# The Red Mist/Chapter 9

CHAPTER IX
ARRIVAL OF PARSON NICHOLS
SHE put aside laughingly my suggestion of assistance. Indeed her appearance of good humor caused me to feel that the girl was really glad of my presence in the house, this relieving her of loneliness.
"Not a word of protest," she said gaily, waving me to the chair beside the table. "You must remember I am mistress here, and the entertainment of guests is my privilege."
"Hardly a guest, when I came steathily crawling in through a broken window."
"The only entrance possible. That is all forgotten, now that your eminent respectability has been so thoroughly established. Really, Lieutenant, I cannot but feel honored by so distinguished a visitor. General Ramsay said you were one of the most popular officers in the army."
"Did he, indeed? It was from Ramsay then you learned of my coming."
"Captain Fox told me what General Ramsay said; there is quite a grapevine telegraph in this country—news travels rapidly. I was even ​informed that you were the champion revolver shot of your division. To such distinction I can only bow in reverence."
She swept me a low curtsey, her laughing eyes smiling in the lamp light. Before I answered, the fire in the grate burst into blaze, and her hands were busily rearranging the table.
"With no servants left, and the house unoccupied for months," she explained, "I shall have to give you soldier fare, and, perhaps, not very much of that. Someone has made free of our larder since we left, from all appearances the same gentleman who broke in through the window, no doubt—and I discovered little remaining even for myself. But such as it is I give it to you. Pardon my not joining in the feast, as I have only just eaten."
She drew up a chair opposite to where I sat, supporting her chin in her hands. The light beween us illumined her face, outlining it clearly against the gloom of the wall behind. It was a young face, almost girlish in a way, although there was a grave, strong look to the eyes, and womanly firmness about lips and chin. I had seen so little of her in the days gone by as scarcely to retain in memory a detail of her face; she had been to me but a swiftly flashing vision, the merest recollection of bright eyes, and loosened hair flying in the wind. And here I found ​her a woman a woman—with all a girl's slenderness of form, and unconventionality of manner, yet capable and thoughtful, her mind clear, and loyal to her ideals—a woman of charm, of rare beauty even; sweet and wholesome in look, her cheeks aglow with health, her eyes deep wells of mystery and promise. I felt something choke in my throat as I glanced at her—a regret that I had lied, that I had deceived. Yet I saw no way in which I could escape my unfortunate predicament. I had taken the false step, and my duty to my service, my loyalty to Jackson, to Lee, to my comrades of the South, forbade any disclosure of my mission. The sympathy of the girl was unquestionably with the Northern Army; there could be no doubt as to that; her father wore Federal uniform, and had given up all for the cause. Her father! why I dare not even tell her of his death, of his dastardly murder. My lips were now completely sealed to the truth, because any attempt to explain would swiftly arouse her suspicion. Indeed it was strange she had not recognized me, although I realized to some extent, the change in my personal appearance since our last encounter—the uniform, the short, soldierly cut of my hair, the marks which exposure and peril had left on my features. Yet probably the real truth was that she had never before observed me with any care or ​interest—considering me a mere boy to be laughed at and forgotten. Nothing about me at present served to even remind her of what I had once been. I was only a stranger entering into her life for the first time. This expression was in the eyes surveying me as I ate—quiet, earnest eyes, utterly devoid of suspicion. I was so busy with these thoughts that she broke the silence.
"You are a very young man," she said simply.
"Not seriously so," I answered, rather inclined to resent the charge. "I am twenty-four."
"Really! Why that is not so bad. How old am I?"
I could have told her to the day, but chose to venture a guess.
"Seventeen."
"A year and a half too young. You are no better guesser than I am. You look like a boy I used to know—only his eyes were darker, and he had long hair."
"Indeed!" I caught my breath quickly, yet held my eyes firm. "Someone living about here?"
"Yes; his name was Wyatt. I never knew him very well, only you recalled him to memory in some way. He and his mother went South when the war first broke out. Where was your home?"
"In Burlington, Vermont."
​"You are a regular soldier?"
"I was a junior at West Point last year; we were graduated ahead of our class."
Her eyes fell, the lashes outlined on her cheeks, her hands clasped on the table.
"Isn't that odd!" she said quietly. "Do you know Mme. Hactell's school for young ladies at Compton on the Hudson? That is where papa sent me, and I was at the senior hop at West Point a year ago last June. A half dozen of us girls went up; Fred Carlton, of Charleston, was in that class, and he invited me. You knew him, of course?"
