“The world is the book of women.”
— Rousseau.
One Sunday soon after Lamont’s arrest, Hagar expressed a wish to go to
church, and was taken by Ida to the Free Chapel, where Dr. Bruce, a
popular lecturer, who had a considerable following among free thinkers
and others who were not connected with any regular church, gave an
interesting discourse on Mormonism. The subject had been suggested by
the presence of Elder Spencer in Cincinnati, and Dr. Bruce’s attendance
at one of his meetings.
The Doctor denounced the Mormon pretentions judiciously, and a somewhat
exciting scene was caused by Spencer’s making an attempt to reply to
him. The Elder saw Hagar when leaving the hall, but she avoided him and
hurried to the carriage.
When Hagar and Ida returned to Castle Adamant, after the service at Dr.
Bruce’s chapel, they were met in the hall by Miss Ross, who, in reply to
Ida’s enquiries about the condition of Aunt Clare, said that she had
been in her right mind for two or three hours, and asked to see “Kitty.”
“She seems so anxious to see you, Kitty; but the new doctor says it is
only a fancy, and she must not be allowed to see anybody at present.”
“I am very glad to hear that Madame Adamanti is better,” Hagar said
mechanically. And then, with a wistful look at Miss Ross, and about the
room, she added: “Is there no news, nothing from my husband?” There was
unsteadiness in her voice as she spoke, and she sat down and wept
bitterly when Miss Ross replied indifferently, “No.”
Hagar retired to her room, where Ida presently joined her. She had
brushed away her tears, and was making an effort to be cheerful.
“I must really go to our lodgings to-morrow,” she said, her sweet voice
still muffled with tears. “There may be letters there for me from my
father. I have not heard a word from him, though I have written several
times. The world seems dark and hopeless to me, Ida; what would you do
if you were in my place? Don’t you think they would let me see my
husband?”
“Gracious, no! These are war times, you know, and Dr. Cavin says the
hebbus carcass act has been suspended, so they can arrest and put in
jail whoever they like. But there’s no use o’ your fretting about
Char—about your husband, cos, he’s already got another wife, and you’re
in the fix of one of them girls Dr. Bruce was telling about. You’re only
a ‘Hagar,’ like the rest of us.”
Hagar was startled by these strange words, and quite unable to
understand them. She remembered that Dr. Bruce had spoken of the
Biblical Hagar, and had a faint idea of the drift of his remarks. But
her mind had been so preoccupied with her troubles, that she had not
been able to follow the Doctor’s thoughts. Ida spoke in a tone of
heartless raillery which indicated that she was far more callous than
was really the case. She knelt in an easy chair, resting her elbows on
the cushioned back and her chin in her palms. There she crouched
watching her frightened companion grow pale. An amused smile of spiteful
satisfaction was playing about her mouth. She was wondering what “Kitty”
would say.
“My husband has another wife?” Hagar asked with some effort, after a
moment’s pause. Ida nodded maliciously.
“How do you know that? What is the meaning of all this strange acting
that is going on here? Where have you known my husband?”
“At New Orleans. He was always the handsomest Knight of the Carnival.”
“Why, Ida, how can you talk so? My husband resides at Boston, and is a
minister of the Gospel. You are cruel to talk like this to me,” said
poor Hagar, her heart already half mistrustful.
“You’re a little fool, Kitty. Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Ida, with palpable
artifice, and going to Hagar to embrace her. “Do you mean to tell me
seriously that you believe you are Charley Lamont’s wife?”
“‘Charley Lamont?’ I do not know such a person—my husband’s name is
Smiles—the Reverend Benjamin T. Smiles.”
Ida laughed so uproariously in response to this that Hagar could not
help smiling as she said innocently:—
“You think the name so funny, then?”
“I was wondering if the ‘T’ was for tears, for Charley always was the
most terrific sport, and I reckon he’s had more tears shed over him than
any man out of jail, an’ now he’s in, too. But, see here, Kitty, let’s
understand each other.”
“I wish I could understand you, Ida; but indeed, I don’t know what you
are talking about.”
