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.”