CHAPTER XII
THE RECOGNITION
ALTHOUGH fully satisfied that all the ruffians had left the upper floor, with the exception of the unconscious Nichols, for a few moments neither of us ventured to speak or move. What would the fellows do when they discovered the lady's horse still in the stable? Would they decide we had hastily fled on foot, and scatter widely in search of some trace? There was little hope of their finding any trail to follow in the storm raging without, but they might very reasonably expect to overhaul fugitives on foot by a thorough scouring of nearby roads and fields. Lewisburg alone promised shelter and protection, and there was only one road leading to Lewisburg. Beyond doubt Cowan would send men spurring in that direction, and others probably to scour the adjacent fields as thoroughly as possible in the darkness. But in the meanwhile what should we do? was there any possibility of escape by descending? or would it be safer to remain where we were until the return of daylight? I could reach up, and feel the rafters of the roof overhead, and, now in the silence, hear the steady downpour of the rain. Our position was far from being a pleasant one, and I could not drive from my mind a haunting fear lest those villains fire the house when finally convinced of our escape. There was, to my mind, no reason why Anse Cowan should refrain from such an act of vandalism. No doubt either he or old Ned had had a hand in the earlier visit to the place, and if there was then anything in the house they desired to obtain possession of it had been attained. Of course he might be induced to spare the property from fire in the expectation that it would some time belong to him; this vague hope, no doubt, underlay the whole affair—the search for papers, the murder of the Major, the present effort to forcibly marry the daughter. All these things formed part of a well-concocted plan, through which the Cowans expected to acquire possession of Harwood's property. The war, and the consequent demoralization of the neighborhood, had given them an opportunity for revenge they were not slow to seize. Hate, the desire for vengeance, the brutal passions engendered by a feud, found ample opportunity now for full expression. Lawlessness ruled supreme in all that section between the Green Briar and the Alleghanies. Of course it would not always be so—the end of the war would bring a return to normal conditions, but with Harwood dead, his private papers in their possession, his only daughter legally married to Anse, the Cowans would be entrenched beyond any legal attack. What they took with the strong hand, they could hold.
This was the state of affairs as I began to understand them now, piecing this and that together, lying there in the darkness, listening for some sound of guidance from below. I could hear the soft breathing of the girl at my side, but she did not speak or move. She had overheard all that was said; she must also realize fully the object of these men, and the desperation of our position. Would she continue to trust me? to believe in my purpose? or had the words of betrayal spoken by Anse Cowan and Kelly left a sting of suspicion behind? If they had, would I dare to confess the truth, fully reveal my identity, and thus leave the fate of my secret mission in her hands? Her sympathies must naturally be with the Union forces; she would see the issues from the viewpoint of her father. That would have nothing to do with these banditti, but later might greatly interfere with the work to which I had been assigned. I had two duties to perform—to the army, and to this helpless girl; which was paramount if by any chance they clashed? I could not answer, but I did comprehend which came first—I must save Noreen Harwood from the merciless clutch of Anse Cowan. I must remain with her loyally, until she was safe in the protection of friends. Possibly I could accomplish this, and still retain my secret. She might not have heard, might not have clearly understood what the men said. Their denial that I could be recruiting officer Raymond might not awaken her suspicion at all. She might have been too intent on her own danger to give that a second thought, or have it make the slightest impression on her mind. At least that was the theory on which I must proceed—that she trusted me fully, and would do exactly as I advised.
"Is there any other way out of here, Miss Noreen?" I asked, scarcely above a whisper, "any opening leading to the roof?"
"I have never seen one, though often up here when I was a child."
"Then our only means of escape is by the ladder, and we dare not venture that until assured those fellows have really left. Do you hear any sound below?"
We both listened in breathless silence, but no noise reached us with any distinctness. I thought I caught the echo of a voice, but it sounded from outside the house—possibly someone yelling a report from the stable.
"Shall I risk exploring?" I asked doubtfully. "There is surely no one on this floor except Nichols, and I judge he has been knocked out for some time. We can hardly wait here for him to recover, and give us free passage. What action do you think we ought to take?"
