MR. SEFTON MAKES A CONFIDENCE
Prescott now resolved, whatever happened, to make another attempt at the
escape of Lucia Catherwood. Threats of danger, unspoken, perhaps, but to
his mind not the less formidable, were multiplying, and he did not
intend that they should culminate in disaster. The figure of that woman,
so helpless and apparently the sole target at this moment of a powerful
Government, made an irresistible appeal to him.
But there were moments of doubt, when he asked himself if he were not
tricked by the fancy, or rather by a clever and elusive woman--as
cunning as she was elusive--who led him, and who looked to the end and
not to the means. He saw something repellent in the act of being a spy,
above all when it was a woman who took the part. His open nature
rejected such a trade, even if it were confined to the deed of a moment
done under impulse. She had assured him that she was innocent, and there
was a look of truth in her face when she said it; but to say it and to
look it was in the business of being a spy, and why should she differ
from others?
But these moments were brief; they would come to his mind and yet his
mind in turn would cast them out. He remembered her eyes, the swell of
her figure, her noble curves. She was not of the material that would
turn to so low a trade, he said to himself over and over again.
He was still thinking of a plan to save her and trying to find a way
when a message arrived directing him to report at once to the Secretary
of War. He surmised that he would receive instructions to rejoin General
Lee as soon as possible, and he felt a keen regret that he should not
have time to do the thing he wished most to do; but he lost no time in
obeying the order.
The Secretary of War was in his office, sitting in a chair near the
window, and farther away slightly in the shadow was another figure, more
slender but stronger. Prescott recognized again, with that sudden and
involuntary feeling of fear, the power of the man. It was Mr. Sefton,
his face hidden in the shadows, and therefore wholly unread. But as
usual the inflexibility of purpose, the hardening of resolve followed
Prescott's emotion, and his figure stiffened as he stood at attention to
receive the commands of the mighty--that is, the Secretary of War of the
Confederate States of America.
But the Secretary of War was not harsh or fierce; instead, he politely
invited the young Captain to a chair and spoke to him in complimentary
terms, referring to his gallant services on many battlefields, and
declaring them not unknown to those who held the strings of power. Mr.
Sefton, from the security of the shadows, merely nodded to their guest,
and Prescott returned the welcome in like fashion, every nerve attuned
for what he expected to prove an ordeal.
"Many officers are brave," began the Secretary of War, "and it is not
the highest compliment when we call you such, Captain Prescott. Indeed,
we mean to speak much better of you when we say that you have bravery,
allied with coolness and intelligence. When we find these in one person
we have the ideal officer."
Prescott could not do less than bow to this flattery, but he wondered
what such a curious prelude foreshadowed. "It means no good to me," he
thought, "or he would not begin with such praise." But he said aloud:
"I am sure I have some zealous friend to thank for commendation so much
beyond my desert."
"It is not beyond your desert, but you have a friend to thank
nevertheless," replied the Secretary of War. "A friend, too, whom no man
need despise. I allude to Mr. Sefton here, one of the ablest members of
the Government, one who surpasses most of us in insight and pertinacity.
It is he who, because of his friendship for you and faith in you,
wishes to have you chosen for an important and delicate service which
may lead to promotion."
Prescott stared at this man whose words rang so hollow in his ear, but
he could see no sign of guile or satire on the face of the Secretary of
War. On the contrary, it bore every appearance of earnestness, and he
became convinced that the appearance was just. Then he cast one swift
glance at the inscrutable Mr. Sefton, who still sat in the shadow and
did not move.
"I thank you for your kind words," he said to the Secretary of War, "and
I shall appreciate very much the honour, of which you give me an
intimation."
The great man smiled. It is pleasant to us all to confer benefits and
still pleasanter to know that they are appreciated.
"It is a bit of work in the nature of secret service, Captain Prescott,"
he continued, "and it demands a wary eye and a discerning mind."
Prescott shuddered with repulsion. Instinctively he foresaw what was
coming, and there was no task which he would not have preferred in its
place. And he was expected, too, at such a moment, to look grateful.
