it is conceivable that a man could manage to bear without repining the loss of fame and fortune, that he could survive deprivation of rank and station with equanimity, nay, more, that he might even contemplate with a philosophic indifference an impending forfeiture of life, provided he had love to sustain him. but when that is lost, and consequently everything is gone, he has to fall back upon conscious rectitude alone, which is well enough in schemes of philosophy, but most inadequate in the emergencies and crises of real life.
lieutenant rhett sempland, under arrest, in confinement, awaiting trial, alone and unvisited by any one,—which meant fanny glen,—felt that morning as if he had indeed lost everything. he had been certain at first that fanny glen had returned his swift, impulsive caress in the strong room even in the peculiar circumstances under which he had bestowed it upon her, and he had therefore naturally inferred that she loved him. indeed, when he thought of the look in her eyes when he strained her to his breast, although he had the pistol pointed at her forehead, the conviction was strong within him.
yet, again and again this proposition presented itself to him, crushing his hope and breaking his heart: how could a woman who loved a man, and a woman especially who had become sufficiently conversant with military affairs through her hospital service and other experiences in this war to understand what she was doing, have placed her lover in so compromising a position?
and most damnably crushing thought of all, why had she not had the common decency after all to come and see him this morning? he was in trouble, and he suffered for her sake. she must know that, she must realize it. why did she give no sign of it?
his loneliness and his craving to see her was terrible. his desire to see her grew with every passing moment, he was consumed by it; yet, he thought bitterly, to what purpose, after all?
some of this had come to him last night; but the more he thought of it, the more uncertain, miserable, and deserted he felt. so it is not strange that it was not so much his own impending fate as it was the hopeless endeavor to discover the real reason for fanny glen's conduct which engrossed his attention that fateful morning.
he had failed miserably, officially and personally. he decided, against heart and hope, at last, that he had made no progress in his love affair. the woman he adored had given him convincing proof, so he argued, rebellious against the conclusion to the last, that his professional future was a matter of indifference to her; nay, that his very life was a thing she would jeopard or even forfeit lightly. lacy, as usual, had stepped in the breach and earned immortal fame, even if he had to die to secure it. sempland envied him his rest, with his brave companions in arms in the desperate sea venture, beneath the cool, green waters of the ocean that laved their beloved shore.
well, there was no use in worrying or speculating any longer. it would all be over soon now. he was sufficiently experienced as a soldier to know what would happen to him. there was only one possible verdict, only one punishment for the crimes with which he was charged.
when he was sentenced to death, his friends would undoubtedly move heaven and earth to get president davis to mitigate or commute his punishment; but he was resolved in his own mind firmly to discourage such efforts. he took a gloomy view of life and of love and of women—do they not always go together in the heart of youth? there was nothing now, therefore, for which he cared to live.
yet if he could only see fanny glen again! why did she not send some one to inquire as to his whereabouts? surely she might ask after his welfare. she must know he was under arrest. why could she not come herself? he was sacrificing himself for her, to preserve her freedom, ay, her honor and reputation. she might not love him, but at least she might have manifested a decent interest in his fate. the barest politeness ought to make a woman take some thought for a man who was about to be shot for her sake, he thought bitterly.
well, he swore to himself, if she should come at the last moment, she would find him as cold as ice, as indifferent as a laodicean! he would show her that he appreciated at its true value not only her heinous conduct, but her criminal neglect as well. he would make her understand that it was not love for her that kept him silent. oh, no! simply the obligation of a gentleman, a man of honor, albeit a quixotic one.
oh, noble resolution! he would go to his grave silent, loading upon her the weight of an obligation, from which she should never escape. when the war was over she might marry that man on the wabash whom she had been so anxious to save that she had pretended love for him—sempland! yes, he would be under obligation, too, this union sailor, for to sempland would be due his possession of fanny glen.
the imprisoned officer ground his teeth in rage at that thought and turned suddenly from the barred window where he had been standing listlessly looking down the bay toward old fort sumter, almost knocked to pieces by fierce bombardments, yet still flying the stars and bars in brave defiance of the ironclads far away, and with clenched hands, firm-set lips, and troubled brow, began pacing up and down the long apartment. the moments dragged miserably. he wished they would assemble that court-martial and have it over with. he would not care what they did, he thought savagely. he was sick and tired of the whole business—the war, the south, general beauregard, fanny glen, everything, everybody!
suddenly he heard footsteps, the clanking of a sword, a word or two exchanged between the sentry and a newcomer, in the corridor. some one turned the handle of the door. it was opened.
sempland instantly stood at attention, then folded his arms with great dignity, expecting, of course, to confront some one sent to fetch him to the opening session of the court. general beauregard was remarkable for his promptness and celerity, and he had declared that the young man should be tried immediately. he had wondered already at the unnecessary delay. but no stern-featured, dignified official presented himself. sempland's astonished gaze fell upon the small figure of a woman!
the door was instantly closed and locked behind her without a word of explanation from those outside, and the two were alone in a locked room for the second time in twenty-four hours. there was a difference in the situation that morning, although the man did not know it. on this occasion fanny glen was a prisoner as well as he.
he could not see her face as her veil still remained down, yet there was no mistaking her form. indeed he felt that had it been midnight he would have recognized her presence. his heart leaped within his breast at the sight of her. he thought it beat so she might almost have heard it in the perfect silence that had fallen between them.
his first impulse was to run toward her and take her in his arms once more. above all his troubled conclusions of the night before the recollection of that instant when he had held her so closely still remained dominant. in her presence he almost forgot everything but that. yet he looked at her impassively for a moment, bowed slightly, then turned and walked deliberately to the other end of the room, resuming his station at the window looking out to sea.
