Part 17 (2/2)
”Ha! ha! we must be quits for that, you know,” she answered, rather wildly, and pointing to her forehead. ”Do you think I'm a poor whining fool like her, to get sick and die when you abuse me? I'll haunt you till I die, Philip; and after, too, if I can, to punish you for that.”
Philip fancied that he detected the gleam of insanity in her eye, and he was not wrong, for the terrible blow he had inflicted had injured her brain; and her mind, weakened by dissipation and the action of excitement upon her violent temperament, was tottering upon the verge of madness.
”When I was watching that poor sick girl,” she continued, ”I thought I could have loved her, she was so beautiful and gentle, as she lay there, white and thin, and never speaking a word against you, Philip, but thinking of her friends far away, and asking to be taken home--home, where her mother was sleeping under the sod--home, to be loved and kissed again before she died. And I would have loved her if I hadn't hated you so much that there wasn't room for the love of any living creature in my bad heart. I used to sit all night and hear her talk--talk in her dreams and in her fever--as if there were kind people listening to her, people that were kind to her long ago. And the room seemed full of angels sometimes, so that I was afraid to move and look about; for I could swear I heard the fanning of their wings and the rustle of their feet upon the carpet. Sometimes I saw big round tears upon her wasted cheeks, and I wouldn't brush them away, for they looked like jewels that the angels had dropped there. And then I tried to cry myself, but, ha! ha! I had to laugh instead, although my heart was bursting. I wished I could have cried; I'm sure it would have made my heart so light, and perhaps it would have burst that ring of hot iron that was pressing so hard around my head. It's there now, sinking and burning right against my temples. But I can't cry, I haven't since I was a little girl, long ago, long ago; but I think I cried when mother died, long ago, long ago.”
She was speaking in a kind of dreamy murmur, while Philip paced the room; and finally she sank down upon the floor, and sat there with her hands pressed against her brows, rocking herself to and fro.
”Moll,” said Philip, stooping over her, and speaking in a gentle tone, ”I'm sorry I struck you, indeed I am; but I was drunk, and when you cut me, I didn't know what I was about. Now let's be friends, there's a good girl. You must go back to Was.h.i.+ngton, you know, and to New York, and stay there till I come back. Won't you, now, Moll?”
”Won't I? No, Philip Searle, I won't. I'll stay by you till you kill me; yes, I will. You want to go after that poor girl and torment her; but she's dying and soon you won't be able to hurt her any more.”
”Was it she, Moll, was it Miranda that came here with you? Was she going to Richmond?”
”She was going to heaven, Philip Searle, out of the reach of such as you and me. I'm good enough for you, Philip, bad as I am; and I'm your wife, besides.”
”You told her that?”
”Told her? Ha! ha! Told her? do you think I'm going to make that a secret? No, no. We're a bad couple, sure enough; but I'm not going to deny you, for all that. Look you, young man,” she continued, addressing Harold, who at that moment entered the room, ”that is Philip Searle, and Philip Searle is my husband--my husband, curse his black heart! and if he dares deny it, I'll have him in the State prison, for I can do it.”
”She's perfectly insane,” said Philip; but Harold looked thoughtful and perplexed, and scanned his fellow-officer's countenance with a searching glance.
”At all events,” he said, ”she must not remain here. My good woman, we are ready now, and you must come with us. We have a horse for you, and will make you comfortable. Are you ready?”
”No,” she replied, sullenly, ”I won't go. I'll stay with my husband.”
”Nay,” remonstrated Harold, gently, ”you cannot stay here. This is no place for women. When we arrive at headquarters, you shall tell your story to General McDowell, and he will see that you are taken care of, and have justice if you have been wronged. But you must not keep us waiting. We are soldiers, you know, and must do our duty.”
Still, however, she insisted upon remaining where she was; but when two soldiers, at a gesture from Harold, approached and took her gently by the arms, she offered no resistance, and suffered herself to be led quietly out. Harold coldly saluted Searle, and left him in charge of the post; while himself and party, accompanied by Moll and the coachman who had driven them from Was.h.i.+ngton, were soon briskly marching toward the camp.
CHAPTER XIX.
Toward dusk of the same day, while Philip and his lieutenant were seated at the rude pine table, conversing after their evening meal, the sergeant of the guard entered with a slip of paper, on which was traced a line in pencil.
”Is the bearer below?” asked Philip, as he cast his eyes over the paper.
”Yes, sir. He was challenged a minute ago, and answered with the countersign and that slip for you, sir.”
”It's all right, sergeant; you may send him up. Mr. Williams,” he continued, to his comrade, ”will you please to look about a little and see that all is in order. I will speak a few words with this messenger.”
The lieutenant and sergeant left the room, and presently afterward there entered, closing the door carefully after him, no less a personage than Seth Rawbon.
”You're late,” said Philip, motioning him to a chair.
”There's an old proverb to answer that,” answered Rawbon, as he leisurely adjusted his lank frame upon the seat. Having established himself to his satisfaction, he continued:
”I had to make a considerable circuit to avoid the returning picket, who might have bothered me with questions. I'm in good time, though. If you've made up your mind to go, you'll do it as well by night, and safer too.”
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