Complete weird tales of.., p.541
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 541
“To forgive, to condone, is always commendable in man; but, madam, there is a higher duty men owe to womanhood — to chaste and trusting womanhood, incapable of defending itself from the wiles and schemes which ever are waiting to ensnare it.
“It is for this reason, and for this reason alone, that, my suspicions fully aroused, I have been at some pains to verify them. A heart conscious of its moral rectitude does not flinch from the duty before it or from the pain which, unfortunately, the execution of that duty so often inflicts upon the innocent.
“Believe me, dear Mrs. Paige, it is a sad task that lies before me. Woman is frail and weak by nature. Man’s noblest aspiration can attain no loftier consummation than in the protection of a pure woman against contamination.
“Mine becomes the unhappy mission of unmasking two unworthy people whom you, in your innocence and trust, have cherished close to your heart. I speak of the trooper Ormond — whose name I believe you know is Philip Berkley — and, if you now hear it for the first time, it is proof additional of his deceit and perfidy.
“The other is Miss Lynden, known, in a certain immoral resort called the Canterbury, as Letty Lynden, or ‘Daisy’ Lynden.
“She was a dancer in the Canterbury Music Hall. I enclose photographs of her in costume, also receipts from her landlady, washing lists, her contract with the Canterbury, all in her own handwriting, and all gathered for me at my request by a New York detective, and forwarded to me here. Among these papers you will find several notes written to her in the spring and summer of 1861 by the trooper Berkley and discovered in her room by her landlady after her departure. A perusal of them is sufficient to leave no doubt concerning the character of this young woman — who, apparently, neglected by the fellow, Berkley, pleaded piteously with him for an interview, and was, as you see, cynically rebuffed.
“I enclose, also, an affidavit made by Miss Lynden’s landlady that she, Letty, or ‘Daisy’ Lynden, was commonly understood to be the mistress of Berkley; that he took her from the Canterbury and from her lodgings, paid her board bills, and installed her in rooms at the enclosed address, where she remained until she found employment with a Doctor Benton.
“What her relations were with him I do not pretend to know. It is evident, however, that they continue, as he writes to her. It will also be apparent to you that she has not scrupled to continue her relations with the man Berkley.
“I will now further prove to you the truth of my assertion concerning this degrading and demoralising condition of affairs.
“It came to my knowledge that a certain Arthur Wye, serving in the volunteer artillery, and a certain subaltern in a zouave regiment, were not only intimates of the trooper Berkley, but had also been on dubious terms with the Lynden girl.
“Therefore, in company with an agent of the United States Secret Service detailed for the duty by Surgeon-General Hammond at my request, I held a private examination of these two men, and, with some adroitness, succeeded in making them identify the photographs of the Lynden girl, and later, unobserved by her, attempted to make them identify her as she was sitting outside the field hospital. But this they refused to do.
“However, that evidence was not necessary. Among her effects, scraps of letters in the waste-basket, etc., which she had imprudently left at her lodgings, were discovered fragments which, when pasted together, showed conclusively that she was on speaking terms at least with the artilleryman, Wye.
“This evidence I deem it my duty to lay before you. As a sensitive and chaste woman, gently born, the condition of affairs will horrify you. But the knowledge of them will also enable you to take measures for self-protection, and to clearly understand the measure which I shall now take to rid the Sanitary Service of this abandoned woman, who, as your friend and intimate associate, conceals her true character under the garb of Sainte Ursula, and who continues her intrigues with the trooper Berkley under the very roof that shelters you.
“I am, madam, with sincere pain and deepest sympathy and respect,
”Obediently your humble servant,
”EUGENE HALLAM,
”Capt. 8th N. Y. Cav.”
He laid the letter and the enclosed papers on the bunk beside him, and sat there thinking.
He knew that the evidence before him had been sufficient to drive Letty from the Sanitary Service. Why had she not been driven? The evidence and the letter were weeks old now. What had prevented their use? And now Hallam was a fugitive — a deserter in the face of the enemy. It was too late for him to work more mischief if he would. But why had he held his hand against Letty?