"You will recall the episode of the spy and the abstraction of the
papers from the President's office," continued the Secretary of War in
orotund and complaisant tones. "It may seem to the public that we have
dropped this matter, which is just what we wish the public to think, as
it may lull the suspicions of the suspected. But we are more resolved
than ever to secure the guilty!"
Prescott glanced again at Mr. Sefton, but he still sat in the shadow,
and Prescott believed that he had not yet moved either hand or foot in
the whole interview.
"To be brief, Captain Prescott," resumed the Secretary of War, "we wish
you to take charge of this service which, I repeat, we consider delicate
and important."
"Now?" asked Prescott.
"No, not immediately--in two or three days, perhaps; we shall notify
you. We are convinced the guilty are yet in Richmond and cannot escape.
It is important that we capture them, as we may unearth a nest of
conspirators. I trust that you see the necessity of our action."
Prescott bowed, though he was raging inwardly, and it was in his mind to
decline abruptly such a service, but second thought told him a refusal
might make a bad matter worse. He would have given much, too, to see the
face of Mr. Sefton--his fancy painted there a smile of irony.
As the Secretary of War seemed to have said all that he intended,
Prescott turned to go, but he added a word of thanks to Mr. Sefton,
whose voice he wished to hear. Mr. Sefton merely nodded, and the young
Captain, as he went out, hesitated on the doorstep as if he expected to
hear sardonic laughter behind him. He heard nothing.
The fierce touch of the winter outside cooled his blood, and as he
walked toward his home he tried to think of a way out of the difficulty.
He kept repeating to himself the words of the Secretary of War: "In two
or three days we shall send for you," and from this constant repetition
an idea was born in his head. "Much may be done in two or three days,"
he said to himself, "and if a man can do it I will!" and he said it with
a sense of defiance.
His brain grew hot with the thought, and he walked about the city, not
wishing yet to return to his home. He had been walking, he knew not how
long, when a hand fell lightly upon his arm and, turning, he beheld the
bland face of Mr. Sefton.
"May I walk a little with you, Captain Prescott?" he said. "Two heads
are sometimes better than one."
Prescott was hot alike with his idea and with wrath over his recent
ordeal; moreover, he hated secret and underhand parts, and spoke
impulsively:
"Mr. Secretary, I have you to thank for this task, and I do not thank
you at all!"
"Why not? Most young officers wish a chance for promotion."
"But you set me spying to catch a spy! There are few things in the world
that I would rather not do."
"You say 'you set me spying'! My dear sir, it was the Secretary of War,
not I."
"Mr. Sefton," exclaimed Prescott angrily, "why should we fence with
words any longer? It is you and you alone who are at the bottom of
this!"
"Since that is your theory, my dear Captain, what motive would you
assign?"
Prescott was slow to wrath, but when moved at last he had little fear of
consequences, and it was so with him now. He faced the Secretary and
gazed at him steadily, even inquiringly. But, as usual, he read nothing
in the bland, unspeaking countenance before him.
"There is a motive, an ulterior motive," he replied. "For days now you
have been persecuting me and I am convinced that it is for a purpose."
"And if so ready to read an unspoken purpose in my mind, then why not
read the cause of it?"
Prescott hesitated. This calm, expressionless man with the impression of
power troubled him. The Secretary again put his hand lightly upon his
arm.
"We are near the outskirts of the city, Captain," said Mr. Sefton, "and
I suggest that we walk on toward the fortifications in order that none
may overhear what we have to say. It may be that you and I shall arrive
at such an understanding that we can remain friends."
There was suggestion in the Secretary's words for the first time,
likewise a command, and Prescott willingly adopted his plan. Together
the two strolled on through the fields.
"I have a tale to tell," began the Secretary, "and there are
preliminaries and exordiums, but first of all there is a question.
Frankly, Captain Prescott, what kind of a man do you think I am?"
Prescott hesitated.
"I see you do not wish to speak," continued the Secretary, "because the
portrait you would paint is unflattering, but I will paint it for
you--at least, the one that you have in your mind's eye. You think me
sly and intriguing, eaten up by ambition, and caring for nobody in the
world but myself. A true portrait, perhaps, so far as the external
phases go, and the light in which I often wish to appear to the world,
but not true in reality."
