CHAPTER VII.

Not a word was exchanged till they had reached the lower landing and

Brant's private room. Dismissing his subaltern and orderly with a

sign, Brant turned towards his prisoners. The jaunty ease, but not the

self-possession, had gone from Lagrange's face; the eyes of Captain

Faulkner were fixed on his older companion with a half-humorous look of

perplexity.

“I am afraid I can only repeat, general, that our foolhardy freak has

put us in collision with your sentries,” said Lagrange, with a slight

hauteur, that replaced his former jauntiness; “and we were very properly

made prisoners. If you will accept my parole, I have no doubt our

commander will proceed to exchange a couple of gallant fellows of yours,

whom I have had the honor of meeting within our own lines, and whom you

must miss probably more than I fear our superiors miss us.”

“Whatever brought you here, gentlemen,” said Brant drily, “I am

glad, for your sakes, that you are in uniform, although it does not,

unfortunately, relieve me of an unpleasant duty.”

“I don't think I understand you,” returned Lagrange, coldly.

“If you had not been in uniform, you would probably have been shot down

as spies, without the trouble of capture,” said Brant quietly.

“Do you mean to imply, sir”--began Lagrange sternly.

“I mean to say that the existence of a Confederate spy between this

camp and the division headquarters is sufficiently well known to us to

justify the strongest action.”

“And pray, how can that affect us?” said Lagrange haughtily.

“I need not inform so old a soldier as Colonel Lagrange that the aiding,

abetting, and even receiving information from a spy or traitor within

one's lines is an equally dangerous service.”

“Perhaps you would like to satisfy yourself, General,” said Colonel

Lagrange, with an ironical laugh. “Pray do not hesitate on account of

our uniform. Search us if you like.”

“Not on entering my lines, Colonel,” replied Brant, with quiet

significance.

Lagrange's cheek flushed. But he recovered himself quickly, and with a

formal bow said,--

“You will, then, perhaps, let us know your pleasure?”

“My DUTY, Colonel, is to keep you both close prisoners here until I have

an opportunity to forward you to the division commander, with a report

of the circumstances of your arrest. That I propose to do. How soon I

may have that opportunity, or if I am ever to have it,” continued Brant,

fixing his clear eyes significantly on Lagrange, “depends upon the

chances of war, which you probably understand as well as I do.”

“We should never think of making any calculation on the action of an

officer of such infinite resources as General Brant,” said Lagrange

ironically.

“You will, no doubt, have an opportunity of stating your own case to the

division commander,” continued Brant, with an unmoved face. “And,” he

continued, turning for the first time to Captain Faulkner, “when you

tell the commander what I believe to be the fact--from your name and

resemblance--that you are a relation of the young lady who for the

last three weeks has been an inmate of this house under a pass from

Washington, you will, I have no doubt, favorably explain your own

propinquity to my lines.”

“My sister Tilly!” said the young officer impulsively. “But she is no

longer here. She passed through the lines back to Washington yesterday.

No,” he added, with a light laugh, “I'm afraid that excuse won't count

for to-day.”

A sudden frown upon the face of the elder officer, added to the perfect

ingenuousness of Faulkner's speech, satisfied Brant that he had not only

elicited the truth, but that Miss Faulkner had been successful. But he

was sincere in his suggestion that her relationship to the young officer

would incline the division commander to look leniently upon his fault,

for he was conscious of a singular satisfaction in thus being able to

serve her. Of the real object of the two men before him he had no doubt.

They were “the friends” of his wife, who were waiting for her outside

the lines! Chance alone had saved her from being arrested with them,

with the consequent exposure of her treachery before his own men, who,

as yet, had no proof of her guilt, nor any suspicion of her actual

identity. Meanwhile his own chance of conveying her with safety beyond

his lines was not affected by the incident; the prisoners dare not

reveal what they knew of her, and it was with a grim triumph that he

thought of compassing her escape without their aid. Nothing of this,

however, was visible in his face, which the younger man watched with a

kind of boyish curiosity, while Colonel Lagrange regarded the ceiling

with a politely repressed yawn. “I regret,” concluded Brant, as he

summoned the officer of the guard, “that I shall have to deprive you of

each other's company during the time you are here; but I shall see that

you, separately, want for nothing in your confinement.”

“If this is with a view to separate interrogatory, general, I can retire

now,” said Lagrange, rising, with ironical politeness.

“I believe I have all the information I require,” returned Brant, with

undisturbed composure. Giving the necessary orders to his subaltern, he

acknowledged with equal calm the formal salutes of the two prisoners as

they were led away, and returned quickly to his bedroom above. He paused

instinctively for a moment before the closed door, and listened. There

was no sound from within. He unlocked the door, and opened it.

So quiet was the interior that for an instant, without glancing at

the bed, he cast a quick look at the window, which, till then, he had

forgotten, and which he remembered gave upon the veranda roof. But it

was still closed, and as he approached the bed, he saw his wife still

lying there, in the attitude in which he had left her. But her eyes were

ringed, and slightly filmed, as if with recent tears.

It was perhaps this circumstance that softened his voice, still harsh

with command, as he said,--

“I suppose you knew those two men?”

“Yes.”

“And that I have put it out of their power to help you?”

“I do.”

There was something so strangely submissive in her voice that he again

looked suspiciously at her. But he was shocked to see that she was quite

pale now, and that the fire had gone out of her dark eyes.

“Then I may tell you what is my plan to save you. But, first, you must

find this mulatto woman who has acted as your double.”

“She is here.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know it?” he asked, in quick suspicion.

“She was not to leave this place until she knew I was safe within our

lines. I have some friends who are faithful to me.” After a pause she

added, “She has been here already.”

He looked at her, startled. “Impossible--I”--

“You locked the door. Yes! but she has a second key. And even if she had

not, there is another entrance from that closet. You do not know this

house: you have been here two weeks; I spent two years of my life, as a

girl, in this room.”

An indescribable sensation came over him; he remembered how he had felt

when he first occupied it; this was followed by a keen sense of shame

on reflecting that he had been, ever since, but a helpless puppet in the

power of his enemies, and that she could have escaped if she would, even

now.

“Perhaps,” he said grimly, “you have already arranged your plans?”

She looked at him with a singular reproachfulness even in her

submission.

“I have only told her to be ready to change clothes with me and help me

color my face and hands at the time appointed. I have left the rest to

you.”

“Then this is my plan. I have changed only a detail. You and she must

both leave this house at the same time, by different exits, but one of

them must be private--and unknown to my men. Do you know of such a one?”

“Yes,” she said, “in the rear of the negro quarters.”

“Good,” he replied, “that will be your way out. She will leave here,

publicly, through the parade, armed with a pass from me. She will be

overhauled and challenged by the first sentry near the guardhouse, below

the wall. She will be subjected to some delay and scrutiny, which she

will, however, be able to pass better than you would. This will create

the momentary diversion that we require. In the mean time, you will have

left the house by the rear, and you will then keep in the shadow of the

hedge until you can drop down along the Run, where it empties into the

swamp. That,” he continued, fixing his keen eyes upon her, “is the one

weak point in the position of this place that is neither overlooked nor

defended. But perhaps,” he added again grimly, “you already know it.”

“It is the marsh where the flowers grow, near the path where you met

Miss Faulkner. I had crossed the marsh to give her a letter,” she said

slowly.

