MISERABLE PAIR AND MISERABLE NIGHT
Sempland's mind was in a fearful turmoil. It had all come so suddenly
and unexpectedly upon him that as yet he hardly realized the gravity of
his situation, although it could scarcely be worse. He was under arrest
and in confinement, facing such serious charges as neglect of duty,
disobedience of orders, treason, cowardice! As to these last, he was so
conscious of his loyalty and intrepidity that they did not worry him so
much as they might have done. The other things were bad enough, but
surely, surely, no one could ever believe him either a traitor or a
coward!
His mind did not dwell on his own situation as it might have done,
either, if it had not been for Fanny Glen. Instinctively he had stepped
forward to gather her in his arms when she fainted before him on the
wharf that night, but he had been sternly waved back by the general,
and without being given a chance to learn anything about her condition
he had been hurried to headquarters and heavily guarded in the room
where he was to be held pending Beauregard's further pleasure. As for
Fanny Glen, although Sempland could not know it, the surgeon who had
been present had speedily revived that young woman, a carriage had been
summoned, and she had been taken home under the escort of one of the
staff officers.
Sempland was utterly unable to fathom her mysterious conduct. He had
thought upon it swiftly as he could during those trying moments which
had been so filled with action, but he had not had time, until in the
quiet and solitude of his confinement, to give it any calm
consideration. He was at a loss to understand her actions.
Was she a traitor to the South? Did she think to prevent the loss of
the flagship of the Federal fleet by detaining him? That could not be,
for if ever truth and sincerity shone in a woman's face and were
evinced in a woman's actions, they were in Fanny Glen's appearance and
life. Her patriotism was unquestioned. That hypothesis must be
dismissed at once.
Was it because she loved him so that, fancying the expedition promised
certain death to him, she had taken this unfortunate method of
preserving his life? He had not been too agitated in the strong room of
her house to realize as he held her that in some mysterious way she was
happy at being in his arms. His heart leaped at the recollection. She
had not struggled. She had almost nestled against him.
He could recall the clasp of her arms, the kiss that she had given him,
the words that she had said. He was almost sure that she loved him as
he thought of these things.
Yet--she had disgraced him, dishonored him! That was not the act of a
loving woman. She had shown herself possessed of a full measure of
womanly heroism and courage. She knew exactly what was involved in his
failure to carry out his orders. How could she have done it? Was it all
acting then? Did her kisses betray him? Was she indeed a traitor--and
to him? Yet--for whom?
There was Lacy--oh, had he repented after all? Had he wished to resume
the command he had so reluctantly surrendered? Had she been a party to
any plan whereby the matter might be brought about? Was he to be shamed
and sacrificed for Lacy's glory and honor by this woman? Perish the
thought! Yet why had she fainted on the wharf? Was it at the mention of
Lacy's name? Was she alarmed for his safety? If that were the case, why
had she not striven to restrain Lacy and allowed him to go in his
place?
Suddenly there flashed into his mind that there might be some one on
the _Wabash_ whom she wished to protect! Could that be the solution of
the mystery? No one knew anything of her origin, her past history. Was
she faithful to the South, yet had she a--a--lover in the Union fleet?
Was she indeed what he called her, a heartless coquette? He could have
sworn from that brief moment when he held her in his arms, when he
looked at her, that she loved him. She had returned his kiss. Oh, had
she? Was it a dream? A play? To deceive him? Great God! was he going
mad?
Of only one thing was he certain. He could never disclose to any one
the cause of his failure to present himself on the wharf in time.
Whether she loved Lacy, or some one in the Union fleet, made no
difference to his love. He would love her till he died. Ay, he would
love her even in the face of her treachery, her faithlessness--everything!
He hated himself for this, but it was true, he could not deny it.
And he would save her from the consequences of her action at the cost
of his life--his honor even. What had he to live for anyway, if she
were taken from him? Death might come. It would come. He would make no
defence. It was quite within the power of a court-martial to order him
shot. And it was quite within the power of a court-martial to punish
Fanny Glen, too, if he fastened the culpability for his failure upon
her; perhaps not by death, but certainly by disgrace and shame. The
city was under martial rule, General Beauregard was supreme. No, he
could not expose her to that condemnation--he loved her too well.
Yet he wished that he could hate her, as he paced up and down the long
room, stopping at the windows to stare out into the dark in the
direction of the sea--where he should have been if all had gone well.
He was too far away to hear the explosion of the torpedo, which was
muffled, because it took place under water, but he could hear the
batteries of the ships as they opened on the blockade-runners, and the
answer from the forts, and he knew that something had happened at any
rate. And his suspense as to that added to his wretchedness. Lacy had
supplanted him and reaped the glory--again. It was maddening. No one
came to bring him any word. The general concluded to postpone his
inquiry until the next morning, and Sempland paced the floor the night
long in a pitiable condition of wounded love, blasted hope, shattered
fame.
At home, not far away, poor Fanny Glen was even more miserable than
Rhett Sempland, for she had divined--yes, so soon as the two men had
left her presence the afternoon before, she had recognized the
fact--that she loved Sempland. Conviction had grown upon her swiftly,
and in those moments when she was fearful that he would succeed in his
purpose, when she had kept him a prisoner in her home to prevent him
from taking out the _David_ to try to blow up the _Wabash_, she knew
that she loved him.
When he had held her in his arms in that bold and successful effort to
escape, when he had strained her to his breast, when he had kissed
her--oh, that kiss!--the consciousness of her passion overwhelmed her.
The recollection of it even filled her with passionate tenderness. She
had not been afraid when he had threatened her with the pistol. She
could have died easily then--in his arms, with his kiss upon her lips,
his heart beating against her own. He loved her! Nothing else mattered
for the moment.
She had endeavored to keep him a prisoner partly for his own sake, but
principally for another and greater reason. She had not thought of
disgrace or shame to him. It had all come so swiftly. She had no time
to reflect at all. She had decided upon impulse, with but one thought
at first--to save the Union ship. In her sudden alarm and anxiety she
had not realized that she was playing a traitor's part. Or if she had,
she had done it willingly, in the belief that the punishment would fall
upon her, and that he would be held blameless.
But for whatever reason she had acted as she had, she had failed after
all, for another had taken Sempland's part, and the flagship, if the
_David_ succeeded, was doomed. Her sacrifice was unavailing. She had
lost everything. Sempland had shrunk away from her when she had
confronted him and the general on the wharf, and when she had recovered
consciousness he was gone. She could not know his heart had gone out to
her lying there, nor how they had hurried him away from her prostrate
figure.
He would never forgive her--never! she thought miserably. He was under
arrest now. What was that word she had caught as she ran toward them?
Coward! They would kill him perhaps. She had lost all--love, the ship,
everything! Lacy, too, was gone. He had taken the boat out in
Sempland's place. Why had she not thought of that possibility? And he
had loved her, and he would never come back.
With a misery akin to Sempland's she heard the bombardment which
proclaimed that something had happened. Had the flagship been blown up?
Nothing was left to her. She would go to the general and tell the truth
in the morning, and then--he would be free. They could punish her and
she could die. Well, death would be welcome.
[Illustration: "Poor little Fanny Glen ... she had lost on every
hand."]
Poor little Fanny Glen! She had played, and played the fool
exceedingly--and she had lost on every hand!