“Well, look here; ye didn’t run away from your real husband, Smiles, to
come here with Charley Lamont, did ye?”
“You know I came here with my husband. Whom do you mean by Charley
Lamont?” Hagar was struggling between impatience, uncertainty, and
dread. She scarcely knew what to say, but looked as puzzled as she felt.
“That was him you came here with, who was taken away by old Abe’s
soldiers. So you see I’m right, he’s the Knight of the Carnival, and the
husband of one of the richest and prettiest women in New Orleans, and
what’s more, he’s got two children.”
The words of the officer who arrested Lamont now rung in Hagar’s ears,
and her first sense of the truth oppressed her.
“There must be some mistake!” she said, trying to control her emotion,
and seizing Ida by the arm. “You are trying to deceive and alarm me,
Ida. Confess that it is so. Even if my husband is a rebel spy, and if he
bears a different name from that I knew him by, he has no other wife.
Come, Ida, tell me you are only joking—”
“Well, you can ask Aunt Clare when she is well enough. I’ve only told
you the truth for your own good.”
Hagar did not weep. Clasping her hands over her face, she said, faintly,
“Oh, what shall I do!” She reeled for an instant, but by an effort kept
her feet and went unsteadily towards the door, near which, on a table,
were her bonnet and wraps just as she had left them on entering. The
sight of them seemed to revive her. Hurriedly reassuming them, she
rushed down the stairs and out into the street before Ida could give an
alarm. The latter called Miss Ross, and after a consultation, they
decided, as there was no doctor in the house, they ought to tell Aunt
Clare.
The courtesan was but little better than on the day she was so suddenly
stricken down by her old malady. In her delirium she had said nothing in
relation to Hagar to create distrust in the suspicious minds about her;
but as soon as she recovered consciousness she had asked about the girl
“Kitty,” with business-like solicitude, and given orders that she must
not be introduced to any of the frequenters of the house. She had
afterwards fallen into a stupor from which it was not supposed she would
rally; but to-day she was better again, and had been saying that she was
anxious to see Kitty, so that her attendants had reason to dread the
shock the girl’s escape might give her.
Miss Ross undertook the delicate mission, however. She was a woman of a
type that is considered beautiful in some parts of the Orient. Of a
dark, opaque complexion, with short blue-black curls clustered about her
head, she might have been taken by a casual observer, for a mulatto. She
was, however, pure Creole, and possessed of personal graces and
accomplishments which might have rendered her acceptable in any society.
She softly approached the bedside of Lady Clare, whose illness had
already produced a significant change in her appearance, and, taking up
the thin hand that lay out on the silk counterpane, said,
“You have had a nice nap, Aunt Clare? I hope you feel a little better?”
“No, Belle,” replied Madame Adamanti in a whisper.
“But I am a little stronger, I think, and while I am so I want to
arrange my affairs as well as possible, for I am going to die.”
“Don’t talk like that; it’s foolish. You will be as well as ever in a
day or two, I’m sure.”
Miss Ross was studying how to broach the subject of the run-away girl
when Lady Clare continued:—
“You remember, Belle, I once told you that I had a child, a daughter.”
“Yes, the one you abandoned at Cleveland, when you ran away with the
Mormons.”
“Well, I have seen her: she is still alive.”
Belle was so surprised that she sprang to her feet in the firm
conviction that her mistress was drifting away again into the dreary
realms of delirium.
“You needn’t be afraid, I was never more sound in my reason than at the
present moment. The girl brought here the other night by Charles Lamont
is my daughter.”
“Impossible! He told me he got her in Canada.”
“His treachery has brought her to me, but no matter about that, it shall
not bring her to any further harm if I can prevent it. To leave no doubt
in the matter I want you to go at once and see Lamont. I have a pass to
the military prison. Tell him that for special reasons, valuable to him
as well as to me, I want to know all the facts he can give about the
girl’s history, her parentage, age and every detail he can supply. Tell
him I am ill or I should have come myself. In the pocket of the dress I
had on the night he was here you will find a card he gave me. On it is
the address of the lodgings where all the girl’s luggage and some
property belonging to Lamont, were left. Oh! What would I give, Belle,
for an hour’s conversation this day with some honest man, who would
think nothing of what I am, but hear my confession, and only regard me
as what I might have been. I must find somebody to take care of that
poor girl. And I suppose some conceited hypocrite of a lawyer is my only
alternative.”