A bitter smile came over Brant's face, but passed as quickly.

“Enough,” he said quietly, “I will meet you beside the Run, and cross

the marsh with you until you are within hailing distance of your lines.

I will be in plain clothes, Alice,” he went on slowly, “for it will not

be the commander of this force who accompanies you, but your husband,

and, without disgracing his uniform, he will drop to your level; for the

instant he passes his own lines, in disguise, he will become, like you,

a spy, and amenable to its penalties.”

Her eyes seemed suddenly to leap up to his with that strange look of

awakening and enthusiasm which he had noted before. And in its complete

prepossession of all her instincts she rose from the bed, unheeding her

bared arms and shoulders and loosened hair, and stood upright before

him. For an instant husband and wife regarded each other as unreservedly

as in their own chamber at Robles.

“When shall I go?”

He glanced through the window already growing lighter with the

coming dawn. The relief would pass in a few moments; the time seemed

propitious.

“At once,” he said. “I will send Rose to you.”

But his wife had already passed into the closet, and was tapping upon

some inner door. He heard the sound of hinges turning and the rustling

of garments. She reappeared, holding the curtains of the closet together

with her hand, and said,--

“Go! When she comes to your office for the pass, you will know that I

have gone.”

He turned away.

“Stop!” she said faintly.

He turned back. Her expression had again changed. Her face was deadly

pale; a strange tremor seemed to have taken possession of her. Her hands

dropped from the curtain. Her beautiful arms moved slightly forward;

it seemed to him that she would in the next moment have extended them

towards him. But even then she said hurriedly, “Go! Go!” and slipped

again behind the curtains.

He quickly descended the stairs as the sound of trampling feet on the

road, and the hurried word of command, announced the return of the

scouting party. The officer had little report to make beyond the fact

that a morning mist, creeping along the valley, prevented any further

observation, and bade fair to interrupt their own communications with

the camp. Everything was quiet in the west, although the enemy's lines

along the ridge seemed to have receded.

Brant had listened impatiently, for a new idea had seized him. Hooker

was of the party, and was the one man in whom he could partly confide,

and obtain a disguise. He at once made his way to the commissary

wagons--one of which he knew Hooker used as a tent. Hastily telling him

that he wished to visit the pickets without recognition, he induced him

to lend him his slouched hat and frock coat, leaving with him his own

distinguishing tunic, hat, and sword. He resisted the belt and pistols

which Hooker would have forced upon him. As he left the wagon he

was amusedly conscious that his old companion was characteristically

examining the garments he had left behind with mingled admiration and

envy. But he did not know, as he slipped out of the camp, that Mr.

Hooker was quietly trying them on, before a broken mirror in the

wagon-head!

The gray light of that summer morning was already so strong that, to

avoid detection, he quickly dropped into the shadow of the gully that

sloped towards the Run. The hot mist which the scouts had seen was now

lying like a tranquil sea between him and the pickets of the enemy's

rear-guard, which it seemed to submerge, and was clinging in moist

tenuous swathes--like drawn-out cotton wool--along the ridge, half

obliterating its face. From the valley in the rear it was already

stealing in a thin white line up the slope like the advance of a ghostly

column, with a stealthiness that, in spite of himself, touched him with

superstitious significance. A warm perfume, languid and treacherous--as

from the swamp magnolia--seemed to rise from the half-hidden marsh.

An ominous silence, that appeared to be a part of this veiling of all

things under the clear opal-tinted sky above, was so little like

the hush of rest and peace, that he half-yearned for the outburst of

musketry and tumult of attack that might dispel it. All that he had ever

heard or dreamed of the insidious South, with its languid subtleties of

climate and of race, seemed to encompass him here.

But the next moment he saw the figure he was waiting for stealing

towards him from the shadow of the gulley beneath the negro quarters.

Even in that uncertain light there was no mistaking the tall figure,

the gaudily striped clinging gown and turbaned head. And then a strange

revulsion of feeling, quite characteristic of the emotional side of his

singular temperament, overcame him. He was taking leave of his wife--the

dream of his youth--perhaps forever! It should be no parting in anger as

at Robles; it should be with a tenderness that would blot out their past

in their separate memories--God knows! it might even be that a parting

at that moment was a joining of them in eternity. In his momentary

exaltation it even struck him that it was a duty, no less sacred, no

less unselfish than the one to which he had devoted his life. The light

was growing stronger; he could hear voices in the nearest picket line,

and the sound of a cough in the invading mist. He made a hurried sign to

the on-coming figure to follow him, ran ahead, and halted at last in

the cover of a hackmatack bush. Still gazing forward over the marsh,

he stealthily held out his hand behind him as the rustling skirt came

nearer. At last his hand was touched--but even at that touch he started

and turned quickly.

It was not his wife, but Rose!--her mulatto double! Her face was rigid

with fright, her beady eyes staring in their china sockets, her white

teeth chattering. Yet she would have spoken.

“Hush!” he said, clutching her hand, in a fierce whisper. “Not a word!”

She was holding something white in her fingers; he snatched it quickly.

It was a note from his wife--not in the disguised hand of her first

warning, but in one that he remembered as if it were a voice from their

past.

“Forgive me for disobeying you to save you from capture, disgrace, or

death--which would have come to you where you were going! I have taken

Rose's pass. You need not fear that your honor will suffer by it, for if

I am stopped I shall confess that I took it from her. Think no more of

me, Clarence, but only of yourself. You are in danger.”

He crushed the letter in his hand.

“Tell me,” he said in a fierce whisper, seizing her arm, “and speak low.

When did you leave her?”

“Sho'ly just now!” gasped the frightened woman.

He flung her aside. There might be still time to overtake and save her

before she reached the picket lines. He ran up the gully, and out on to

the slope towards the first guard-post. But a familiar challenge reached

his ear, and his heart stopped beating.

“Who goes there?”

There was a pause, a rattle of arms voices--another pause--and Brant

stood breathlessly listening. Then the voice rose again slowly and

clearly: “Pass the mulatto woman!”

Thank God! she was saved! But the thought had scarcely crossed his mind

before it seemed to him that a blinding crackle of sparks burst out

along the whole slope below the wall, a characteristic yell which he

knew too well rang in his ears, and an undulating line of dusty figures

came leaping like gray wolves out of the mist upon his pickets. He heard

the shouts of his men falling back as they fired; the harsh commands

of a few officers hurrying to their posts, and knew that he had been

hopelessly surprised and surrounded!

He ran forward among his disorganized men. To his consternation no one

seemed to heed him! Then the remembrance of his disguise flashed upon

him. But he had only time to throw away his hat and snatch a sword from

a falling lieutenant, before a scorching flash seemed to pass before

his eyes and burn through his hair, and he dropped like a log beside his

subaltern.

*****

An aching under the bandage around his head where a spent bullet had

grazed his scalp, and the sound of impossible voices in his ears were

all he knew as he struggled slowly back to consciousness again. Even

then it still seemed a delusion,--for he was lying on a cot in his own

hospital, yet with officers of the division staff around him, and the

division commander himself standing by his side, and regarding him

with an air of grave but not unkindly concern. But the wounded man felt

instinctively that it was not the effect of his physical condition, and

a sense of shame came suddenly over him, which was not dissipated by

his superior's words. For, motioning the others aside, the major-general

leaned over his cot, and said,--

“Until a few moments ago, the report was that you had been captured

in the first rush of the rear-guard which we were rolling up for your

attack, and when you were picked up, just now, in plain clothes on the

slope, you were not recognized. The one thing seemed to be as improbable

as the other,” he added significantly.

