CHAPTER XXIII.

THE storm was over by the time he reached Chattalla. The wind and the breaking clouds were rioting through the deep blue sky. The moon had risen; wherever its rays fell they seemed to evoke a lily in the picturesque waste of a garden, that lay at one side of the little hotel; there were petunias hidden somewhere, and honeysuckle, their fragrance all freshened by the rain. His sore heart was instinct with tender recollections as he leaned out of the bar-room window, recognizing the fragrance of old-fashioned flowers, the pride of country gardens--he had not seen their like since his early childhood. It took him back for a moment, and in that moment he forgot the baffling wonder and dismay that had possessed him; for since parting with Brennett he had been groping blindly about in a maze of conjecture for those secret motives which he suspected. Now some long crushed germ of higher impulses was faintly stirring, perhaps with reviviscent possibilities, as he took his cigar from his lips and looked out into the dim leafy recesses, and sighed while he looked. He knocked the feathery ash from the weed, and in the motion changed his position.

It brought the interior of the bar-room before him, and with the glare of the lamps and the prosaic suggestions of the scene, returned his eager speculation as to the innocuous alternative which he believed Brennett held in reserve. This roused his exhausted faculties for another spurt.

The house was quiet, but from the purple gloom of the street came the insistent clamor of the village church bells, inconceivably discordant to ears accustomed to the more melodious sound of the bells of cities. This was not Sunday, but a “big revival” was in progress--the prevailing sensation amidst the monotony of life in Chattalla--and by reason of the dominant desire to know who had “got religion” it drew until even the saloons were almost deserted. Now and then, however, a languid drawl broke the stillness within the bar-room, and seemed the preconcerted signal for a group of loungers to noisily shift their chairs, which were already precariously tilted on the hind-legs, to spit profusely on the bare floor, and to raise slow meditative eyes to the speaker’s face. Their conversation was of that retrospective character, peculiarly rural, in which facts perfectly well-known to each are severally rehearsed as if to satisfy some iterative mental craving. Often covert glances were cast at one of their number, expressive of curiosity, and an expectation of more pronounced symptoms of emotion than he exhibited. His grave, stolid face was half shaded by his slouched hat, his long, tawny beard hung down upon his breast, his legs were stretched out at length, his hands were thrust deep in the pockets of his brown jeans trousers. The talk was not cheerful, and seemed as incongruous as might be with the time and place. It consisted chiefly of details of the fearful “taking off” of an unfortunate called Graffy Beale. These chanced to involve the mention of General Vayne, whose name the adventurer caught as he lounged in the window.

“Firing the Gen’al’s fields kep’ Graffy in torment,” said the bar-keeper, turning a huge quid of tobacco in his cheek. “An’ yit ’t war an accident.”

“Never rested till they went an’ fetched old Frank--they tells me,” said Tom Toole, shifting his heavy boots one above the other.

A third spat on the floor. “Jes’ oughter hev seen Gen’al Vayne!”

“Ye war thar,” said Toole affirmatively.

“I war,” the eye-witness replied.

Long pause.

“Old Gen’al gits foolisher every day--talks like he war a millionaire yit,” he presently resumed discursively. “All that thar good cotton burnt up fur nothin’, an’ he so scrimped fur money--Shucks! Mightily surprised he war ter find out that the fire started from whar Graffy hed hid in the old powder-magazine on his plantation--then sez he--sez the old Gen’al--‘I hope I may be forgiven ez freely ez I forgive you. My pore feller, I do not grudge one fibre of the cotton. I bear in mind your grievous straits. And, for God’s sake, if you had shelter, or warmth, or security from me or mine, take it as the bounty of Providence, and be at rest!’”

The church-bells jangled out of tune. The breath of jasmine came in at the window. A mocking-bird was singing in the moonlight. Once more the roughly shod feet grated harshly on the floor, and the chairs were noisily moved.

“Shucks! Mighty big sinner now, old Frank is!” another submitted ironically. “What ails him ter git ter goin’ round hyar jowin’ ’bout furgiveness? What’s he ever done ter be furgiven fur?”

“He fought a juel wunst,” suggested a moralist, dubiously. “They say nowadays ez that is a sin.”