“Why don’t you send for a priest? That’s what I’d do if I were in your
frame of mind,” said Miss Ross rather absently, dreading more than ever
the shock to her mistress when she should learn of Kitty’s flight.
“No, no; I don’t want one of those gentry with their sanctimonious
deceit. He would probably offer me absolution if I would leave him my
fortune. When we approach death, no matter what our lives have been, we
crave for the presence of some one whose record is such as our better
conscience approves. Ours is the bitterest fate of all, Belle; the most
vile, the most repulsive. We may get beyond shame, but we sink deeper
and deeper into the miseries of a living death, and go about as mere
moving corpses for years before we reach the grave. I am not sorry I am
nearing the end. I am just thirty-seven years old, but I am treble that
in suffering and sin. As the last act in my tragedy, I was conniving at
the shame of my own child!... But there, I must let you go. And yet,
something tells me I should send for somebody to whose care I can leave
the girl. There is not one among the mass of men I know whom I would
trust with such a commission. I must see the poor child, too, and talk
with her before I die. She can never know who or what I was. For whom
shall I send, Belle? I may not feel so well another day. I have not a
moment to lose.” “I think you ought to send for a priest; no better man
than my confessor, Father O’Rouke, could be found in Cincinnati; or else
for a sister of charity.”
“That my child may be robbed, and forced into a nunnery? I may as well
consign her to the Mormons at once!”
“You are prejudiced, Aunt Clare,” said Miss Ross, who was brought up in
the Roman faith, educated in a convent, and now counted among her
friends a handsome young priest of Erin, who often gave her absolution.
“I confess I am so, but not without good reason, as you know. No priests
or nuns for me. I know what I’ll do, I will send for one who is despised
by the priests as I despise them. Bring my portfolio and write me a note
to that Dr. Bruce of the Free Chapel. I believe that he is a man of more
merit than pretence. He has a wife and children whom he loves and
honors, and all the Churchmen accuse him of being too partial to
publicans and sinners. The other day the priests of all sects wanted to
mob him because he prayed beside the grave of a poor wretch who died in
a house like this. He will neither be afraid to come here, nor to
undertake my commission.”
Belle had brought the portfolio and was waiting at the bedside.
“What shall I say?”
The invalid dictated the following brief note, which Belle wrote in a
graceful hand.
To DOCTOR BRUCE, The Free Chapel, Cincinnati: Sir: You will pardon a
poor outcast for taking the liberty to send for you. She does so
because she sorely needs a friend. You will know who I am by the name
at the bottom of this. It is, of course, not my real name. I am dying.
Shall I see you at once? CLARE ADAMANTI.
At the bottom Belle added the address, and the words “written by her
friend Belle.”
The excitement caused by the unusual activity of her mind had
considerably exhausted Lady Clare. But her resolution conquered, and
after a brief spell of coughing, she directed Belle to go at once on her
errand and to send “Kitty” to her. Belle only said “Yes dear,” and was
gone, deeming explanations inexpedient.
It was now about the middle of the afternoon, and Belle knew it would
require the rest of the day to make the circuit marked out for her. The
carriage was waiting, so she only tarried long enough to tell Ida not to
let Aunt Clare know about Kitty’s absence.
Various projects had begun to form in Belle’s mind even before she
quitted her mistress’ room. Was it really likely that Lady Clare would
die soon? She remembered a former promise of the courtesan’s, to leave
her a handsome competence. Would that promise ever be fulfilled, or was
she now determined to leave all to her own child?
“In this life,” she mused, “trickery is my only weapon. If I have wit I
must use it. The girl, no matter who she is, must take care of herself.