The miserable truth flashed across Brant's mind. Hooker must have been

captured in his clothes--perhaps in some extravagant sally--and had not

been recognized in the confusion by his own officers. Nevertheless, he

raised his eyes to his superior.

“You got my note?”

The general's brow darkened.

“Yes,” he said slowly, “but finding you thus unprepared--I had been

thinking just now that you had been deceived by that woman--or by

others--and that it was a clumsy forgery.” He stopped, and seeing the

hopeless bewilderment in the face of the wounded man, added more kindly:

“But we will not talk of that in your present condition. The doctor says

a few hours will put you straight again. Get strong, for I want you to

lose no time--for your own sake--to report yourself at Washington.”

“Report myself--at Washington!” repeated Brant slowly.

“That was last night's order,” said the commander, with military

curtness. Then he burst out: “I don't understand it, Brant! I believe

you have been misunderstood, misrepresented, perhaps maligned and I

shall make it MY business to see the thing through--but those are

the Department orders. And for the present--I am sorry to say you are

relieved of your command.”

He turned away, and Brant closed his eyes. With them it seemed to

him that he closed his career. No one would ever understand his

explanation--even had he been tempted to give one, and he knew he never

would. Everything was over now! Even this wretched bullet had not struck

him fairly, and culminated his fate as it might! For an instant, he

recalled his wife's last offer to fly with him beyond the seas--beyond

this cruel injustice--but even as he recalled it, he knew that flight

meant the worst of all--a half-confession! But she had escaped! Thank

God for that! Again and again in his hopeless perplexity this comfort

returned to him,--he had saved her; he had done his duty. And harping

upon this in his strange fatalism, it at last seemed to him that this

was for what he had lived--for what he had suffered--for what he had

fitly ended his career. Perhaps it was left for him now to pass

his remaining years in forgotten exile--even as his father had--his

father!--his breath came quickly at the thought--God knows! perhaps as

wrongfully accused! It may have been a Providence that she had borne him

no child, to whom this dreadful heritage could be again transmitted.

There was something of this strange and fateful resignation in his face,

a few hours later, when he was able to be helped again into the saddle.

But he could see in the eyes of the few comrades who commiseratingly

took leave of him, a vague, half-repressed awe of some indefinite

weakness in the man, that mingled with their heartfelt parting with a

gallant soldier. Yet even this touched him no longer. He cast a glance

at the house and the room where he had parted from her, at the slope

from which she had passed--and rode away.

And then, as his figure disappeared down the road, the restrained

commentary of wonder, surmise, and criticism broke out:--

“It must have been something mighty bad, for the old man, who swears

by him, looked rather troubled. And it was deuced queer, you know, this

changing clothes with somebody, just before this surprise!”

“Nonsense! It's something away back of that! Didn't you hear the old man

say that the orders for him to report himself came from Washington LAST

NIGHT? No!”--the speaker lowered his voice--“Strangeways says that he

had regularly sold himself out to one of them d----d secesh woman spies!

It's the old Marc Antony business over again!”

“Now I think of it,” said a younger subaltern, “he did seem mightily

taken with one of those quadroons or mulattoes he issued orders against.

I suppose that was a blind for us! I remember the first day he saw her;

he was regularly keen to know all about her.”

Major Curtis gave a short laugh.

“That mulatto, Martin, was a white woman, burnt-corked! She was trying

to get through the lines last night, and fell off a wall or got a knock

on the head from a sentry's carbine. When she was brought in, Doctor

Simmons set to washing the blood off her face; the cork came off and the

whole thing came out. Brant hushed it up--and the woman, too--in his own

quarters! It's supposed now that she got away somehow in the rush!”

“It goes further back than that, gentlemen,” said the adjutant

authoritatively. “They say his wife was a howling secessionist, four

years ago, in California, was mixed up in a conspiracy, and he had to

leave on account of it. Look how thick he and that Miss Faulkner became,

before he helped HER off!”

“That's your jealousy, Tommy; she knew he was, by all odds, the biggest

man here, and a good deal more, too, and you had no show!”

In the laugh that followed, it would seem that Brant's eulogy had been

spoken and forgotten. But as Lieutenant Martin was turning away, a

lingering corporal touched his cap.

“You were speaking of those prowling mulattoes, sir. You know the

general passed one out this morning.”

“So I have heard.”

“I reckon she didn't get very far. It was just at the time that we were

driven in by their first fire, and I think she got her share of it, too.

Do you mind walking this way, sir!”

The lieutenant did not mind, although he rather languidly followed.

When they had reached the top of the gully, the corporal pointed to

what seemed to be a bit of striped calico hanging on a thorn bush in the

ravine.

“That's her,” said the corporal. “I know the dress; I was on guard when

she was passed. The searchers, who were picking up our men, haven't got

to her yet; but she ain't moved or stirred these two hours. Would you

like to go down and see her?”

The lieutenant hesitated. He was young, and slightly fastidious as

to unnecessary unpleasantness. He believed he would wait until the

searchers brought her up, when the corporal might call him.

The mist came up gloriously from the swamp like a golden halo. And

as Clarence Brant, already forgotten, rode moodily through it towards

Washington, hugging to his heart the solitary comfort of his great

sacrifice, his wife, Alice Brant, for whom he had made it, was lying

in the ravine, dead and uncared for. Perhaps it was part of the

inconsistency of her sex that she was pierced with the bullets of those

she had loved, and was wearing the garments of the race that she had

wronged.

PART III.

CHAPTER I.

It was sunset of a hot day at Washington. Even at that hour the broad

avenues, which diverged from the Capitol like the rays of another sun,

were fierce and glittering. The sterile distances between glowed

more cruelly than ever, and pedestrians, keeping in the scant shade,

hesitated on the curbstones before plunging into the Sahara-like

waste of crossings. The city seemed deserted. Even that vast army of

contractors, speculators, place-hunters, and lobbyists, which hung on

the heels of the other army, and had turned this pacific camp of the

nation into a battlefield of ignoble conflict and contention--more

disastrous than the one to the South--had slunk into their holes in

hotel back bedrooms, in shady barrooms, or in the negro quarters of

Georgetown, as if the majestic, white-robed Goddess enthroned upon the

dome of the Capitol had at last descended among them and was smiting to

right and left with the flat and flash of her insufferable sword.

Into this stifling atmosphere of greed and corruption Clarence Brant

stepped from the shadow of the War Department. For the last three weeks

he had haunted its ante-rooms and audience-chambers, in the vain hope

of righting himself before his superiors, who were content, without

formulating charges against him, to keep him in this disgrace of

inaction and the anxiety of suspense. Unable to ascertain the details

of the accusation, and conscious of his own secret, he was debarred

the last resort of demanding a court-martial, which he knew could only

exonerate him by the exposure of the guilt of his wife, whom he still

hoped had safely escaped. His division commander, in active operations

in the field, had no time to help him at Washington. Elbowed aside by

greedy contractors, forestalled by selfish politicians, and disdaining

the ordinary method of influence, he had no friend to turn to. In his

few years of campaigning he had lost his instinct of diplomacy, without

acquiring a soldier's bluntness.