“I reckon even the bes’ men need grace,” said the bar-keeper piously.

“I beg your pardon,” the adventurer struck unexpectedly into the conversation, “but you alluded just now to General Vayne’s financial condition. I have some curiosity to know how he stands since the war.”

This moment was the crisis in Maurice Brennett’s affairs. If his coadjutor should leave on the next train for East Tennessee his scheme was perfect. On this chance he had reckoned when they parted. Only a few more days and there would come the full fruition of success--it was even more imminent than he thought,--for Miss St. Pierre had finally instructed her lawyer to compromise on any terms her adversary might dictate.

And all this intricate mechanism, of which free agents were the component parts, so delicately adjusted that the ruling characteristic of each acted and reacted on the others according to Brennett’s volition, all was in an instant brought to naught because his accomplice’s eyes chanced to rest upon Tom Toole, and the impulse of the moment led him to mingle in the rural gossip.

“How does he stand? How does General Vayne come on since the war?” he reiterated.

Tom Toole shook his head with slow impressiveness. The gesture operated as a melancholy annotation of his response. “Come on? He don’t come on wuth a cent.”

“It’s a pretty good country you seem to have about here. I should think he might have pulled together in all this time. He ought to have more elasticity.”

“He’s flat _broke_,” said the bar-keeper conclusively. “The value o’ his property hes gone down ter nothink, scarcely, whilst his debts hev been growin’ on thar interes’. When the hammer comes down it’ll smash all in sight. Now, ez ter me, _I_ never hed nothink ter lose. But it’s a right stiff thing on the ‘big rich,’ sech ez Gen’al Vayne uster be.”

“Oh, I dare say he will mend his fortunes. He is only middle-aged as yet. He is not on his last legs, you see. There are chances before him. He may marry a rich widow. Let me tell you, never moan for a man who has a rich widow for a neighbor! He has a financial panacea, always ready to be applied with neatness and despatch.”

There was a laugh of languid amusement among the rural loafers. Only Tom Toole sat silent and grave.

The speaker, too, laughed as he shifted his cigar between his teeth. “General Vayne has acumen in those matters, I should judge. He has hedged--neatly. I happen to know that he has a young lady staying in his house, visiting his daughter. Is it a coincidence that this young lady is very rich, in her own right?”

He had carried his point. He had wrenched the subject of conversation to Miss St. Pierre. He wanted to know what was said and thought of her in the village; a chance word might give him a clew--vaguely a clew--to something that would prove valuable. He had heard of her only through Brennett. It might be well to glean a point or two from some source more reliable and disinterested. It might lead to a knowledge of that suspected alternative which he believed rendered Brennett indifferent to the imposture, and the imposture futile. He did not know what use he could make of the vague “something” when he should hear it. He only felt blindfolded, and working in the dark, and his instinct was to lift the bandage.

“Ye’re a stranger hyar,” said Toole, “an’ I reckon ye don’t know Gen’al Vayne. No man that ever knew him would believe _he_ was dangling after rich wimmen fur the sake o’ thar money.”

“Oh no, I don’t know him. He was only pointed out to me on the street.”

“_I_ know him--bet on that! I served in his brigade four year. I’ve known him on the battle-field an’ in camp, in forced marches an’ routs, in victories an’ defeats What _I_ don’t know about that man ain’t wuth findin’ out. An’ _I_ say he’s a good soldier, an’ a brave man an’ a gentleman--_every inch_!”

“That’s a true word,” said the bar-keeper, suddenly infected with Toole’s enthusiasm.

“Fur a fack!” chorused the group, easily adapting their plastic mood to the gravity with which Toole contemplated the subject.

“I don’t question it,” the adventurer carelessly declared. “But gentlemen have married rich women. It may be a wicked thing to do. Still I am no judge.”

And he laughed again.

