hands were boarded and lodged at the factory by their employers.

“Davis and Jones,” said Miss Dayton, “are contractors for army clothing and are very kind to the employees who are earning a fortune for them: If you know how to run a sewing machine, or could learn quickly, you can make good wages here, and I can get lodgings for you with my married sister, Mrs. Johnson, who lives near by.”

She asked no impertinent questions, and Hagar gave the brief explanation that she had lately lost her husband, and should be in absolute want unless she heard from her people. She said her name was “Mrs. Smiles,” but Miss Dayton who was a little hard of hearing, thought she said “Miles.” Hagar offered no correction, and was so introduced to Mrs. Johnson, whose lodger she became.

Her first night’s experience in the realm of squalor was far from encouraging. Mrs. Johnson, in the kindness of her heart, got out her whitest sheets and pillow-slips and did her best to make the stranger comfortable. But just as Hagar was falling into a doze at midnight, Mr. Johnson came home from his regular Sunday pleasures, and made the rest of the night hideous by boisterous songs and a quarrel with his wife. The partitions of the old frame house were thin, and when the inebriate’s wife begged him to be quiet on account of a young lady lodger in the spare room, Hagar heard him say:

“Well, well, got a lodger, eh? And a lady lodger at that? Well, I’ll just go up and see what she’s like”....

Mrs. Johnson prevented him only with great difficulty, and poor Hagar lay trembling with terror until near daybreak, when the drunken wretch became quiet. Then she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and was not awakened until ten o’clock when Mrs. Johnson came to her with some tea and toast and many tearful apologies.

Hagar went to the City Hall directly after breakfast. She did not see Mr. Johnson. His wife assured her, however, that he would not be intoxicated again before Sunday.

The Mayor was not in, but his clerk handed her a letter that had come in His Honor’s care. She recognized the hand-writing as Josephine’s, and took a cab that she might read it on her way to Vine Street. From it she received the news of Doctor Taine’s death. She gave way to an ecstacy of grief, but was spared the knowledge that his death was directly due to her conduct. Josephine referred to it as if supposing that Hagar already knew the details, and in the same connection informed her that Mrs. Taine had gone to Boston for her health leaving Chestnut Grove in charge of the servants, and had given out that she would spend the summer abroad. Josephine expressed the warmest friendship and keenest sympathy for Hagar, and, in conclusion said: “I am coming to Cincinnati as soon as I can make my preparations, to help with nursing the sick and wounded soldiers in the hospital there. If you will communicate with me, my dear Hagar, and let me know where to find you, we might live and work together and comfort each other in these awful times. When this strife is ended we may be alone indeed. The last accounts I saw of our friends at the front were sad enough: My dear husband had been wounded in the arm, James Taine was hurt by the fall of a horse that was shot under him, and poor Mark Kilbourne, a noble and gallant fellow, was among the dead. He fell at Philip’s side while doing his duty like the brave man he was.” Urging her to write soon and not to be cast down by the cruel wrong that had been done her, the letter closed with the hope that the friends might soon meet in Cincinnati.

“Yes,” she said, communing with herself, “Josephine is sincere; I can trust her. And yet, since I have brought this sorrow upon myself why should I look to my former friends for comfort? Why do I not rely on myself now as I did when I took the fatal step that hurled me into this abyss of wretchedness? No, no; I will not let them see me; I will not tell them where I am or what I am, but hide myself with the anguish I have purchased by my folly.”

She was in the midst of this dreary train of thought when the carriage stopped, and the driver opened the door.

“This is the house, mum; see that brass plate beside the door: Mrs. Green, Board and Lodging.”

Hagar recognized the entrance, but if she had felt any doubt it would have been removed by the apparition of the Irish chamber-maid who was outside sweeping the steps.

She alighted, paid the fare, and then accosted Biddy.

“Your mistress has heard what happened and prevented our return, has she not?”

“Yis, honey,” replied Biddy, looking with a mild stare into the young girl’s face. “But shure,” she continued in a whisper, detaining Hagar at the door, “the divils afther us all! what’s comin’ now, I declare!”