My lips were dry, but I nodded, half fearful I might be slipping into some trap, although her words and manner were surely innocent enough.
"We were acquaintances, not friends," I replied, hoping the retort might cause her to change the subject.
"Most of the boys seemed to like him. He was very pleasant to me, and I had a splendid time. I met one cadet named Raymond; he had dark hair and eyes."
"Oh, yes," I managed to answer, now desperately alert. "There was another in the class—James R., I believe."
"I did not learn his first name, but when I heard that a Lieutenant Raymond was coming here, I ​hoped it might be he. That was why I was so deeply interested. It is not such a common name, you know."
I made some answer, and she sat there silently, her face turned now toward the fire in the grate. The profile held me in fascination, as I wondered what these seemingly innocent questions could signify. Were they innocently asked? or did the girl secretly suspect my identity, and my purpose? If she had recognized me as Tom Wyatt, and was pretending not, merely to learn my object, then surely she had already proven herself a remarkable actress. No expression of eye, or voice, led me to believe this. The questions were, indeed, natural enough—the only strange feature the coincident of her previous brief acquaintance with the man whom I had recklessly chosen to impersonate. Anyhow, let the truth be what it may, there was no other course left for me, but to keep on with the deception. I was in the heart of the enemy's country, in disguise, my life forfeit in case of discovery, and the time had not come when I could entrust her with so dangerous a secret.
The wind rattled the blinds, and the rain beat heavily against the side of the house. The thought of venturing out into the storm, not knowing where I could seek shelter, was not an alluring one. Nor ​had I any excuse to urge for immediate departure; indeed as a gentleman and soldier my duty called me to remain for her protection. She could not be left alone in this desolate house. These thoughts flitted through my mind, as my eyes studied her face, but the final decision was made for me. I had heard no sound other than that of the storm without, and the crackling of flames within. We seemed alone, isolated, utterly beyond the zone of danger. That others might be abroad on such a night never occurred to me. It was rather my steady gaze that roused the lady from whatever dream the flames of the grate had given her. She turned her head to meet my eyes—then sat suddenly erect, the expression of her face instantly changing, as she stared beyond me at the open door. I wheeled about to look, startled at the movement. A man stood in the doorway, water streaming from his clothes onto the floor. I was on my feet instantly, a hand gripping my revolver, but before I could whip it from the leather sheave, the girl had taken the single step forward, and grasped my sleeve.
"Do not fire!" she exclaimed. "He is not a fighting man."
The fellow lifted one arm, and stepped forward full into the light. He was a man of years, unarmed, a tall, ungainly figure, a scraggly beard at his chin, ​and a face like parchment. His eyes were two deep wells, solemn and unwinking.
"Peace to you both!" he said gravely. "I ask naught save fire and shelter."
"To these you are welcome," the girl answered, still clinging to my arm. "You travel alone?"
"Even as my master in rags and poverty, having no place wherein to lay my head. The foxes have holes, the birds of the air have nests—you know me, young woman?"
"Yes; you are Parson Nichols."
"An unworthy soldier of the Cross. I address the daughter of Major Harwood and this young man?"
"Lieutenant Raymond, of the Federal Army," she explained simply. "He sought refuge here from the storm."
The man's eyes searched my face, but without cordiality, without expression of any kind. Deliberately he removed his long, water soaked cloak, and flung it over the back of a chair, placing his hat on top. His undergarments were dry enough, butternut jeans, and he wore high boots, splashed with mud. His head, the hair upon it thin and gray, rose into a peculiar pear-shaped peak, but his temples were broad and prominent. Saying nothing he crossed to the fireplace, and held out his hands to the warmth ​of the blaze. The girl's eyes met mine almost questioningly.
"You know him?" I whispered.
"Who he is—yes; a Baptist mountain preacher. But why is he here? what purpose brings him?"
"An accident, no doubt; overtaken by the storm."
She shook her head, unconvinced. Then she stepped forward.
"We were just completing our meal," she said softly. "There is not much, but we will gladly share what we have."
"The flesh needeth nothing," he answered, not even looking around, "and the spirit liveth on the bread of life. I seek only converse with you. The young man is an officer?"
"Yes—on recruiting service."
"You know him well? you trust him?"