“Gentlemen hev never married rich women fur the sake o’ thar money--not ef _I_ onderstan’ the meanin’ o’ the word. A gentleman sech ez Gen’al Vayne don’t invite a young lady ter visit his darter fur the sake o’ draggin’ in her fortin’. That’s what you hinted jes’ now,” Toole persisted seriously. He thought he owed much gratitude to General Vayne, who, despite his anxious financial straits, had furnished bail, had given with an open hand of his scanty store, had restored his humble friend to liberty, had trusted him when all the world was against him. But hitherto the indulgence of this sentiment had seemed a farce to Toole, so heavily did remorse weigh upon him for his share in that folly which had resulted in firing the battle-field and burning the cotton. He had never been able even to contemplate confessing how deeply he had injured his benefactor. Those words of comfort and forgiveness, which had sent Graffy in peace to the grave, were hardly less welcome to him. Now he no longer felt belied in any demonstration of respect and regard for the man who had done so much for him. He could not sit by and hear General Vayne disparaged. He was ready to make it his own quarrel. As a sudden recollection struck him he was imbued with a sense of triumph, and he re-commenced with the assurance of making this insidious detractor eat his own words.

“An’ now I kem ter think of it, mister, I kin prove ter ye that ye air all cat-a-wampus on that p’int--’kase this young lady--this Miss Sampeere, or Camphire, or whatever her name is--it’s reported about town that she is engaged ter be married ter another man--a stranger hyar.”

“A _stranger_? What stranger?”

Toole looked at him in surprise. He had drawn himself up to his full height; his teeth were clenched on his cigar; his breath was quick; upon his face was the pale anguish of suspense.

“Why,” said Toole, with a reluctance which he hardly understood, “I don’t know his name. I ain’t sure he’s hyar now,--he’s a friend o’ Horace Percy’s, an’ he stayed a good long spell down at Mrs. Percy’s house.”

“By the Lord!” exclaimed the adventurer wildly, bringing his hand down on the counter with a vehemence that sent a shiver through all the glasses, “what a dupe I have been! Engaged to him! There’s the secret! That explains it!”

His pallor had deepened--his face was ghastly and rigid. A terrible passion was blazing in his eyes. It had set all his pulses a-quiver, and he shook visibly. He looked desperate, even dangerous. For an instant he stood in doubt, then started toward the door. One of the amazed, uncomprehending loafers threw himself in the way, striving to expostulate. “Hold on; give yerself a chance ter cool down, or ye may do something rash.”

He silently flung off the countryman and plunged into the violet dusk of the street, which was still a-jangle with the discordant bells, and permeated with the fresh fragrance left by the summer rain, and veined with the glint of the moonbeams. His anger dominated over every faculty. He was barely conscious of throwing himself into a carriage and calling out an order to the driver. Then he was shut in with it, losing even the sense of motion as the vehicle rolled on and on through the darkness toward the vast, vague stretch of the battle-field. And so Brennett was going to marry the girl, and thus secure her fortune. All that was necessary had been to keep his coadjutor at a distance, counsel prudence, and excite fear. And this had cost him not one cent; on the contrary, he was cleverly beating his dupe out of five thousand dollars--the unsuspecting fool, whose futile and dangerous imposture had thus been left day after day without a word of warning at the mercy of accident. This was the favorable change for Brennett of which there had been no hint. This was the innocuous alternative. Perhaps the influence already secured over the girl was sufficient to make her doubt the plainest proofs which could be put into her hands of the conspiracy of her “lover”--he sneered at the very thought of the word--to rob her. But it might be that Brennett overrated this influence. It should be put to the test. He would risk his liberty--if need were, he would risk his life--to compass the ruin of the man who had deceived him. He ran over once more in his mind what he would say to her. It was a strong showing--stronger even than he had thought. No sane woman of reputable station would marry a man blasted like this. He could thwart Brennett’s scheme, and wreck his hopes, and stigmatize him forever in the business world, even if, for the sake of what had been, she should refuse to prosecute.