Thinking that she referred to the arrest of Mr. Smiles, Hagar merely said in an evasive tone; “Nothing must astonish us, Biddy. The enemy may be right here in this city soon, for aught we know.”

“Indade, honey, she’s here already, she’s come wid ’er childer, honey dear, an’ she’s not an hour in the house.”

But Hagar went in quickly without waiting to hear Biddy’s remark. Meeting nobody in the hall, she hurried up stairs, and, on entering the apartment that had been her own, found herself confronted by a bright, golden haired little girl who ran away calling:

“Ma’ma, ma’ma, here’s a lady.”

Hagar was stunned and confused. Could this be the rich and handsome wife of Lamont, and her children, of whom Ida had spoken? She had but a moment for conjecture, for quickly answering the child’s alarm, Mrs. Lamont came in from the adjoining room.

“I did not hear you knock,” she said, eyeing Hagar suspiciously.

“No,” the latter replied, with a marked tremor in her voice, “this was my apartment, and I was not aware it had been let to another. I beg your pardon—” Hagar had become deadly pale and was now greatly abashed and agitated in the presence of the woman she felt to be her enemy. She was unable to speak another word, and was retreating slowly towards the door.

“Are you the woman, then, who came here with Charles Lamont,—with my husband?” demanded Mrs. Lamont fiercely—“Speak, I say! are you the she- devil who has robbed me of my husband?”

A little boy, younger than the girl, had come from the bed-room with his mother, and both began to cry piteously. Dismayed by this strange and unexpected encounter, Hagar could scarcely find voice to speak, but her alarm at the menacing aspect of her antagonist enabled her to say faintly:

“No—you are mistaken, madam; I came with my husband, and that was not his name.”’

A negro woman, Mrs. Lamont’s servant, came in.

“Take the children into the bed-room, Dinah, and shut the door,” said her mistress.

Dinah glanced at the visitor, and obeyed. Hagar would have made her escape, but the sense of danger which had at first transfixed her, was now giving place to a different feeling:—she was prepared, if need be, to set her betrayer’s wife at defiance.

“Do not think to deceive me, wretch, cried the Southern lady, fiercely; if it were not for my children, I’d kill you.”

She rushed towards Hagar furiously as if to strike her, but the latter stood her ground without moving a muscle, and gazed at her scornfully.

“That would be a smaller wrong,” said Hagar calmly, “than your husband has done me. Do not blame me, madam, nor seek to avenge yourself by hurting me; but go for satisfaction to the villain who has cruelly injured you, and ruined me!”

“Begone, woman, or I shall do you harm!” shrieked Mrs. Lamont, “ Begone, begone, I say! I’ll kill you!”

Dinah having heard the excited voice of her mistress, came into the room again just in time to prevent a tragedy. She seized Mrs. Lamont and held her, saying quickly to Hagar:

“For de Lord’s sake, go, young lady, go afore it’s too late!”

Hagar turned abstractedly, and left the room. Mrs. Lamont sank into a chair sobbing hysterically.

It had been a terrible morning for Hagar, and she felt grateful as she waited in Mrs. Green’s parlor down stairs, that she had escaped unhurt. She had a few minutes to compose herself before the landlady came in, and spent them thinking of the sad case of Mrs. Lamont. For the moment, the wrong done herself by the same man who had deceived and outraged his wife and children, seemed as nothing by comparison. What was her life now, or that of her pretty children, but a miserable existence of doubt and apprehension? The innocent babes already began to partake of their mother’s despair.

When the landlady appeared Hagar rallied her energies and asked for the small portmanteau and hand-bag she had brought from Chestnut Grove. They contained only articles that were her own before she left home. She did not ask for a large trunk of wearing apparel that Lamont had bought for her with Mrs. Taine’s money, in Canada. Mrs. Green was not over-civil, but said she would try to obtain the articles named by the next day, when Hagar might send for them if she liked.

“There’s a letter here for you that was left with Biddy the night you went away,” said Mrs. Green, fishing the letter out of a tall vase of common china on the mantle-piece.

