The Red Mist/Chapter 8
CHAPTER VIII
THE MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE
THERE was no keyhole through which I could peer, and the opening above the floor was the merest crack. I stood with ear pressed against the panel, fingers gripping the butt of my revolver. Not a movement within could be distinguished. What might be the meaning of all this? What would I encounter when I dashed that door open, and faced the occupant of the room? Who could the fellow possibly be? For what purpose should he shut himself up here alone? Two answers to this last query occurred to me—he might be asleep; or, if by any chance this had been the Major's room, he might be busy rifling his desk. But there was no rustle of papers, no movement of any kind. I stood there for what seemed to me a long while, listening vainly for any sound which would indicate life within, the conviction constantly growing on me that the, man slept. An ordinary latch held the door closed, and I pressed this, opening the barrier slightly. The movement made not the slightest noise, and gave me a glimpse within. A narrow bed, unoccupied, undisturbed, its coverlet white and unwrinkled, stood against the wall. At the foot a small stand held a few books, and above this hung the picture of a gray-haired woman. This was all the view the narrow opening revealed, but served to render me even more cautious—the occupant was not lying down.
Yet I could not stop then; could not safely retreat. Even if someone sat there, hidden from view, patiently waiting to gain glimpse of me to kill, I must go on and discover the truth. My revolver was at the crack, ready, and my left hand slowly opened the door wider. Now I could see the opposite wall, and the space between, and I stood there motionless, breathless, yet feeling my very flesh quiver at the unexpected revealment. In front of a small grate fire, her back toward me, snuggled comfortably down in the depths of an easy chair, sat a woman, reading. I could see little of her because of the high back of the chair rising between us—only a mass of dark brown hair, a smooth, rounded cheek, and the small white hand resting on the chair arm. I knew vaguely her waist was white, her skirt gray, and I saw the glimmer of a pearl-handled pistol lying on a closed chest at her side. Still she was only a woman, a mere girl apparently, whom I had no cause to fear. The sudden reaction caused me to 
The book fell to the floor, her hand gripping the pistol
"Who are you? Why are you here?" she asked tersely, a tremor in the voice, but no shrinking in those eyes that looked straight at me.
I moved forward from out of the shadow into the radius of light. It was only a step, but the girl recoiled slightly, the pearl-handled pistol rising instantly to a level with my eyes.
"Stand where you are!" she ordered. "What are you doing, creeping about this house in the dark?"
"Not in the dark exactly," I answered, seeking to relieve the strain, and holding my hat in one hand, as I bowed gravely, "for my lamp is on the stairs."
I marked the quick change of expression in her eyes as they swept over me. There was no evidence of recognition; scarcely more than a faint acknowledgment that my appearance was not entirely unfavorable. Yet surely that alone was all I could hope for. Except for that one chance encounter on the road we had never met since we were children, and she would not likely associate the son of Judge Wyatt with the man now confronting her, attired in the wet and muddy uniform of a Federal Lieutenant. Indeed it was better she should not; and a feeling of relief swept over me as I realized her failure to connect me with the past. No memory of my features found expression in her face, as her eyes fell from mine to the clothes I wore.
"You are Union? an officer of—of cavalry? I—I can scarcely comprehend why you should be here." Her attitude no longer threatening, the gleaming pistol lowered. "There are Federal troops at Lewisburg, but—but I do not recall your face."
"My being here is wholly an accident," I explained quietly. "I supposed the house deserted, and sought entrance to get away from the storm. There was a broken window—"
"Yes," she interrupted, her eyes again on mine questioningly. "I found that when I came; someone had broken in."
"Robbery, no doubt."
"I am not sure as to that. I have found nothing of any value missing. Indeed we left nothing here to attract vandals." She hesitated, as though doubtful of the propriety of further explanation to a stranger. "I—I belong here," she added simply. "This is my home."
"Yes; I supposed as much; you are Miss Noreen Harwood?"
Her blue eyes widened, her hand grasping more tightly the back of the chair.