But the price of this: It should cost as little as might be. He would be cautious. He swore to himself that he would be cautious. He would, if possible, secure first her promise of immunity; if not--

He was looking out at the moon-flooded battle-field with abrupt realization of what he saw. Somehow, now that he was here again--here, where the battle was fought--the localities seemed to have dwelt strangely in his memory. On that elevation there had been a battery, and how the shells had rioted through the heavy timber to the west. He turned slightly--the heavy timber was gone. Where were the dead and dying men once strewn over this ground!--there seemed to him a flash as of bayonets from out a thicket as he passed. And suddenly--he lifted his head with an intent gesture and dilating eyes--a mellow, undulatory resonance drifted to him on the wind--clear, vibrating, infinitely stirring. His heart leaped to the familiar strain, and every nerve responded with a thrill. For was it not a distant bugle, sounding “boots and saddles.” But, no, how could that be? The place--the associations it revived--these illusions were accounted for so readily. He heard, too, a shell shrieking down the night. He would have sworn it. But that also--that was his sensitive imagination. There stood Fort Despair--no doubt about it--mounted with heavy guns once, and fiercely repelling the fiercest assaults--but now assaulted only by the wind or the rain. And here was the long slope where John Fortescue and a score or two more fell, while the rest went on with that wild charging cheer--surely its echoes were in the air yet! It was some comfort to him now, singularly enough, that he had gone back afterward, under a hot cross-fire, to take his friend’s dying hand. He felt its convulsive grip again. He put his own tremulous hand over his eyes for an instant. He was so wrong, so weak, so wretched.

And here, rising starkly into the night, was a great gaunt house, that he remembered too--as headquarters. A flare of lights came from the open window, and within was Antoinette St. Pierre holding strange possibilities in the lives of two men. And here was his resolution again in full force.

He did not hesitate. But he walked slowly up the pavement, giving himself time to quiet his tumultuous pulse and gather his faculties to sustain the personation. He would keep it up at first--it could do no harm and he might regret a different course. He noticed that a group of figures stood at the end of the long portico just without the lighted window. He hardly thought he was observed as he ascended the flight of steps. Then the clangor of the bell resounded through the house.

It seemed to General Vayne and Mr. Ridgeway, seated in the library, a moment of no special significance when Antoinette St. Pierre, delicately blonde and youthful in her mourning dress, was rising from her chair beside the table with a card in her hand. She glanced hastily at the name upon it and a hot flush mounted to her brow. The next instant ushered in a man of notably fine presence. His handsome eyes swept the other occupants of the room with a cursory glance. Then he bowed to her gravely.

“I have ventured to intrude,” he began. But there was a stir upon the portico; a light shower was pattering down; the group without were entering at the long windows. As he spoke his eyes fell upon Captain Estwicke, who was holding back the curtain for the ladies to pass into the room while he stood motionless outside.

The impostor suddenly raised a tremulous hand.

“Coming again!” he cried wildly, pointing to the face, plainly defined upon the darkness and framed by the drapery of the window. “I knew you would! I have felt you with me when I couldn’t see you. But, Jack! Jack! why should you care? You know if you were alive you’d forgive it all and pass it by. You always loved me. You always said so--‘the best friend a man ever had.’ You’ve _sworn_ it!--_sworn_ it a thousand times.”

He held his right hand up as if in memory of an oath. He had pressed by Miss St. Pierre, and was advancing toward Estwicke, who still stood without the window, the curtain in his hand, motionless, and with a dismayed surprise aghast upon his face. The adventurer paused.

“We went through so much together. You haven’t forgotten--surely, surely, you haven’t forgotten. Don’t look at me with those accusing eyes! you’ll break my heart. You would never have looked at me like that in the old days. And I tried you often, and tried you hard. Ah, Jack! you’re dead--that makes all the difference. A dead man forgets his friends. A dead man _has_ no friends--that’s what you think. You come back and find a fellow masquerading around the world as John Fortescue, when John Fortescue is dead, so cruelly dead, so long ago, on this black battle-field. But, Jack, if it could have hurt _you_, old man, I would have lain down in your place and let you take mine, rather than call myself John Fortescue.”

Estwicke made a motion as if to step into the room.

“I’m not afraid of you!” cried the impostor, holding out both arms. “Give me your hand. I had its last clasp in life. Tell me you forgive me! Say the word! And let it all be as it was in the days when _you_ were John Fortescue, and Edward Keevor was his best friend.”

He laid his hand heavily on Estwicke’s shoulder, and General Vayne, impelled by a sense of danger, sprang to the window, and caught the stranger’s arm.

“The man’s a maniac!” he exclaimed. “What does all this mean?”

“Why that,” faltered Estwicke, “that--John Fortescue--that is my name.”