It is certain she is Clare’s child, for she is too shrewd to blunder
there. A very good reason, then, why she must never see her again. A
week. She said she could not live a week. Well, Mike and I can do much
in a week. If the girl has disappeared, and nothing is heard of her, she
will easily believe that she has gone back to her friends. She’s got at
least $150,000, and it should all be mine. But the first thing I must do
is to see Mike.”
She told the coachman to stop at her drug store.
“Yes,” she said, continuing her cogitations, “Mike will know just what
to do. He has often said that Lady Clare ought to do something handsome
by me. I think I’ll destroy this now.” Here she took the note directed
to Dr. Bruce, from her pocket. “But perhaps I better let Mike see it,”
she went on after she had torn the envelope slightly, “for it may be
best to send it after all.” She put it back into her pocket, and told
the coachman to drive faster.
The drug store at which the carriage presently stopped was not in the
business portion of the city.
The only other place of business in the vicinity was a grocery, which
was closed. The wind was blowing bleakly so that most people were in-
doors. The next building but one on the south side of the drug store was
a Romish church built of grey-stone, in a mixed and ornate style of
architecture, at that time one of the most solid looking places of
worship in the city.
The owner of the drug store, being a good Catholic, was allowed to use
the alley which ran through from the rear of the church to the other
street for bringing in goods, and had a door at the side of his building
for that purpose. It was, moreover, used as an entrance to the parochial
school and was convenient for women who did not wish their husbands to
know they went to confession, and others who wanted to seek priestly
society or counsel without exciting suspicion.
Belle passed through the drug store and out at the side door. As she
approached the door of the parsonage she was met by a man who glanced at
her and hurried on. Father O’Rouke was alone and unfeignedly glad to see
her. He bestowed rather more than a fatherly kiss on her pouting lips,
and clasped her in an embrace that suggested the lover rather than the
anchorite. Father O’Rouke was, no doubt, a bad specimen of his kind, if
it is to be accounted bad to do and be exactly the opposite of all that
one pretends, all that he vows, and all that is commonly accepted as
right. To the eye he was a typical priest, about thirty-five.
Belle was too much occupied with her business projects to waste much
time with his endearments, and told him at once what had brought her.
“Let me see the note,” said O’Rouke, “of course it can’t go to the
heretic: that won’t do, but in case we want to send it—well, what’s the
matter?”
“I’ve lost the note!” cried the woman.
“Nonsense! look again.”
She looked in vain, in her pocket, and her muff; and finally the florid
Michael O’Rouke, priest and teacher, went out and searched along the
alley and in the drug store, and asked Mr. Cresser, the clerk, to be
good enough to look in the carriage and see if the lady had dropped it
there, telling him it was a most important document.
When Belle alighted from the carriage the letter had dropped under her
feet and had been blown against the curbstone on the other side of the
street. It was picked up by the man she met in the alley, who, on
reading the address, decided to deliver the stray missive, as he had to
pass the Free Chapel on his way home.
O’Rouke confessed that there was a bare possibility that, if she had
dropped the note in the street, somebody might pick it up and take it to
its destination. But he thought the chance very remote, and said that he
would himself undertake to intercept the heretic even though he should
receive it. Belle then set out for the military prison where quite a
number of the “boys in grey” were already in durance vile. Her last
words to the priest were:
“For goodness sake, Mike, don’t let that man go to Castle Adamant, even
if you have to throttle him.”
“He’ll not go there, darling. Lave that to me. It’s my duty to protect
the innocent, and I’ll do it, darling, I’ll do it ivery toime.”
Moved by a righteous indignation, he was promptly on his way to Dr.
Bruce’s house, having arranged with Belle to call at the parsonage on
her way home to compare notes.
The Free Chapel was only a few squares away, and the Doctor’s home was
situated in the lot adjoining. The priest’s adamantine assurance wavered
slightly as he approached the door of this cottage, where dwelt a man
whom he regarded with the utmost repugnance. But he walked deliberately
up the steps wondering if his visit was observed by any of his own
flock, knocked gently, and in a moment the door was opened by a bright
sunny-headed little boy of probably six years.