"Yes," she admitted. "You knew my father?"
"Slightly; enough to be aware of the existence of his daughter, and that this was his plantation."
"Then you must be connected with the garrison at Charleston?"
"No, Miss Harwood; I belong to the Army of the Potomac, and am here only on recruiting service. A word of explanation will make the situation clear, and I trust may serve to win your confidence. I do not have the appearance of a villain, do I?"
"No, or I should not remain parleying with you," she responded gravely. "The war has taught even the women of this section the lesson of self-protection. I am not at all afraid, or I should not be here alone."
"It surprises me, however, that Major Harwood should consent to your remaining—"
"He has not consented," she interrupted. "I am supposed to be safely lodged with friends in Lewisburg, but rode out here this afternoon to see the condition of our property. Word came to me that the house had been entered. The servants have all gone, and we were obliged to leave it unoccupied. I was delayed, seeking to discover what damage the vandals had done, and then suddenly the storm broke, and I thought it better to remain until morning."
She laughed, as though amused at her own frankness of speech.
"There, I have told you all my story, without even waiting to hear yours. 'Tis a woman's way, if her impulse be sufficiently strong."
"You mean faith in the other party?"
"Of course; one cannot be conventional in wartimes, and there is no one here to properly introduce us, even if that formality was desired. So I must accept you on trust."
"My uniform alone should be sufficient guarantee."
She laughed; her eyes sparkling.
"Well hardly. I imagine you fail to comprehend its really disreputable condition. No doubt, sir, it was at one time a thing of beauty, for I cannot justly criticise the rather fashionable cut, or the quality of cloth, but it has evidently passed through both stress and weather. No," shaking her head solemnly, yet with frank good humor in her eyes, "the uniform is no recommendation whatever, and but—well, you—you look like an officer and a gentleman."
"For which compliment I sincerely thank you. That is far better than a dependence on clothes alone, yet never before did I feel that my face was my fortune. However, Miss Harwood, my story can be quickly told. I am a lieutenant, Third United States Cavalry—see, the numeral is on my hat—attached to Heitzelman's command, now at Fairfax Court House. I have recently been detailed to the recruiting service, and ordered to this section. If necessary to convince you of my identity you may even examine the official papers in this packet."
She shook her head, her glance straying from the official buff envelope back to my face. The look in her eyes was expressive of some slight bewilderment.
"No; that is not necessary. I believe your word."
I found it strangely difficult, fronting her calm look of insistence, to go on. But there was no way of escape. Beyond doubt the sympathy of this girl was with the cause of the North, and if I was to confess myself Tom Wyatt, and a Confederate spy, all hope of the success of my mission would be immediately ended. Besides I lacked the will to forfeit her esteem—to permit her confidence in me to become changed into suspicion.
"Then I will go on," I said more slowly, endeavoring better to arrange my story. "I picked up a guide at Fayette, but the officer in command there could spare no escort. The man who went with me must have been a traitor, for he guided me south into the Green Briar Mountains. Last night at dusk we rode into a camp of guerrillas."
"Who commanded them? Did you learn?"
"A gray-headed, seamed-faced mountaineer, they called Cowan."
She emitted a quick breath, between closely pressed lips.
"You know the man?" I asked.
"Yes; old Ned Cowan; he lived over yonder, east of here in the foot-hills. He and—and my father had some trouble before the war. He—he is vindictive and dangerous." She stopped, her glance sweeping about the room. "I—I have some reason to suspect," she added, as if half doubting whether she ought to speak the word, "that either he, or one of his men, broke in here."
"In search of something?"
"A paper; yes—a deed. Of course I may be mistaken; only it is not to be found. The desk in the library was rifled, and its contents scattered over the floor when I came. I put them back in place, but found nothing of value among those that remained. My father must have removed those of importance.
"Possibly he carried them with him?"
She leaned her head on her hand, her eyes thoughtful.