"I certainly have no desire to remain here longer than is necessary," she answered calmly, "but I do not believe those men have all left the house. Some may be outside in the storm searching for trace of us, but there are others surely on guard below. Did you hear that? a knife fell on the floor; someone is eating in the dining room."
"I am going to lift the scuttle; possibly some light may filter up the stairs."
I was obliged to loosen it by the insertion of my knife blade, yet the clamp yielded with but little noise, and I peered eagerly down the opening. There was a lamp burning in the lower hall, the reflection sufficiently bright to reveal the general situation. No men were visible, nor did I hear any voices in conversation. One thing was certain—the upper hall was completely deserted, for I could see along its entire length. I lifted my head, and glanced back to where the girl remained silent, and motionless. My eyes, long accustomed to the darkness, could distinguish her outlines, even the dim contour of her face. She sat upright on the rough flooring, apparently regarding me intently.
"Do you find the way left clear?"
"So far as the upper hall is concerned—yes. There is a light burning below, although I can perceive no movement. They may be in the dining room, but I do not believe they will search up here again."
"You propose then lowering the ladder?"
The tone in which she asked these questions vexed me, her voice somehow sounded lifeless and cold.
"We shall certainly be more comfortably concealed in one of those rooms below," I answered, endeavoring to speak naturally, "and better able to accept any opportunity for escape which may offer."
"Yes?" The slight rising inflection stung me. What did her actions mean? Why should she so suddenly assume that tone with me? The sooner I knew the better.
"I beg your pardon, Miss Harwood," I said quietly, "but I fail to understand why you should speak to me in this manner. You have shown confidence, trust, in my former efforts to serve you, and I am just as eager now to be of service."
"You mean you wish me to have complete confidence in you?"
"Certainly. I can do nothing otherwise."
There was an instant of silence, in which her breathing was plainly audible. Beneath the shadow of an uplifted hand I felt that her eyes were upon my face.
"Very well, then," she said finally, her voice more expressive of interest. "It is surely no more than natural that I should desire to know whom I have the honor of talking with."
"But do you not know?"
"No," firmly and decisively. "I accepted you on behalf of the uniform you wore, although I could not clearly comprehend why you felt it necessary to assume the name of a brother officer, and endeavor to deceive me as to your real identity. I thought there might be a worthy reason, and so I pretended a confidence in you which I could not altogether feel. I knew you were not Charlie Raymond; there is no resemblance between you, and your explanation was lame—for there was no other cadet of that name at West Point. You heard what those men said—yet you go on pretending to me; thinking, perhaps, that I failed to understand the meaning of their words. You are the officer they referred to, are you not?"
"Yes; I escaped when Fox's command was attacked."
"You were an officer in Captain Fox's troop?"
"No; I joined him by accident at Hot Springs."
"Under what name?"
The utter uselessness of attempting to lie was apparent. Her questions were too direct, too straight-forward, for any further evasion. The slightest quibbling now would cost me her friendship forever. If I hesitated, it was scarcely noticeable.
"Under the name," I replied quietly, "of Charles H. Raymond, Lieutenant Third U. S. Cavalry, on recruiting service."
"Oh!" the exclamation burst forth in surprise at my frank avowal. "Then you did not make that up merely to deceive me? You had been passing under that name with others. You had taken it for a distinct purpose—a—a military purpose?"
"I took it," I said slowly, and deliberately, my eyes looking steadily at her, "because I knew such a Federal officer had been detailed to service in this neighborhood."
She drew in her breath quickly, making a little gesture with one hand.
"Then—then you are a Confederate?"
"Yes."
"A spy! You are falsely wearing that uniform! Are you—are you a soldier?"
"A sergeant of artillery, Miss Harwood," I replied, calm and determined now that I had once made the plunge. "I have done nothing I need be ashamed to confess. If I have taken my life in my hands to serve the cause of the South, it was in obedience to the orders of my superiors."
"Whose orders?"
"General Jackson directly; although Robert E. Lee was present, and gave final instructions."
"To come here secretly, in disguise? for what object?"
"To learn what I could of General Ramsay's forces in this district, and the disposition of the mountain men, and their leaders. There is, in war, nothing dishonorable in such a service. I am doing my duty as a soldier."