“Is Dr. Bruce at home, little man?” asked O’Rouke.
“Yes, sir,” the child replied, and then, running to the open door of an
adjoining room, he said, “It’s a gentleman to see you father.”
Dr. Bruce was just going out. He had on his overcoat, and carried his
hat and walking stick in his hand.
“You will pardon me, doctor,” said O’Rouke blandly, “I have called on
very important private business.”
“Will you walk in, I am at your service,” replied Dr. Bruce, throwing
open a door on the opposite side of the hall, and beckoning him to
enter.
They were alone in a neat and warm little drawing room, and O’Rouke
spoke to the point at once. The priest, being on his good behavior, had
unconsciously dropped his brogue.
“My name is O’Rouke, I’m a Catholic priest. A parishioner of mine tells
me that a note was sent to you to-day, merely to annoy you, by a woman
of the town (in view, no doubt, of your late condescension in the case
of one of her class), and the matter coming to my notice, I thought it
no more than justice to you that I should warn you of the trick.”
The doctor was puzzled. The priest’s ready invention had every
appearance of being genuine. He took a few seconds to reflect before he
answered.
“Yes, I have received such a note, and was just going in answer to the
summons.”
“Then I’m heartily glad, Doctor, that I’m in time to save you from the
imposition.”
“I am grateful to you Mr. O’Rouke, so far, but I must not decide too
suddenly; the woman says she’s dying.”
“All trash and make-believe. With a foul gang of wretches in a drunken
orgie they mean to laugh you to scorn on the holy Sabbath day. But,” he
continued in a haughty voice, and rising to go, “I have performed what I
considered a duty, though an unpleasant one. It is for you to do as you
see fit. Forewarned is forearmed. Good day, sir.”
“One moment, Mr. O’Rouke,” said Dr. Bruce with gentle dignity. O’Rouke
had missed his play. With a man like Dr. Bruce, common honesty might
always win, whereas either bluff or finesse would be sure to fail, for
he could readily fathom them. He guessed at once that the priest had
some hidden motive in seeking to prevent his going to the address
mentioned in the note.
“It seems the note was lost in the road—did your informant say who was
the bearer of it?”
“Now yer afther cross-questioning me, so I’ve done wid ye,” said the
priest impetuously and with full brogue. “Its plain you think there’s
something wrong about my story!”
“Not in the least, Mr. O’Rouke, I was merely guarding against what might
possibly be inaccuracy on the part of your informant, for I should
rather risk the assault you say is in store for me, than fail in my duty
to a fellow creature.”
Smelling defeat the priest moderated his petulance, and answered
calmly:—“Well, then, the bearer was a servant in the house of Clara
Adamanti who heard the contents of the note and the plot in connection
with it, and came to me for my advice. She lost the note, but I
suspected it might find its way to you and came here to warn you of the
trap, thinking you would at least thank me for my trouble, and yourself
be saved from an outrage.”
“I thank you most heartily, Mr. O’Rouke, and shall certainly not expose
myself to such a danger after your friendly notice.”
As there was nothing more to be said O’Rouke withdrew, thoroughly
appreciating the equivocal nature of the doctor’s final words.
It was after nightfall when Belle again alighted at the parsonage.
O’Rouke was ready to receive her. But she was so much troubled by the
fact that the letter had been delivered that she considered all else as
useless, and merely said that Lamont’s account of the girl was exactly
what Lady Clare had told her years ago, and that the girl was not and
had not been at the lodgings in Vine street.
“I suspect,” said O’Rouke, “that Bruce has gone to Lady Clare’s. Your
dropping that note has spoiled everything! If you had only had time to
get a few dare-devils there to receive him! But it’s too late for that
now; the mischief’s done. Niver mind, Belle, darlin’. You can generally
count on the plans of the heretical divils goin’ awry. And take note
that while there’s only one thing in your way, all else is in your
favor. Be off now, child, be off, an’ moind you, don’t forget your
bades!”