Sunset found him still sitting there, thinking. The old negro came shuffling in, bringing hot hoe-cake and bacon for his dinner. He ate obediently; later he submitted to the razor and clothes brush, absently pondering the problem that obsessed him: “Why had Hallam spared Letty; how could he convey the truth to Ailsa Paige?”
At dusk he reported to the ward-master; but Colonel Arran was asleep, and there were no orders for him.
Then, slowly, he went into the adjoining ward. Ailsa was off duty, lying down in her room. His message asking a moment’s interview was refused.
So he turned away again, head bent, and wandered over to his store-room quarters, pondering the problem before him.
CHAPTER XIX
A car full of leaf tobacco had been brought in that day, and
Berkley secured a little of it for his pipe.
Seated on the edge of the shaky veranda in the darkness, he filled and lighted his cob pipe and, smoking tranquilly, listened to the distant cannonade which had begun about sundown. Thousands of fire-flies sailed low in the damp swale beyond the store-house, or, clinging motionless to the long wet grass and vines, sparkled palely at intervals. There was no wind. Far on the southern horizon the muttering thunder became heavier and more distinct. From where he sat he could now watch the passage of the great mortar shells through the sky, looking like swiftly moving comets cleaving unfathomable space; then, falling, faster and faster, dropping out of the heights of night, they seemed to leave behind them tracks of fire that lingered on the dazzled retina long after they had disappeared. The explosion of the incendiary shells was even more spectacular; the burning matter of the chemical charge fell from them in showers of clear blue and golden stars, dropping slowly toward the unseen river below.
He could distinguish the majestic thunder of the huge mortars from the roar of the Parrotts; the irregular volleys of musketry had a resonant clang of metal in them like thousands of iron balls dropped on a sheet of tin.
For an hour the distant display of fireworks continued, then the thunder rolled away, deadened to a dull rumour, and died out; and the last lingering spark of Greek fire faded in mid-heaven. A wavering crimson light brightened on the horizon, increasing, deepening. But what it was that had been set on fire he could not guess. Paigecourt lay in that direction.
He extended his booted legs, propped his back against a pillar, and continued smoking carefully and economically to save his fragments of Virginia leaf, deeply absorbed in retrospection.
For the first time he was now certain of the change which time, circumstance, and environment had wrought in himself; he was curiously conscious of the silent growth of a germ which, one day, must become a dictatorial and arbitrary habit — the habit of right thinking. The habit of duty, independent of circumstances, had slowly grown with his military training; mind and body had learned automatically to obey; mind and body now definitely recognised the importance of obedience, were learning to desire it, had begun to take an obscure sort of pride in it. Mind and body were already subservient to discipline. How was it with his other self.
In the human soul there is seldom any real perplexity. Only the body reasons; the soul knows. He knew this now. He knew, too, that there is a greater drill-master than that which was now disciplining his mind and body — the spiritual will — that there is a higher sentiment than the awakened instinct of mental and physical obedience — the occult loyalty of the spirit. And, within him, something was now awaking out of night, slowly changing him, soul and body.
As he sat there, tranquil, pondering, there came a shadowy figure, moving leisurely under the lighted windows of the hospital, directly toward him — a man swinging a lantern low above the grass — and halted beside him in a yellow shaft of light,
“Berkley,” he said pleasantly; then, to identify himself, lifted the lantern to a level with his face.
“Dr. Benton!”
“Surely — surely. I come from Paigecourt. I left Mrs. Craig and
Stephen about five o’clock; I have just left Miss Lynden on duty.
May I sit here beside you, Phil? And, in the first place, how are
you, old fellow?”
“Perfectly well, doctor. . . . I am glad to see you. . . . It is pleasant to see you. . . . I am well; I really am. You are, too; I can see that. . . . I want to shake hands with you again — to wish you happiness,” he added in a low voice. “Will you accept my warmest wishes, Dr. Benton?”