Prescott waited in silence to hear what the other might have to say, and
whatever it was he was sure that it would be of interest.
"That I am ambitious is true," continued the Secretary; "there are few
men not old who are not so, and I think it better to have ambition than
to be without it. But if I have ambition I also have other qualities. I
like my friends--I like you and would continue to like you, Captain
Prescott, if you would let me. It is said here that I am not a true
Southerner, whatever may be my birth, as my coldness, craft and
foresight are not Southern characteristics. That may be true, but at
least I am Southern in another character--I have strong, even violent
emotions, and I love a woman. I am willing to sacrifice much for her."
The Secretary's hand was still resting lightly on Prescott's arm, and
the young Captain, feeling it tremble, knew that his companion told the
truth.
"Yes," resumed Mr. Sefton, "I love a woman, and with all the greater
fire because I am naturally undemonstrative and self-centred. The stream
comes with an increased rush when it has to break through the ice. I
love a woman, I say, and I am determined to have her. You know well who
it is!"
"Helen Harley," said Prescott.
"I love Helen Harley," continued the Secretary, "and there are two men
of whom I am jealous, but I shall speak first of one--the one whom I
have feared the longer and the more. He is a soldier, a young man
commended often by his superiors for gallantry and skill--deservedly so,
too--I do not seek to deny it. He is here in Richmond now, and he has
known Helen Harley all his life. They were boy and girl together. But he
has become mixed in an intrigue here. There is another woman----"
"Mr. Sefton! You proposed that we understand each other, and that is
just what I wish, too. You have been watching me all this time."
"Watching you! Yes, I have, and to purpose!" exclaimed the Secretary.
"You have done few things in Richmond that have not come to my
knowledge. Again I ask you what kind of a man do you think I am? When I
saw you standing in my path I resolved that no act of yours should
escape me. You know of this spy, Lucia Catherwood, and you know where
she is. You see, I have even her name. Once I intended to arrest her and
expose you to disgrace, but she had gone. I am glad now that we did not
find her. I have a better use for her uncaught, though it annoys me that
I cannot yet discover where she was when we searched that house."
The cold chill which he had felt before in the presence of this man
assailed Prescott again. He was wholly within his power, and
metaphorically, he could be broken on the wheel if the adroit and
ruthless Secretary wished it. He bit his dry lip, but said nothing,
still waiting for the other.
"I repeat that I have a better use for Miss Catherwood," continued Mr.
Sefton. "Do you think I should have gone to all this trouble and touched
upon so many springs merely to capture one misguided girl? What harm can
she do us? Do you think the result of a great war and the fate of a
continent are to be decided by a pair of dark eyes?"
They were walking now along a half-made street that led into the fields.
Behind them lay the city, and before them the hills and the forest, all
in a robe of white. Thin columns of smoke rose from the earthworks,
where the defenders hovered over the fires, but no one was near enough
to hear what the two men said.
"Then why have you held your hand?" asked Prescott.
"Why?" and the Secretary actually laughed, a smooth, noiseless laugh,
but a laugh nevertheless, though so full of a snaky cunning that
Prescott started as if he had been bitten. "Why, because I wished you,
Robert Prescott, whom I feared, to become so entangled that you would
be helpless in my hands, and that you have done. If I wish I can have
you dismissed from the army in disgrace--shot, perhaps, as a traitor. In
any event, your future lies in the hollow of my hand. You are wholly at
my mercy. I speak a word and you are ruined."
"Why not speak it?" Prescott asked calmly. His first impulse had passed,
and though his tongue was dry in his mouth the old hardening resolve to
fight to the last came again.
"Why not speak it? Because I do not wish to do so--at least, not yet.
Why should I ruin you? I do not dislike you; on the contrary, I like
you, as I have told you. So, I shall wait."
"What then?"