The nearly level rays of the sun forced him at last to turn aside into

one of the openings of a large building--a famous caravansary of that

hotel-haunted capital, and he presently found himself in the

luxurious bar-room, fragrant with mint, and cool with ice-slabs piled

symmetrically on its marble counters. A few groups of men were seeking

coolness at small tables with glasses before them and palm-leaf fans in

their hands, but a larger and noisier assemblage was collected before

the bar, where a man, collarless and in his shirt-sleeves, with his

back to the counter, was pretentiously addressing them. Brant, who had

moodily dropped into a chair in the corner, after ordering a cooling

drink as an excuse for his temporary refuge from the stifling street,

half-regretted his enforced participation in their conviviality. But

a sudden lowering of the speaker's voice into a note of gloomy

significance seemed familiar to him. He glanced at him quickly, from the

shadow of his corner. He was not mistaken--it was Jim Hooker!

For the first time in his life, Brant wished to evade him. In the days

of his own prosperity his heart had always gone out towards this old

companion of his boyhood; in his present humiliation his presence jarred

upon him. He would have slipped away, but to do so he would have had to

pass before the counter again, and Hooker, with the self-consciousness

of a story-teller, had an eye on his audience. Brant, with a palm-leaf

fan before his face, was obliged to listen.

“Yes, gentlemen,” said Hooker, examining his glass dramatically, “when

a man's been cooped up in a Rebel prison, with a death line before him

that he's obliged to cross every time he wants a square drink, it seems

sort of like a dream of his boyhood to be standin' here comf'ble before

his liquor, alongside o' white men once more. And when he knows he's bin

put to all that trouble jest to save the reputation of another man, and

the secrets of a few high and mighty ones, it's almost enough to make

his liquor go agin him.” He stopped theatrically, seemed to choke

emotionally over his brandy squash, but with a pause of dramatic

determination finally dashed it down. “No, gentlemen,” he continued

gloomily, “I don't say what I'm back in Washington FOR--I don't say what

I've been sayin' to myself when I've bin picking the weevils outer my

biscuits in Libby Prison--but ef you don't see some pretty big men in

the War Department obliged to climb down in the next few days, my name

ain't Jim Hooker, of Hooker, Meacham & Co., Army Beef Contractors, and

the man who saved the fight at Gray Oaks!”

The smile of satisfaction that went around his audience--an audience

quick to seize the weakness of any performance--might have startled

a vanity less oblivious than Hooker's; but it only aroused Brant's

indignation and pity, and made his position still more intolerable. But

Hooker, scornfully expectorating a thin stream of tobacco juice against

the spittoon, remained for an instant gloomily silent.

“Tell us about the fight again,” said a smiling auditor.

Hooker looked around the room with a certain dark suspiciousness, and

then, in an affected lower voice, which his theatrical experience made

perfectly audible, went on:--

“It ain't much to speak of, and if it wasn't for the principle of the

thing, I wouldn't be talking. A man who's seen Injin fightin' don't go

much on this here West Point fightin' by rule-of-three--but that ain't

here or there! Well, I'd bin out a-scoutin'--just to help the boys

along, and I was sittin' in my wagon about daybreak, when along comes a

brigadier-general, and he looks into the wagon flap. I oughter to tell

you first, gentlemen, that every minit he was expecting an attack--but

he didn't let on a hint of it to me. 'How are you, Jim?' said he. 'How

are you, general?' said I. 'Would you mind lendin' me your coat and

hat?' says he. 'I've got a little game here with our pickets, and I

don't want to be recognized.' 'Anything to oblige, general,' said I, and

with that I strips off my coat and hat, and he peels and puts them on.

'Nearly the same figure, Jim,' he says, lookin' at me, 'suppose you try

on my things and see.' With that he hands me his coat--full uniform,

by G-d!--with the little gold cords and laces and the epaulettes with a

star, and I puts it on--quite innocent-like. And then he says, handin'

me his sword and belt, 'Same inches round the waist, I reckon,' and I

puts that on too. 'You may as well keep 'em on till I come back,' says

he, 'for it's mighty damp and malarious at this time around the swamp.'

And with that he lights out. Well, gentlemen, I hadn't sat there five

minutes before Bang! bang! rattle! rattle! kershiz! and I hears a yell.

I steps out of the wagon; everything's quite dark, but the rattle goes

on. Then along trots an orderly, leadin' a horse. 'Mount, general,' he

says, 'we're attacked--the rear-guard's on us!'”

He paused, looked round his audience, and then in a lower voice, said

darkly,--

“I ain't a fool, an' in that minute a man's brain works at high

pressure, and I saw it all! I saw the little game of the brigadier to

skunk away in my clothes and leave me to be captured in his. But I ain't

a dog neither, and I mounted that horse, gentlemen, and lit out to where

the men were formin'! I didn't dare to speak, lest they should know me,

but I waved my sword, and by G-d! they followed me! And the next minit

we was in the thick of it. I had my hat as full of holes as that ice

strainer; I had a dozen bullets through my coat, the fringe of my

epaulettes was shot away, but I kept the boys at their work--and we

stopped 'em! Stopped 'em, gentlemen, until we heard the bugles of the

rest of our division, that all this time had been rolling that blasted

rear-guard over on us! And it saved the fight; but the next minute the

Johnny Rebs made a last dash and cut me off--and there I was--by G-d, a

prisoner! Me that had saved the fight!”

A ripple of ironical applause went round as Hooker gloomily drained his

glass, and then held up his hand in scornful deprecation.

“I said I was a prisoner, gentlemen,” he went on bitterly; “but that

ain't all! I asked to see Johnston, told him what I had done, and

demanded to be exchanged for a general officer. He said, 'You be

d----d.' I then sent word to the division commander-in-chief, and told

him how I had saved Gray Oaks when his brigadier ran away, and he said,

'You be d----d.' I've bin 'You be d----d' from the lowest non-com.

to the commander-in-chief, and when I was at last exchanged, I was

exchanged, gentlemen, for two mules and a broken wagon. But I'm here,

gentlemen--as I was thar!”

“Why don't you see the President about it?” asked a bystander, in

affected commiseration.

Mr. Hooker stared contemptuously at the suggestion, and expectorated his

scornful dissent.

“Not much!” he said. “But I'm going to see the man that carries him and

his Cabinet in his breeches-pocket--Senator Boompointer.”

“Boompointer's a big man,” continued his auditor doubtfully. “Do you

know him?”

“Know him?” Mr. Hooker laughed a bitter, sardonic laugh. “Well,

gentlemen, I ain't the kind o' man to go in for family influence; but,”

he added, with gloomy elevation, “considering he's an intimate relation

of mine, BY MARRIAGE, I should say I did.”

Brant heard no more; the facing around of his old companion towards the

bar gave him that opportunity of escaping he had been waiting for. The

defection of Hooker and his peculiar inventions were too characteristic

of him to excite surprise, and, although they no longer awakened his

good-humored tolerance, they were powerless to affect him in his greater

trouble. Only one thing he learned--that Hooker knew nothing of his wife

being in camp as a spy--the incident would have been too tempting to

have escaped his dramatic embellishment. And the allusion to Senator

Boompointer, monstrous as it seemed in Hooker's mouth, gave him a grim

temptation. He had heard of Boompointer's wonderful power; he believed

that Susy would and could help him--Clarence--whether she did or did not

help Hooker. But the next moment he dismissed the idea, with a flushing

cheek. How low had he already sunk, even to think of it!