Hagar saw at once that it was in Lamont’s handwriting, and her heart leaped, she scarcely knew whether with hope or dread. She quickly tore it open, and with a sudden “excuse me” to the landlady, read the missive.

“Dearest Kitty,” it ran, “the game’s up, and you are entirely free, so far as I am concerned, to follow the bent of your own genius. You are doubtless aware that your marriage with me at Hamilton was simply a farce? I needed diversion while laboring in Ohio, and you must confess that it was hardly my fault that you left your home clandestinely at three o’clock on a bitter winter’s morning. You remember, I warned you. Girls are sweet but foolish little things! Or, is it rather their wisdom that makes them seek such adventures? The presentation this evening to Lady Clare Adamant, will give you the entree to the world of fashion. As dear Mrs. Taine said in one of her last letters to me, you were certainly very lucky to have fallen into such good hands. Au revoir, Sweet Kitty! I must be off at once to the Sunny South, where my wife and children are awaiting me.

Your devoted,

BENJ. T.”

So intense was her anguish that it was only by a determined effort that she stifled the cry of agony that rose to her lips.

“Bad news?” Asked Mrs. Green, with a malicious twinkle in her eyes.

“Yes,” replied Hagar, “very bad. My father is dead!” With this she gave way to the paroxysm she could no longer suppress, and tearing the letter in pieces cast it from her.

After she had gone, Mrs. Green gathered up the pieces and put them together for the diversion of her lodgers, and among the first to whom it was shown, was Mrs. Lamont.

Late that night a negro was admitted to Mrs. Green’s house, who was met in the hall by Dinah, and shown to Mrs. Lamont’s apartment.

She had been awaiting his arrival for some time, and sat, as pale as a statue, before the dying embers on the hearth.

The man who was tall and well dressed, approached her with marked deference.

“Well, Colt?” said she, interrogatively, her voice sounding faint and husky.

“I saw the Colonel, Madam, and he sent this letter, which, he requested that you would please read before asking me any questions.”

She took the note, opened and read it, and threw it upon the embers, where it slowly smouldered until it was reduced to carbon flakes.

“They are not going to hang him, then,” she said, sighing heavily, and leaning forward with her face between her hands.

“No, madam; he has been exchanged in accordance with the terms of the new convention just signed by the Governments of Richmond and Washington, and will start for Memphis in the morning by steamer. The exchange will actually take place at Vicksburg, so that he will be in the hands of the Union authorities for some little time yet.”

“Very well, Colt; that will do. But stay; did you ask Colonel Lamont if he thought our troops were likely to capture this city?”

“I did, madam, and he said it was not at all unlikely. The tables are to be turned on the North by a concerted invasion by all the confederate armies, and Cincinnati will probably be one of the first cities taken.”

“Then we may as well remain here. I shall never return to New Orleans while that cochon Butler is there, unless it be to see him hanged, the robber! You may go now, Colt; I will decide on something in a few days.”

The negro withdrew, and Dinah was shortly after dismissed for the night.

Mrs. Lamont sat musing for a while. “Yes, it is true that the reports I have seen were in Northern papers, as he says:—and they may have falsified the facts, or this woman may have been a Yankee emissary especially deputed to ruin him in my opinion and in that of the South. He loves me and is the soul of honor; I know it! But what of all these appearances? What of this woman’s coming here to-day, the elopement from Cleveland, the sudden death of the old father? It may have been another man!—yes another man commits the crime and he is charged with it to shield the Yankee! But his arrest in company with the woman in a house like that! Conclusive, if true, but easily to be conceived as a telling chapter in the invention. But worst of all the sore misgiving in my heart!”

“Oh, God,” she cried, falling on her knees, and clasping her hands wildly, “help me to endure these torturing suspicions, or in Thy mercy, show me they are baseless!” She wept aloud for several minutes, but was startled by the approach of a small figure in a white night gown which clasped its arms around her neck and said:

“Oh Ma’ma, dear, please don’t cry any more! Come to bed; papa will soon come. It frightens Charlie and me to hear you cry so. Come Ma’ma, come.”