"I—I have not known him long," she replied hesitatingly, and glancing back at me. "Yet I have confidence in him." The man did not answer, or move, and, after a moment of silence, she asked:
"Have you ridden far?"
"From Lewisburg."
"Lewisburg!" in surprise. "Then you knew I was here? you came seeking me?"
He turned on his stool, his eyes searching her face gravely.
​"On a mission of my ministry," he replied solemnly, "although whether it prove of joy, or sorrow, I am unable to say. I am but an instrument."
The man's reluctance to speak freely was apparent, and I stepped forward.
"If you prefer conversing with Miss Harwood alone," I said quietly, "I will retire."
"The words I would speak are indeed of a confidential nature—"
"No, no!" she broke in impulsively, her eyes of appeal turned toward me. "Do not leave us, Lieutenant. This man has nothing to say I am afraid to have you hear. He has not come here as a friend; there is some evil purpose in all this, which I cannot fathom." She faced him now, her slender body poised, her eyes on his. "Tell me what it is this mysterious mission? Ay! and who sent you to find me? I will not believe it was my father."
The minister rose to his feet, a tall, ungainly figure, his solemn face as expressionless as before, but a smouldering resentment was in his deep-set eyes. He possessed the look of a fanatic, one who would hesitate at nothing to gain his end. To me he was even repulsive in his narrow bigotry.
"No, it was not your father," he said almost coarsely, "but it is a part of my mission to bring to you, young woman, the news of your father's death."
​"Death? My father dead?" she stepped back from him, her hands pressed against her eyes. Obeying the first instinct of protection, I stepped to support her as she seemed about to fall. "That cannot be! You lie! I know you lie! You were never his friend. You come here to tell me that to frighten me; to compel me to do something wrong."
The man exhibited no trace of emotion, no evidence of regret, his voice the same hard, metallic sound.
"I expected this outburst," he continued unmoved. "Indeed, it is no more than natural. I am the Lord's servant, and must expect abuse and reviling from the unconverted; yet will I not be swerved from the line of duty. It is true that the Major and I differed in many things—he was of the world worldly, while the light which guideth my path is spiritual. But I harbor no resentment, and in this hour freely forgive all. 'He that taketh the sword, shall perish by the sword,' and my words are true."
"But I saw him four days ago."
"On his way east to Hot Springs, with an escort of soldiers. It was there he was killed, together with his servant. A messenger brought the news."
"A soldier? One of Captain Fox's men?"
A sardonic smile flickered an instant on the preacher's thin lips.
​"No, but equally reliable; one of Ned Cowan's mountaineers. Captain Fox is a prisoner, wounded, and his men mostly dead."
A moment she rested unknowingly against my arm, her face covered with her hands. There was that in the man's words and manner which convinced her that he spoke the truth. Nor could I strengthen her by any denial, comfort her by any expression of hope. There was not a sob, not a sound to indicate suffering, but the face she finally lifted so that the light again fell upon it was white and drawn. The girl had changed to a woman. She stood erect, alone, one hand grasping the back of a chair.
"You say my father is dead—killed," she said, in steady, clear voice, "and that Captain Fox is wounded, and a prisoner. You tell me this on the report of one of Ned Cowan's men. It may be true, or it may be a lie, concocted to frighten me. But be that one way or the other, you never came here tonight, through this storm, to bring me such a message alone. Who sent you, Parson Nichols? What deviltry is on foot?"
"My dear young lady," he began smoothly, spreading his hands deprecatingly. "Be charitable, and just. I realize that in the first shock of thus suddenly learning of your father's demise, you naturally speak harshly. With me the past is ​forgotten, blotted out, covered with the mantle of Christian charity. I felt it my duty to break to you this sad news in all possible tenderness."
"And you had no other object?"
"Certainly not; what other could I possibly have had?"
The man lied, and I knew it; the suave, soft tones of his voice irritated me. That he was a sneaking, canting hypocrite I realized from the first glance, and my fingers itched to grip him by the throat, and wring the real truth out of him. The girl stood motionless, silent, her breath coming in sobs. Then she turned her head slightly, and her eyes met mine. The piteous appeal in their depths was all I needed. With a grim feeling of delight, I took a step forward, and the muzzle of my revolver touched his breast.
"Now, Mister Preacherman," I said shortly, "we'll have done with this play-acting. Not a move! I understand firearms. It is a soldier, not a girl, you are dealing with now."