It had been once or twice in his mind to seek the President, and, under

a promise of secrecy, reveal a part of his story. He had heard many

anecdotes of his goodness of heart and generous tolerance of all things,

but with this was joined--so said contemporaneous history--a flippancy

of speech and a brutality of directness from which Clarence's

sensibility shrank. Would he see anything in his wife but a common spy

on his army; would he see anything in him but the weak victim, like many

others, of a scheming woman? Stories current in camp and Congress of the

way that this grim humorist had, with an apposite anecdote or a rugged

illustration, brushed away the most delicate sentiment or the subtlest

poetry, even as he had exposed the sham of Puritanic morality or of

Epicurean ethics. Brant had even solicited an audience, but had retired

awkwardly, and with his confidence unspoken, before the dark, humorous

eyes, that seemed almost too tolerant of his grievance. He had been

to levees, and his heart had sunk equally before the vulgar crowd, who

seemed to regard this man as their own buffoon, and the pompousness of

position, learning and dignity, which he seemed to delight to shake and

disturb.

One afternoon, a few days later, in sheer listlessness of purpose,

he found himself again at the White House. The President was giving

audience to a deputation of fanatics, who, with a pathetic simplicity

almost equal to his own pathetic tolerance, were urging upon this ruler

of millions the policy of an insignificant score, and Brant listened to

his patient, practical response of facts and logic, clothed in

simple but sinewy English, up to the inevitable climax of humorous

illustration, which the young brigadier could now see was necessary to

relieve the grimness of his refusal. For the first time Brant felt

the courage to address him, and resolved to wait until the deputation

retired. As they left the gallery he lingered in the ante-room for

the President to appear. But, as he did not come, afraid of losing his

chances, he returned to the gallery. Alone in his privacy and shadow,

the man he had just left was standing by a column, in motionless

abstraction, looking over the distant garden. But the kindly, humorous

face was almost tragic with an intensity of weariness! Every line of

those strong, rustic features was relaxed under a burden which even

the long, lank, angular figure--overgrown and unfinished as his own

West--seemed to be distorted in its efforts to adjust itself to; while

the dark, deep-set eyes were abstracted with the vague prescience of the

prophet and the martyr. Shocked at that sudden change, Brant felt his

cheek burn with shame. And he was about to break upon that wearied man's

unbending; he was about to add his petty burden to the shoulders of this

Western Atlas. He drew back silently, and descended the stairs.

But before he had left the house, while mingling with the crowd in one

of the larger rooms, he saw the President reappear beside an important,

prosperous-looking figure, on whom the kindly giant was now smiling with

humorous toleration. He noticed the divided attention of the crowd; the

name of Senator Boompointer was upon every lip; he was nearly face to

face with that famous dispenser of place and preferment--this

second husband of Susy! An indescribable feeling--half cynical, half

fateful--came over him. He would not have been surprised to see Jim

Hooker join the throng, which now seemed to him to even dwarf the lonely

central figure that had so lately touched him! He wanted to escape it

all!

But his fate brought him to the entrance at the same moment that

Boompointer was leaving it, and that distinguished man brushed hastily

by him as a gorgeous carriage, drawn by two spirited horses, and driven

by a resplendent negro coachman, dashed up. It was the Boompointer

carriage.

A fashionably-dressed, pretty woman, who, in style, bearing, opulent

contentment, and ingenuous self-consciousness, was in perfect keeping

with the slight ostentation of the equipage, was its only occupant. As

Boompointer stepped into the vehicle, her blue eyes fell for an instant

on Brant. A happy, childlike pink flush came into her cheeks, and a

violet ray of recognition and mischief darted from her eyes to his. For

it was Susy.

CHAPTER II.

When Brant returned to his hotel there was an augmented respect in the

voice of the clerk as he handed him a note with the remark that it had

been left by Senator Boompointer's coachman. He had no difficulty in

recognizing Susy's peculiarly Brobdingnagian school-girl hand.

“Kla'uns, I call it real mean! I believe you just HOPED I wouldn't know

you. If you're a bit like your old self you'll come right off here--this

very night! I've got a big party on--but we can talk somewhere between

the acts! Haven't I growed? Tell me! And my! what a gloomy swell the

young brigadier is! The carriage will come for you--so you have no

excuse.”

The effect of this childish note upon Brant was strangely out of

proportion to its triviality. But then it was Susy's very triviality--so

expressive of her characteristic irresponsibility--which had always

affected him at such moments. Again, as at Robles, he felt it react

against his own ethics. Was she not right in her delightful materialism?

Was she not happier than if she had been consistently true to Mrs.

Peyton, to the convent, to the episode of her theatrical career, to Jim

Hooker--even to himself? And did he conscientiously believe that Hooker

or himself had suffered from her inconsistency? No! From all that he

had heard, she was a suitable helpmate to the senator, in her social

attractiveness, her charming ostentations, her engaging vanity

that disarmed suspicion, and her lack of responsibility even in her

partisanship. Nobody ever dared to hold the senator responsible for her

promises, even while enjoying the fellowship of both, and it is

said that the worthy man singularly profited by it. Looking upon the

invitation as a possible distraction to his gloomy thoughts, Brant

resolved to go.

The moon was high as the carriage whirled him out of the still stifling

avenues towards the Soldiers' Home--a sylvan suburb frequented by

cabinet ministers and the President--where the good Senator had

“decreed,” like Kubla Khan, “a stately pleasure dome,” to entertain his

friends and partisans. As they approached the house, the trembling light

like fireflies through the leaves, the warm silence broken only by a

military band playing a drowsy waltz on the veranda, and the heavy odors

of jessamine in the air, thrilled Brant with a sense of shame as

he thought of his old comrades in the field. But this was presently

dissipated by the uniforms that met him in the hall, with the presence

of some of his distinguished superiors. At the head of the stairs,

with a circling background of the shining crosses and ribbons of the

diplomatic corps, stood Susy--her bare arms and neck glittering with

diamonds, her face radiant with childlike vivacity. A significant

pressure of her little glove as he made his bow seemed to be his only

welcome, but a moment later she caught his arm. “You've yet to

know HIM,” she said in a half whisper; “he thinks a good deal of

himself--just like Jim. But he makes others believe it, and that's where

poor Jim slipped up.” She paused before the man thus characteristically

disposed of, and presented Brant. It was the man he had seen

before--material, capable, dogmatic. A glance from his shrewd

eyes--accustomed to the weighing of men's weaknesses and ambitions--and

a few hurried phrases, apparently satisfied him that Brant was not just

then important or available to him, and the two men, a moment later,

drifted easily apart. Brant sauntered listlessly through the crowded

rooms, half remorsefully conscious that he had taken some irrevocable

step, and none the less assured by the presence of two or three

reporters and correspondents who were dogging his steps, or the glance

of two or three pretty women whose curiosity had evidently been aroused

by the singular abstraction of this handsome, distinguished, but

sardonic-looking officer. But the next moment he was genuinely moved.

A tall young woman had just glided into the centre of the room with an

indolent yet supple gracefulness that seemed familiar to him. A change

in her position suddenly revealed her face. It was Miss Faulkner.