"Then I shall demand a price. I am not in this world merely to pass
through it mechanically, like a clock wound up for a certain time. No; I
want things and I intend to have them. I plan for them and I make
sacrifices to get them. My one desire most of all is Helen Harley, but
you are in the way. Stand out of it--withdraw--and no word of mine shall
ever tell what I know. So far as I am concerned there shall be no Lucia
Catherwood. I will do more: I will smooth her way from Richmond for her.
Now, like a wise man, pay this price, Captain Prescott. It should not be
hard for you."
He spoke the last words in a tone half insinuating, half ironical.
Prescott flushed a deep red. He did love Helen Harley; he had always
loved her. He had not been away from her so much recently because of any
decrease in that love; it was his misfortune--the pressure of ugly
affairs that compelled him. Was the love he bore her to be thrown aside
for a price? A price like that was too high to pay for anything.
"Mr. Secretary," he replied icily, "they say that you are not of the
South in some of your characteristics, and I think you are not. Do you
suppose that I would accept such a proposition? I could not dream of it.
I should despise myself forever if I were to do such a thing."
He stopped and faced the Secretary angrily, but he saw no reflection of
his own wrath in the other's face; on the contrary, he had never before
seen him look so despondent. There was plenty of expression now on his
countenance as he moodily kicked a lump of snow out of his way. Then Mr.
Sefton said:
"Do you know in my heart I expected you to make that answer. You would
never have put such an alternative to a rival, but I--I am different. Am
I responsible? No; you and I are the product of different soils and we
look at things in a different way. You do not know my history. Few do
here in Richmond--perhaps none; but you shall know, and then you will
understand."
Prescott saw that this man, who a moment ago was threatening him, was
deeply moved, and he waited in wonder.
"You have never known what it is," resumed the Secretary, speaking in
short, choppy tones so unlike his usual manner that the voice might have
belonged to another man, "to belong to the lowest class of our people--a
class so low that even the negro slaves sneered at and despised it; to
be born to a dirt floor, and a rotten board roof and four log walls! A
goodly heritage, is it not? Was not Providence kind to me? And is it not
a just and kind Providence?"
He laughed with concentrated bitterness, and a feeling of pity for this
man whom he had been dreading so much stole over Prescott.
"We talk of freedom and equality here in the South," continued the
Secretary, "and we say we are fighting for it; but not in England itself
is class feeling stronger, and that is what we are fighting to
perpetuate. I say that you have no such childhood as mine to look back
to--the squalour, the ignorance, the sin, the misery, and above all the
knowledge that you have a brain in your head and the equal knowledge
that you are forbidden to use it--that places and honours are not for
you!"
Again he fiercely kicked a clump of snow from his path and gazed
absently across the fields toward the wintry horizon, his face full of
passionate protestation. Prescott was still silent, his own position
forgotten now in the interest aroused by this sudden outburst.
"If you are born a clod it is best to be a clod," continued the
Secretary, "but that I was not. As I said, I have a brain in my head,
and eyes to see. From the first I despised the squalour and the misery
around me, and resolved to rise above it despite all the barriers of a
slave-holding aristocracy, the most exclusive aristocracy in the world.
I thought of nothing else. You do not know my struggles; you cannot
guess them--the years and the years and all the bitter nights. They say
that any oppressed and despised race learns and practises craft and
cunning. So does a man; he must--he has no other choice.
"I learned craft and cunning and practised them, too, because I had to
do so. I did things that you have never done because you were not driven
to them, and at last I saw the seed that I had planted begin to grow.
Then I felt a joy that you can never feel because you have never worked
for an object, and never will work for it, as I have done. I have
triumphed. The best in the South obey me because they must. It is not
the title or the name, for there are those higher than mine, but it is
the power, the feeling that I have the reins in my hand and can guide."
"If you have won your heart's desire why do you rail at fate?" asked
Prescott.
"Because I have not won my wish--not all of it. They say there is a weak
spot in every man's armour; there is always an Achilles' heel. I am no
exception. Well, the gods ordained that I, James Sefton, a man who
thought himself made wholly of steel, should fall in love with a piece
of pink-and-white girlhood. What a ridiculous bit of nonsense! I suppose
it was done to teach me I am a fool just like other men. I had begun to
believe that I was exceptional, but I know better now."
