COMPANIONS IN MISERY
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.
[Illustration: "'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.