Previously he had known her only in the riding habit of Confederate gray

which she had at first affected, or in the light muslin morning dress

she had worn at Gray Oaks. It seemed to him, to-night, that the studied

elegance of her full dress became her still more; that the pretty

willfulness of her chin and shoulders was chastened and modified by the

pearls round her fair throat. Suddenly their eyes met; her face paled

visibly; he fancied that she almost leaned against her companion for

support; then she met his glance again with a face into which the color

had as suddenly rushed, but with eyes that seemed to be appealing to him

even to the point of pain and fright. Brant was not conceited; he could

see that the girl's agitation was not the effect of any mere personal

influence in his recognition, but of something else. He turned hastily

away; when he looked around again she was gone.

Nevertheless he felt filled with a vague irritation. Did she think him

such a fool as to imperil her safety by openly recognizing her without

her consent? Did she think that he would dare to presume upon the

service she had done him? Or, more outrageous thought, had she heard of

his disgrace, known its cause, and feared that he would drag her into

a disclosure to save himself? No, no; she could not think that! She had

perhaps regretted what she had done in a freak of girlish chivalry; she

had returned to her old feelings and partisanship; she was only startled

at meeting the single witness of her folly. Well, she need not fear!

He would as studiously avoid her hereafter, and she should know it. And

yet--yes, there was a “yet.” For he could not forget--indeed, in the

past three weeks it had been more often before him than he cared to

think--that she was the one human being who had been capable of a great

act of self-sacrifice for him--her enemy, her accuser, the man who had

scarcely treated her civilly. He was ashamed to remember now that this

thought had occurred to him at the bedside of his wife--at the hour of

her escape--even on the fatal slope on which he had been struck down.

And now this fond illusion must go with the rest--the girl who had

served him so loyally was ashamed of it! A bitter smile crossed his

face.

“Well, I don't wonder! Here are all the women asking me who is that

good-looking Mephistopheles, with the burning eyes, who is prowling

around my rooms as if searching for a victim. Why, you're smiling for

all the world like poor Jim when he used to do the Red Avenger.”

Susy's voice--and illustration--recalled him to himself.

“Furious I may be,” he said with a gentler smile, although his eyes

still glittered, “furious that I have to wait until the one woman I came

to see--the one woman I have not seen for so long, while these puppets

have been nightly dancing before her--can give me a few moments from

them, to talk of the old days.”

In his reaction he was quite sincere, although he felt a slight sense

of remorse as he saw the quick, faint color rise, as in those old days,

even through the to-night's powder of her cheek.

“That's like the old Kla'uns,” she said, with a slight pressure of his

arm, “but we will not have a chance to speak until later. When they are

nearly all gone, you'll take me to get a little refreshment, and we'll

have a chat in the conservatory. But you must drop that awfully wicked

look and make yourself generally agreeable to those women until then.”

It was, perhaps, part of this reaction which enabled him to obey his

hostess' commands with a certain recklessness that, however, seemed

to be in keeping with the previous Satanic reputation he had all

unconsciously achieved. The women listened to the cynical flippancy of

this good-looking soldier with an undisguised admiration which in

turn excited curiosity and envy from his own sex. He saw the whispered

questioning, the lifted eyebrows, scornful shrugging of shoulders--and

knew that the story of his disgrace was in the air. But I fear this

only excited him to further recklessness and triumph. Once he thought he

recognized Miss Faulkner's figure at a distance, and even fancied that

she had been watching him; but he only redoubled his attentions to the

fair woman beside him, and looked no more.

Yet he was glad when the guests began to drop off, the great rooms

thinned, and Susy, appearing on the arm of her husband, coquettishly

reminded him of his promise.

“For I want to talk to you of old times. General Brant,” she went on,

turning explanatorily to Boompointer, “married my adopted mother in

California--at Robles, a dear old place where I spent my earliest years.

So, you see, we are sort of relations by marriage,” she added, with

delightful naivete.

Hooker's own vainglorious allusion to his relations to the man before

him flashed across Brant's mind, but it left now only a smile on his

lips. He felt he had already become a part of the irresponsible comedy

played around him. Why should he resist, or examine its ethics too

closely? He offered his arm to Susy as they descended the stairs, but,

instead of pausing in the supper-room, she simply passed through it with

a significant pressure on his arm, and, drawing aside a muslin curtain,

stepped into the moonlit conservatory. Behind the curtain there was a

small rustic settee; without releasing his arm she sat down, so that

when he dropped beside her, their hands met, and mutually clasped.

“Now, Kla'uns,” she said, with a slight, comfortable shiver as she

nestled beside him, “it's a little like your chair down at old Robles,

isn't it?--tell me! And to think it's five years ago! But, Kla'uns,

what's the matter? You are changed,” she said, looking at his dark face

in the moonlight, “or you have something to tell me.”

“I have.”

“And it's something dreadful, I know!” she said, wrinkling her brows

with a pretty terror. “Couldn't you pretend you had told it to me, and

let us go on just the same? Couldn't you, Kla'uns? Tell me!”

“I am afraid I couldn't,” he said, with a sad smile.

“Is it about yourself, Kla'uns? You know,” she went on with cheerful

rapidity, “I know everything about you--I always did, you know--and I

don't care, and never did care, and it don't, and never did, make the

slightest difference to me. So don't tell it, and waste time, Kla'uns.”

“It's not about me, but about my wife!” he said slowly.

Her expression changed slightly

“Oh, her!” she said after a pause. Then, half-resignedly, “Go on,

Kla'uns.”

He began. He had a dozen times rehearsed to himself his miserable story,

always feeling it keenly, and even fearing that he might be carried away

by emotion or morbid sentiment in telling it to another. But, to his

astonishment, he found himself telling it practically, calmly, almost

cynically, to his old playmate, repressing the half devotion and even

tenderness that had governed him, from the time that his wife, disguised

as the mulatto woman, had secretly watched him at his office, to the

hour that he had passed through the lines. He withheld only the incident

of Miss Faulkner's complicity and sacrifice.

“And she got away, after having kicked you out of your place, Kla'uns?”

said Susy, when he had ended.

Clarence stiffened beside her. But he felt he had gone too far to

quarrel with his confidante.

“She went away. I honestly believe we shall never meet again, or I

should not be telling you this!”

“Kla'uns,” she said lightly, taking his hand again, “don't you believe

it! She won't let you go. You're one of those men that a woman, when

she's once hooked on to, won't let go of, even when she believes she no

longer loves him, or meets bigger and better men. I reckon it's because

you're so different from other men; maybe there are so many different

things about you to hook on to, and you don't slip off as easily as the

others. Now, if you were like old Peyton, her first husband, or like

poor Jim, or even my Boompointer, you'd be all right! No, my boy, all

we can do is to try to keep her from getting at you here. I reckon she

won't trust herself in Washington again in a hurry.”

“But I cannot stay here; my career is in the field.”

“Your career is alongside o' me, honey--and Boompointer. But nearer ME.

We'll fix all that. I heard something about your being in disgrace, but

the story was that you were sweet on some secesh girl down there, and

neglected your business, Kla'uns. But, Lordy! to think it was only your

own wife! Never mind; we'll straighten that out. We've had worse jobs

than that on. Why, there was that commissary who was buying up dead

horses at one end of the field, and selling them to the Government for

mess beef at the other; and there was that general who wouldn't make

an attack when it rained; and the other general--you know who I mean,

Kla'uns--who wouldn't invade the State where his sister lived; but we

straightened them out, somehow, and they were a heap worse than you.