They exchanged a hard, brief grip.
“I know what you mean. Thank you, Phil. . . . I am very happy; I mean that she shall be. Always.”
Berkley said: “There are few people I really care for. She is among the few.”
“I have believed so. . . . She cares, deeply, for you. . . . She is right.” . . . He paused and glanced over his shoulder at the crimson horizon. “What was that shelling about? The gun-boats were firing, too.”
“I haven’t any idea. Something is on fire, evidently. I hope it is not Paigecourt.”
“God forbid!”
The doctor looked hard at the fiery sky, but said nothing more.
“How is Stephen?” asked the younger man earnestly.
“Better.”
“Is he going to get well?”
Dr. Benton thought a moment.
“He was struck by a conoidal ball, which entered just above the interclavicular notch of the sternum and lodged near the superior angle of the scapula. Assistant Surgeon Jenning, U. S. V., removed the bullet and applied simple dressings. There was a longitudinal groove on the bullet which may have been caused by contact with the bone, but there are no symptoms of injury to the osseous tissue. I hope he will recover entirely. Miss Lent, his affianced, is expected to-night. Arrangements have been made to convey him aboard a Sanitary Commission boat this evening. The sooner he starts North the better. His mother and Miss Lent go with him as nurses.”
Berkley drew a quiet breath of relief. “I am glad,” he said simply. “There is fever in the air here.”
“There is worse, Phil. They’re fine people, the Craigs. That mother of his stood the brutal shock of the news wonderfully — not a tear, not a tremor. She is a fine woman; she obeyed me, not implicitly, but intelligently. I don’t like that kind of obedience as a rule; but it happened to be all right in her case. She has voluntarily turned Paigecourt and all the barns, quarters, farms, and out-buildings into a base hospital for the wounded of either army. She need not have done it; there were plenty of other places. But she offered that beautiful old place merely because it was more comfortable and luxurious. The medical corps have already ruined the interior of the house; the garden with its handsome box hedges nearly two centuries old is a wreck. She has given all the farm horses to the ambulances; all her linen to the medical director; all cattle, sheep, swine, poultry to the hospital authorities; all her cellared stores, wines, luxuries to the wounded. I repeat that she is a fine specimen of American woman — and the staunchest little rebel I ever met.”
Berkley smiled, then his bronzed face grew serious in the nickering lantern light.
“Colonel Arran is badly hurt. Did you know it?”
“I do,” said the doctor quietly. “I saw him just before I came over here to find you.”
“Would you care to tell me what you think of his chances?”
“I — don’t — know. He is in considerable pain. The wound continues healthy. They give him a great deal of morphia.”
“Do you — believe — —”
“I can’t yet form an opinion worth giving you. Dillon, the assistant surgeon, is an old pupil of mine. He asked me to look in to-morrow; and I shall do so.”
“I’m very glad. I was going to ask you. But — there’s a good deal of professional etiquette in these hospitals — —”
“It’s everywhere,” said the doctor, smiling. Then his pleasant, alert face changed subtly; he lifted the lantern absently, softly replaced it on the veranda beside him, and gazed at it. Presently he said:
“I came here on purpose to talk to you about another matter. . . . Shall we step inside? Or” — he glanced sharply around, lantern held above his head— “I guess we’re better off out here.”
Berkley silently assented. The doctor considered the matter in mind for a while, nursing his knees, then looking directly at Berkley:
“Phil, you once told roe a deliberate falsehood.”
Berkley’s face flushed scarlet, and he stiffened in every muscle.
The doctor said: “I merely wanted you to understand that I knew it to be a falsehood when you uttered it. I penetrated your motive in telling it, let it go at that, and kept both eyes open — and waited.”
Berkley never moved. The painful colour stained the scar on his brow to an ugly purple.