"Then you call this a weakness and regret it?"
"Yes, because it interferes with all my plans. The time that I should be
devoting to ambition I must sacrifice for a weakness of the heart."
The low throb of a distant drum came from a rampart, and the Secretary
raised his head, as if the sound gave a new turn to his thoughts.
"Even the plans of ambition may crumble," he said. "Since I am speaking
frankly of one thing, Captain Prescott, I may speak likewise of another.
Have you ever thought how unstable may prove this Southern Confederacy
for which we are spending so much blood?"
"I have," replied Prescott with involuntary emphasis.
"So have I; again I speak to you with perfect frankness, because it will
not be to your profit to repeat what I say. Do you realize that we are
fighting against the tide, or, to put it differently, against the weight
of all the ages? When one is championing a cause opposed to the tendency
of human affairs his victories are worse than his defeats because they
merely postpone the certain catastrophe. It is impossible for a
slave-holding aristocracy under any circumstances to exist much longer
in the world. When the apple is ripe it drops off the tree, and we
cannot stay human progress. The French Revolution was bound to triumph
because the institutions that it destroyed were worn out; the American
Colonies were bound to win in their struggle with Britain because nature
had decreed the time for parting; and even if we should succeed in this
contest we should free the slaves ourselves inside of twenty years,
because slavery is now opposed to common sense as well as to morality."
"Then why do you espouse such a cause?" asked Prescott.
"Why do you?" replied the Secretary very quickly.
It was a question that Prescott never yet had been able to answer to his
own complete satisfaction, and now he preferred silence. But no reply
seemed to be expected, as the Secretary continued to talk of the
Southern Confederacy, the plan upon which it was formed, and its
abnormal position in the world, expressing himself, as he had said he
would, with the most perfect frankness, displaying all the qualities of
a keen analytical and searching mind. He showed how the South was
one-sided, how it had cultivated only one or two forms of intellectual
endeavour, and therefore, so he said, was not fitted in its present mood
to form a calm judgment of great affairs.
"The South is not sufficiently arithmetical," he said; "statistics are
dry, but they are very useful on the eve of a great war. The South,
however, has always scorned mathematics; she doesn't know even now the
vast resources of the North, her tremendous industrial machinery which
also supports the machinery of war, and above all she does not know that
the North is only now beginning to be aroused. Even to this day the
South is narrow, and, on the whole, ignorant of the world."
Prescott, who knew these things already, did not like, nevertheless, to
hear them said by another, and he was in arms at once to defend his
native section.
"It may be as you say, Mr. Secretary," he replied, "and I have no doubt
it is true that the North is just gathering her full strength for the
war, but you will see no shirking of the struggle on the part of the
Southern people. They are rooted deep in the soil, and will make a
better fight because of the faults to which you point."
The Secretary did not reply. They were now close to the fortifications
and could see the sentinels, as they walked the earthworks, blowing on
their fingers to keep them warm. On one side they caught a slight
glimpse of the river, a sheet of ice in its bed, and on the other the
hills, with the trees glittering in icy sheaths like coats of mail.
"It is time to turn back," said Mr. Sefton, "and I wish to say again
that I like you, but I also warn you once more that I shall not spare
you because of it; my weakness does not go so far. I wish you out of my
way, and I have offered you an alternative which you decline. Many men
in my position would have crushed you at once; so I take credit to
myself. You adhere to your refusal?"
"Certainly I do," replied Prescott with emphasis.
"And you take the risk?"
"I take the risk."
"Very well, there is no need to say more. I warn you to look out for
yourself."
"I shall do so," replied Prescott, and he laughed lightly and with a
little irony.
They walked slowly back to the city, saying no more on the subject which
lay nearest to their hearts, but talking of the war and its chances. A
company of soldiers shivering in their scanty gray uniforms passed them.
"From Mississippi," said the Secretary; "they arrived only yesterday,
and this, though the south to us, is a cruel north to them. But there
will not be many like these to come."
They parted in the city, and the Secretary did not repeat his threats;
but Prescott knew none the less that he meant them.