We'll get you a position in the war department here, one of the bureau

offices, where you keep your rank and your uniform--you don't look bad

in it, Kla'uns--on better pay. And you'll come and see me, and we'll

talk over old times.”

Brant felt his heart turn sick within him. But he was at her mercy now!

He said, with an effort,--

“But I've told you that my career--nay, my LIFE--now is in the field.”

“Don't you be a fool, Kla'uns, and leave it there! You have done your

work of fighting--mighty good fighting, too,--and everybody knows it.

You've earned a change. Let others take your place.”

He shuddered, as he remembered that his wife had made the same

appeal. Was he a fool then, and these two women--so totally unlike in

everything--right in this?

“Come, Kla'uns,” said Susy, relapsing again against his shoulder.

“Now talk to me! You don't say what you think of me, of my home, of my

furniture, of my position--even of him! Tell me!”

“I find you well, prosperous, and happy,” he said, with a faint smile.

“Is that all? And how do I look?”

She turned her still youthful, mischievous face towards him in the

moonlight. The witchery of her blue eyes was still there as of old, the

same frank irresponsibility beamed from them; her parted lips seemed to

give him back the breath of his youth. He started, but she did not.

“Susy, dear!”

It was her husband's voice.

“I quite forgot,” the Senator went on, as he drew the curtain aside,

“that you are engaged with a friend; but Miss Faulkner is waiting to say

good-night, and I volunteered to find you.”

“Tell her to wait a moment,” said Susy, with an impatience that was as

undisguised as it was without embarrassment or confusion.

But Miss Faulkner, unconsciously following Mr. Boompointer, was already

upon them. For a moment the whole four were silent, although perfectly

composed. Senator Boompointer, unconscious of any infelicity in his

interruption, was calmly waiting. Clarence, opposed suddenly to the

young girl whom he believed was avoiding his recognition, rose, coldly

imperturbable. Miss Faulkner, looking taller and more erect in the long

folds of her satin cloak, neither paled nor blushed, as she regarded

Susy and Brant with a smile of well-bred apology.

“I expect to leave Washington to-morrow, and may not be able to call

again,” she said, “or I would not have so particularly pressed a

leave-taking upon you.”

“I was talking with my old friend, General Brant,” said Susy, more by

way of introduction than apology.

Brant bowed. For an instant the clear eyes of Miss Faulkner slipped

icily across his as she made him an old-fashioned Southern courtesy,

and, taking Susy's arm, she left the room. Brant did not linger, but

took leave of his host almost in the same breath. At the front door a

well-appointed carriage of one of the Legations had just rolled into

waiting. He looked back; he saw Miss Faulkner, erect and looking like a

bride in her gauzy draperies, descending the stairs before the waiting

servants. He felt his heart beat strangely. He hesitated, recalled

himself with an effort, hurriedly stepped from the porch into the path,

as he heard the carriage door close behind him in the distance, and then

felt the dust from her horse's hoofs rise around him as she drove past

him and away.

CHAPTER III.

Although Brant was convinced as soon as he left the house that he

could not accept anything from the Boompointer influence, and that his

interview with Susy was fruitless, he knew that he must temporize. While

he did not believe that his old playmate would willingly betray him, he

was uneasy when he thought of the vanity and impulsiveness which might

compromise him--or of a possible jealousy that might seek revenge. Yet

he had no reason to believe that Susy's nature was jealous, or that she

was likely to have any cause; but the fact remained that Miss Faulkner's

innocent intrusion upon their tete-a-tete affected him more strongly

than anything else in his interview with Susy. Once out of the

atmosphere of that house, it struck him, too, that Miss Faulkner was

almost as much of an alien in it as himself. He wondered what she

had been doing there. Could it be possible that she was obtaining

information for the South? But he rejected the idea as quickly as it

had occurred to him. Perhaps there could be no stronger proof of the

unconscious influence the young girl already had over him.

He remembered the liveries of the diplomatic carriage that had borne her

away, and ascertained without difficulty that her sister had married one

of the foreign ministers, and that she was a guest in his house. But he

was the more astonished to hear that she and her sister were considered

to be Southern Unionists--and were greatly petted in governmental

circles for their sacrificing fidelity to the flag. His informant, an

official in the State Department, added that Miss Matilda might have

been a good deal of a madcap at the outbreak of the war--for the sisters

had a brother in the Confederate service--but that she had changed

greatly, and, indeed, within a month. “For,” he added, “she was at the

White House for the first time last week, and they say the President

talked more to her than to any other woman.”

The indescribable sensation with which this simple information filled

Brant startled him more than the news itself. Hope, joy, fear, distrust,

and despair, alternately distracted him. He recalled Miss Faulkner's

almost agonizing glance of appeal to him in the drawing-room at Susy's,

and it seemed to be equally consistent with the truth of what he had

just heard--or some monstrous treachery and deceit of which she might be

capable. Even now she might be a secret emissary of some spy within

the President's family; she might have been in correspondence with some

traitor in the Boompointer clique, and her imploring glance only the

result of a fear of exposure. Or, again, she might have truly recanted

after her escapade at Gray Oaks, and feared only his recollection of

her as go-between of spies. And yet both of these presumptions were

inconsistent with her conduct in the conservatory. It seemed impossible

that this impulsive woman, capable of doing what he had himself known

her to do, and equally sensitive to the shame or joy of such impulses,

should be the same conventional woman of society who had so coldly

recognized and parted from him.

But this interval of doubt was transitory. The next day he received a

dispatch from the War Department, ordering him to report himself for

duty at once. With a beating heart he hurried to the Secretary. But

that official had merely left a memorandum with his assistant directing

General Brant to accompany some fresh levies to a camp of “organization”

near the front. Brant felt a chill of disappointment. Duties of this

kind had been left to dubious regular army veterans, hurriedly

displaced general officers, and favored detrimentals. But if it was not

restoration, it was no longer inaction, and it was at least a release

from Washington.

It was also evidently the result of some influence--but hardly that

of the Boompointers, for he knew that Susy wished to keep him at

the Capital. Was there another power at work to send him away from

Washington? His previous doubts returned. Nor were they dissipated when

the chief of the bureau placed a letter before him with the remark that

it had been entrusted to him by a lady with the request that it should

be delivered only into his own hands.

“She did not know your hotel address, but ascertained you were to call

here. She said it was of some importance. There is no mystery about it,

General,” continued the official with a mischievous glance at Brant's

handsome, perplexed face, “although it's from a very pretty woman--whom

we all know.”

“Mrs. Boompointer?” suggested Brant, with affected lightness.

It was a maladroit speech. The official's face darkened.

“We have not yet become a Postal Department for the Boompointers,

General,” he said dryly, “however great their influence elsewhere. It

was from rather a different style of woman--Miss Faulkner. You will

receive your papers later at your hotel, and leave to-night.”

Brant's unlucky slip was still potent enough to divert the official

attention, or he would have noticed the change in his visitor's face,

and the abruptness of his departure.

Once in the street, Brant tore off the envelope. But beneath it was

another, on which was written in a delicate, refined hand: “Please do

not open this until you reach your destination.”