“The consequences of which falsehood,” continued the doctor, “culminated in my asking Miss Lynden to marry me. . . . I’ve been thinking — wondering — whether that lie was justifiable. And I’ve given up the problem. But I respect your motive in telling it. It’s a matter for you to settle privately with yourself and your Maker. I’m no Jesuit by nature; but — well — you’ve played a man’s part in the life of a young and friendless girl who has become to me the embodiment of all I care for in woman. And I thank you for that. I thank you for giving her the only thing she lacked — a chance in the world. Perhaps there were other ways of doing it. I don’t know. All I know is that I thank you for giving her the chance.”
He ceased abruptly, folded Ins arms, and gazed musingly into space.
Then:
“Phil, have you ever injured a man named Eugene Hallam, Captain of your troop in the 8th Lancers?”
Berkley looked up, startled; and the hot colour began to fade.
“What do you know about Captain Hallam?” he asked.
“Where is he?”
“Probably a prisoner. He was taken at the cavalry affair which they now call Yellow Run.”
“You saw him taken by the enemy?”
“No. I saw him — surrender — or rather, ride toward the enemy, apparently with that design in mind.”
“Why don’t you say that Hallam played the coward — that he deserted his men under fire — was even shot at by his own colonel?”
“You seem to know about it,” said Berkley in a mortified voice. . . . “No man is anxious to reflect on his own regiment. That is why I did not mention it.”
“Yes, I knew it. Your servant, the trooper Burgess, came to Paigecourt in search of you. I heard the detestable details from him. He was one of the detachment that got penned in; he saw the entire performance.”
“I didn’t know Burgess was there,” said Berkley. “Is he all right?”
“Wears his left wrist in a sling; Colles’s fracture; horse fell. He’s a villainous-looking party; I wouldn’t trust that fellow with a pewter button. But he seems devoted to you.”
“I’ve never been able to make him out,” said Berkley, smiling.
The doctor thought a minute.
“I saw two interesting people at Paigecourt. One was Miss Dix, an old friend of mine; the other chanced to be Surgeon General Hammond. They were on a tour of inspection. I hope they liked what they saw.”
“Did they?”
“I guess not. . . . Things in the hospitals ought to go better now. We’re learning. . . . By the way, you didn’t know that Ailsa Paige had been to Paigecourt, did you?”
“When?”
“Recently. . . . She’s another fine woman. She never had an illness worse than whooping cough. I know because I’ve always been her physician. Normally she’s a fine, wholesome woman, Berkley — but she told a falsehood. . . . You are not the only liar south of Dixon’s damnable Line!”
Berkley straightened up as though shot, and the doctor dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“The sort of lie you told, Phil, is the kind she told. It doesn’t concern you or me; it’s between her conscience and herself; and it’s in a good safe place. . . . And now I’ll sketch out for you what she did. This — this beast, Hallam, wrote to Miss Dix at Washington and preferred charges against Miss Lynden. . . . I’m trying to speak calmly and coherently and without passion, damn it! Don’t interrupt me. . . . I say that Hallam sent his written evidence to Miss Dix; and Ailsa Paige learned of it, and learned also what the evidence was. . . . And it was a terrible thing for her to learn, Phil — a damnable thing for a woman to learn.”
He tightened his grasp on Berkley’s shoulder, and his voice was not very steady.
“To believe those charges — that evidence — meant the death of her faith in you. . . . As for the unhappy revelation of what Miss Lynden had been — the evidence was hopelessly conclusive. Imagine what she thought! Any other woman would have sat aloof and let justice brand the woman who had doubly betrayed her. I want you to consider it; every instinct of loyalty, friendship, trust, modesty had apparently been outraged and trampled on by the man she had given her heart to, and by the woman she had made a friend. That was the position in which Ailsa Paige found herself when she learned of these charges, saw the evidence, and was informed by Hallam that he had forwarded his complaint.”
His grip almost crushed Berkley’s shoulder muscles.