she had an excellent view of his back. the beating of his heart did not manifest itself outwardly after all. to her gaze he appeared as impassive, as quiet, as motionless, as if he had been cut out of iron like the grated bars. it was a most unsatisfactory beginning to what must prove an important interview. they played at cross purposes indeed. he had sacrificed himself to save her, she had sacrificed herself to save him, and here they were both prisoners apparently, and things were as unsettled as ever!
poor fanny glen was infinitely more surprised at the sight of her lover than he had been at the sight of her. not until she had fairly entered the room and the door had been closed behind her had she realized that she was not alone, that he was there. she stood rooted to the spot, waiting to see what he would do. had he followed his first impulse, which would have been to sweep her to his breast, he would have found her unresisting, submissive, acquiescent. the kiss which had been given her last night still trembled upon her lips. it was for the taking, she was his for the asking.
yet his first movement, save for that cold, perfunctory salutation, had been one of indifference amounting to contempt. he despised her, then; he hated her. she had brought him to a terrible position. ah, well, he would be sorry for her when he learned her reason, and he would be more sorry for his treatment of her when he learned that he would be free and she would suffer for it, not he.
there was something very attractive, after all, in her possible martyrdom. the thought gave her not a little comfort. she was surprised that sempland had not been immediately summoned to the general's presence when she had been put under guard. she supposed, however, that the delay was due to some military technicality, and she imagined that the next moment would see him called from the room in her presence. and she would be left alone, most miserably, forlornly alone to face her fate.
being a martyr is certainly a fine thing, but the position loses half its charm unless people know it. to complete her melancholy satisfaction, he—and he considered himself the martyr, not she!—must recognize it. if he would only turn and speak to her. this silence, this immobility, on his part, was unbearable.
she coughed gently and took a step or two across the floor toward him. he gave no sign that he heard her. how cruel he was! so despotic, so determined, so masterful! she abominated a masterful man! she coughed again, and this time a little more emphatically. still no attention. it was discouraging!
there was a small mirror upon the wall of the room. her eye in accordance with an instinct feminine, fell swiftly upon it. she lifted her veil to see how far the experiences she had gone through had affected her most potent talisman.
"heavens!" she thought, "what a fright!"
to take off her hat was the work of a moment. her swift, subtle fingers busied themselves with her rebellious curls. another glance reassured her a little. she felt more confident. she coughed again, but as before, he did not move.
"mr. sempland," she said softly at last, in sheer desperation.
he turned on his heel as suddenly as if he had been moved by a spring, and faced her. he had been longing for a chance to recede from his position.
"miss glen," he answered with depressing coldness.
"you—you—don't—seem very glad—to see me, sir."
the moment was one of great importance to both of them; their future, the life and happiness of one, the honor and good name of the other, depended upon it—so they thought at least. the conversation accordingly began, as conversations under such circumstances usually begin, in trivialities.
"i am not," he answered shortly and mendaciously as well.
"i suppose not. i noticed that you—your welcome—wasn't very cordial, i am sure."
"i didn't mean it to be."
"why didn't you order me out of your room, then?" she went on with becoming humility.
"this room is not mine, i am a prisoner, madam. i have no choice as to my guests."
"but you will soon be free," returned the girl, quietly. "that is, as soon as general beauregard learns that i—i—"
"give yourself no concern, miss glen," he said loftily; "i shall not betray you."
"what! you won't tell him?" with a perfect assumption of profound amazement.
"i will not," sternly.
"but they say—i heard—you are to—be—court-martialled."
her voice sank to a low whisper, as if she were awestricken by the heavy tidings.
"i am."
"and that you will be found guilty—"
"i shall be."
"and—you may—be—shot!"
"you should have thought of that last night when you arrested me, imprisoned me, and so made me false to my duty; but what's the use—" he checked the swift rush of his indignation and continued in bitter calm: "a woman who could so trifle with a soldier's honor cannot appreciate the consequences to him."
"i am sure," she went on very humbly, "that i didn't realize what would happen."
"of course not," sarcastically.
"and i am willing to make any amends that i can. i will tell general beauregard myself that i did it. that it was my fault. that i alone am to blame."
"i forbid you to do it!" he exclaimed with great energy.
"i do not care what you say, i shall do it!" stubbornly.
"you do not know what it means," he urged, his heart leaping at the thought that she was willing to set him right and take the blame upon herself—and she loved him after all! yet he could not permit her to do it. "you do not know what this would mean to you," he repeated. "it was an act of high treason to the south. they will put you in my place. they will certainly punish you."
"would they shoot me?" she inquired in her most terrified manner, her eyes wide open with beautifully simulated terror.
"'would they shoot me?' she inquired."
"'would they shoot me?' she inquired."
he felt so sorry for the poor little frightened thing. he longed to gather her up in his arms and comfort her, reassure her.
"they might," he returned, stepping nearer to her and visibly unbending. "i cannot have you take the risk. i won't allow it!"
there was something nice, after all, in the imperative mood, she thought.
"but how will you prevent it, mr. sempland?"
"i tell you, i forbid you!"
"but if i disobey? i never promised to obey you, did i?—that is, not yet?"
"i cannot compel you, of course," he answered sadly, drawing back a little. "i know i have neither power nor influence over you, miss glen, but this, at least, i can do. i can swear that you are not telling the truth."
"i am sure they would not believe you against me," she retorted vehemently.