Her hands concealed her face, and I could judge nothing as to its expression; whether, or not, my words had any weight with her. She sat motionless, bent slightly forward. At last she said slowly:
"I—I know enough of of army life to be aware that men are not ordered to such hazardous work—they are asked to volunteer. Only a brave man would assume such a risk; only a man who believed in himself, and his cause. I—I like you better because you have told me. I believe you are honest with me now. I did not know what to do, or what to say before. I knew you were not Raymond, and that you were acting a lie—but could not guess your purpose. What made it harder to understand," her voice hesitating slightly, "arose because there was something about you so oddly familiar; I—I felt that I ought to recognize your face; that somewhere we had met before—have we?"
"Yes, Miss Noreen; I am Tom Wyatt."
"Why! Why, of course!" the swift expression was one of intense relief. "How stupid of me! Oh, I am so glad that I know." To my surprise she held out both hands impulsively. "Your being a spy doesn't make any difference now that I know who you really are. It is no wonder I did not recognize you—why you were only a boy—"
"Not when you rode by my mother and me on the pike."
"A year ago? I remember; yet I hardly caught a glimpse of you through the dust. You were just a boy when you were here last. Why you had long curls."
"And thought Noreen Harwood the most beautiful little girl I had even seen."
"Oh, indeed; well, you were never nice enough to say so. All I distinctly recall is that you broke my doll, and I declared I would never speak to you again."
"I hope at this time to make amends," I hastened to say, glad that even such dim memory served to break the ice between us. "Do not let my former rudeness count against me now, Miss Noreen. I appeal for forgiveness most humbly, and would even bring you a new doll."
"My wants are greater now."
"And my desire to please stronger."
She drew in her breath sharply, as though suddenly awakening to the foolishness of such idle exchange of words.
"Why, how ridiculous for us to sit here talking of our boy and girl days. For the moment I had utterly forgotten the peril of our surroundings. Why you—you are in even greater danger than I."
"Oh, no; from all I have seen and heard the Cowans must be in sympathy with the South, or they never would have made the attack on Fox's party, or held Lieutenant Raymond prisoner. I had considered going direct to Anse, revealing my identity, and demanding protection."
Her hands grasped my sleeve.
"No, not that! You do not understand, Tom Wyatt. These men care nothing for the issues of the war. They merely use them to cover up their own lawless deeds, and to assist in working out schemes of revenge. They are neither Federal, nor Confederate; they are robbers, murderers, and thieves. Is Anse Cowan here tonight for any purpose but his own? You realize what that purpose is."
"I have heard enough to make me certain," I answered. "He would force you into marriage to thus gain control of this property. The killing of Major Harwood was part of the plan."
"You know then of my father's death? You know that report to be true? Why, you said you were with Captain Fox at Hot Springs! Is it so?"
"Yes, Miss Noreen, it is true. I saw your father's body, and that of his servant Tom. I came across the mountains with the man who killed them both. I supposed him to be a scout. He called himself Jem Taylor, and when they first met your father addressed him by that name. They met by appointment at a house a mile south of Hot Springs. Your father said nothing to you of such a man?"
"No; I saw him but for a moment as he passed through Lewisburg on his way east. He was to meet a scout beyond the mountains, but no name was mentioned. What did the man Taylor look like?"
"I described him to Captain Fox, and one of his men, a sergeant, instantly pronounced the fellow to be old Ned Cowan."
"Ned Cowan! Why, that could not be! My father would never have an appointment alone with him. They have been deadly enemies for years."
"That may be true, Miss Noreen. I can only tell you what little I know. Your father might have been deceived; drawn into a trap. He was there apparently by appointment to confer with a man known to him as Taylor. Who Taylor really was I can not say—but he was an enemy, not a friend, of Major Harwood. I do not insist that the fellow was Ned Cowan, but I am sure he belonged to the gang. We trailed him nearly to New River, and had gone into camp amid the mountains when the Cowans attacked us. In my judgment the killing of your father, and the raid on this house tonight, form part of the same plan."
I do not think she was crying, although her face was buried in her hands. I turned my eyes away, down through the scuttle hole, but nothing moved along the hall below. The house seemed absolutely deserted, but the lamp continued to burn, and yet, even as I felt the strangeness of such intense silence, a door slammed somewhere in the distance, and a gruff voice spoke.