"I think he once told me they were left in charge of a banker at Charleston—an old friend. It would be too dangerous to carry them about with him in the field. You see I do not know very much about his affairs," she explained. "I was away at school when the war broke out, and we have only met briefly since. My father did not talk freely of his personal matters even to me. I learned of his feud with Cowan by accident."
"It was a feud then?"
"On one side at least. My father was shot at, and several of our outhouses burned. The trouble arose over the title to property. Cowan," she explained, "was a squatter on land which had belonged to our family ever since my grandfather first settled here. We had title from Virginia, but the tract granted had never been properly surveyed. My father had it done, and discovered that Ned Cowan and two of his sons occupied a part of our land with no legal right."
Her eyes uplifted to my face, and then fell again, one hand opening and closing on the back of the chair. She laughed pleasantly.
"I hardly know why I am telling you all this family history," she continued almost in apology. "It is as if I talked to an old friend who was naturally interested in our affairs."
"I am interested, although I can scarcely claim the distinction of old friend."
"Really. I supposed your attitude was that of mere politeness. But I may as well go on now, although I am not at all inclined to confide so suddenly in a stranger. People, I believe, usually find me rather secretive."
"Perhaps the manner of our meeting accounts for the change," I ventured. "But truly I am more deeply interested than you imagine. It may prove of mutual advantage for me to know the facts. Did Major Harwood try to force them from his land?"
"Oh, no," hastily, "my father had no such thought. He tried to help them to purchase the property at a very small price, and on long time. His intention was to aid them, but he found himself unable to convince either father or sons of his real purpose. They either could not, or would not, understand. Do you realize the reckless, lawless nature of these mountain men?"
"Yes, to some extent; they trust no one."
"That was the whole trouble. Seemingly they possessed but one idea—that if my father was killed they could remain where they were indefinitely. Their single instinct was to fight it out with rifles. They refused to either purchase or leave.
There was silence, as though she had finished, and I was endeavoring to connect this revelation of affairs, in my own mind, with the known occurrences of the past few days. She had seated herself on the wide arm of the chair, still facing me, and I could hear the rain beating hard against the side of the house. Suddenly she looked up into my face.
"How odd that I should talk to you so freely," she exclaimed. "Why I do not even know your name."
"It was written in the papers."
"But I did not look—what is it, please?"
"Charles H. Raymond."
I could not be certain that the expression of her eyes changed, for they suddenly looked away from me, and she stood again upon her feet.
"Raymond, you say!" the slightest hardening of tone apparent, "on recruiting service from the Army of the Potomac?" She drew a quick breath. "I—I think I have heard the name before. Would you mind if I did ask to see your orders?"
"Not in the least," I answered, not wholly surprised that she should have heard of the other, and confident the papers I bore would be properly executed. "I prefer that you have no doubt as to my identity."
She took them, and I noted a slight trembling of her hands as she held the paper open in her fingers, her eyes glancing swiftly down the written lines. She had doubtless heard of this Raymond, some rumor of his coming—perhaps Fox had mentioned it as he rode through Lewisburg on the way east. It was merely curiosity that caused a desire to peruse the papers, a mere wish to thoroughly satisfy herself. Her eyes were clear of suspicion as they glanced at me over the paper
"I have become quite a soldier of late," she said, and handed the package back to me. "And I cannot doubt your credentials. I am very glad to meet you, Lieutenant Raymond," and she held out her hand cordially. "As I have admitted already, I am Noreen Harwood."
"Whom I shall only be delighted to serve in any manner possible," I replied gallantly, relieved that she was so easily convinced.
"Oh, I think the service is more likely to be mine. You confessed you broke in here seeking after food and a fire. Down below we may find both, and it will be my pleasure thus to serve a Federal officer. You have a lamp without?"
"On the stairs?"
She led the way like a mistress in her own home, and I followed. There was a force of character about the girl not to be ignored. She chose to treat me as a guest, uninvited, but none the less welcome, a position I was not reluctant to accept. I held the lamp as we went down the stairs together, the rays of light pressing aside the curtain of darkness.