Then she knew he was going! And perhaps this was her influence? All his

suspicions again returned. She knew he was going near the lines, and his

very appointment, through her power, might be a plot to serve her and

the enemy! Was this letter, which she was entrusting to him, the cover

of some missive to her Southern friends which she expected him to

carry--perhaps as a return for her own act of self-sacrifice? Was this

the appeal she had been making to his chivalry, his gratitude, his

honor? The perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. What defect lay

hidden in his nature that seemed to make him an easy victim of these

intriguing women? He had not even the excuse of gallantry; less

susceptible to the potencies of the sex than most men, he was still

compelled to bear that reputation. He remembered his coldness to Miss

Faulkner in the first days of their meeting, and her effect upon his

subalterns. Why had she selected him from among them--when she could

have modeled the others like wax to her purposes? Why? And yet with the

question came a possible answer that he hardly dared to think of--that

in its very vagueness seemed to fill him with a stimulating thrill and

hopefulness. He quickened his pace. He would take the letter, and yet be

master of himself when the time came to open it.

That time came three days later, in his tent at Three Pines Crossing. As

he broke open the envelope, he was relieved to find that it contained

no other inclosure, and seemed intended only for himself. It began

abruptly:--

“When you read this, you will understand why I did not speak to you

when we met last night; why I even dreaded that you might speak to

me, knowing, as I did, what I ought to tell you at that place and

moment--something you could only know from me. I did not know you were

in Washington, although I knew you were relieved; I had no way of seeing

you or sending to you before, and I only came to Mrs. Boompointer's

party in the hope of hearing news of you.

“You know that my brother was captured by your pickets in company with

another officer. He thinks you suspected the truth--that he and his

friend were hovering near your lines to effect the escape of the spy.

But he says that, although they failed to help her, she did escape, or

was passed through the lines by your connivance. He says that you seemed

to know her, that from what Rose--the mulatto woman--told him, you and

she were evidently old friends. I would not speak of this, nor intrude

upon your private affairs, only that I think you ought to know that I

had no knowledge of it when I was in your house, but believed her to be

a stranger to you. You gave me no intimation that you knew her, and I

believed that you were frank with me. But I should not speak of this

at all--for I believe that it would have made no difference to me in

repairing the wrong that I thought I had done you--only that, as I am

forced by circumstances to tell you the terrible ending of this story,

you ought to know it all.

“My brother wrote to me that the evening after you left, the burying

party picked up the body of what they believed to be a mulatto woman

lying on the slope. It was not Rose, but the body of the very woman--the

real and only spy--whom you had passed through the lines. She was

accidentally killed by the Confederates in the first attack upon you, at

daybreak. But only my brother and his friend recognized her through her

blackened face and disguise, and on the plea that she was a servant of

one of their friends, they got permission from the division commander to

take her away, and she was buried by her friends and among her people in

the little cemetery of Three Pines Crossing, not far from where you have

gone. My brother thought that I ought to tell you this: it seems that

he and his friend had a strange sympathy for you in what they appear

to know or guess of your relations with that woman, and I think he was

touched by what he thought was your kindness and chivalry to him on

account of his sister. But I do not think he ever knew, or will know,

how great is the task that he has imposed upon me.

“You know now, do you not, WHY I did not speak to you when we first met;

it seemed so impossible to do it in an atmosphere and a festivity that

was so incongruous with the dreadful message I was charged with. And

when I had to meet you later--perhaps I may have wronged you--but it

seemed to me that you were so preoccupied and interested with other

things that I might perhaps only be wearying you with something you

cared little for, or perhaps already knew and had quickly forgotten.

“I had been wanting to say something else to you when I had got rid of

my dreadful message. I do not know if you still care to hear it. But

you were once generous enough to think that I had done you a service in

bringing a letter to your commander. Although I know better than anybody

else the genuine devotion to your duty that made you accept my poor

service, from all that I can hear, you have never had the credit of it.

Will you not try me again? I am more in favor here, and I might yet be

more successful in showing your superiors how true you have been to your

trust, even if you have little faith in your friend, Matilda Faulkner.”

For a long time he remained motionless, with the letter in his hand.

Then he arose, ordered his horse, and galloped away.

There was little difficulty in finding the cemetery of Three Pines

Crossing--a hillside slope, hearsed with pine and cypress, and starred

with white crosses, that in the distance looked like flowers. Still

less was there in finding the newer marble shaft among the older

lichen-spotted slabs, which bore the simple words: “Alice Benham,

Martyr.” A few Confederate soldiers, under still plainer and newer

wooden headstones, carved only with initials, lay at her feet. Brant

sank on his knees beside the grave, but he was shocked to see that the

base of the marble was stained with the red pollen of the fateful lily,

whose blossoms had been heaped upon her mound, but whose fallen petals

lay dark and sodden in decay.

How long he remained there he did not know. And then a solitary bugle

from the camp seemed to summon him, as it had once before summoned him,

and he went away--as he had gone before--to a separation that he now

knew was for all time.

Then followed a month of superintendence and drill, and the infusing

into the little camp under his instruction the spirit which seemed to

be passing out of his own life forever. Shut in by alien hills on the

borderland of the great struggle, from time to time reports reached

him of the bitter fighting, and almost disastrous successes of his old

division commander. Orders came from Washington to hurry the preparation

of his raw levies to the field, and a faint hope sprang up in his

mind. But following it came another dispatch ordering his return to the

Capital.

He reached it with neither hope nor fear--so benumbed had become his

spirit under this last trial, and what seemed to be now the mockery of

this last sacrifice to his wife. Though it was no longer a question of

her life and safety, he knew that he could still preserve her memory

from stain by keeping her secret, even though its divulgings might clear

his own. For that reason, he had even hesitated to inform Susy of

her death, in the fear that, in her thoughtless irresponsibility and

impulsiveness, she might be tempted to use it in his favor. He had made

his late appointment a plea for her withholding any present efforts to

assist him. He even avoided the Boompointers' house, in what he believed

was partly a duty to the memory of his wife. But he saw no inconsistency

in occasionally extending his lonely walks to the vicinity of a foreign

Legation, or in being lifted with a certain expectation at the sight

of its liveries on the Avenue. There was a craving for sympathy in his

heart, which Miss Faulkner's letter had awakened.

Meantime, he had reported himself for duty at the War Department--with

little hope, however, in that formality. But he was surprised the next

day when the chief of the bureau informed him that his claim was before

the President.

“I was not aware that I had presented any claim,” he said, a little

haughtily.

The bureau chief looked up with some surprise. This quiet, patient,

reserved man had puzzled him once or twice before.

“Perhaps I should say 'case,' General,” he said, drily. “But the

personal interest of the highest executive in the land strikes me as

being desirable in anything.”

“I only mean that I have obeyed the orders of the department in

reporting myself here, as I have done,” said Brant, with less feeling,

but none the less firmness; “and I should imagine it was not the duty

of a soldier to question them. Which I fancy a 'claim' or a 'case' would

imply.”

He had no idea of taking this attitude before, but the disappointments

of the past month, added to this first official notice of his disgrace,

had brought forward that dogged, reckless, yet half-scornful obstinacy

that was part of his nature.

The official smiled.

“I suppose, then, you are waiting to hear from the President,” he said

drily.

“I am awaiting orders from the department,” returned Brant quietly,

“but whether they originate in the President as commander-in-chief, or

not--it is not for me to inquire.”

Even when he reached his hotel this half-savage indifference which had

taken the place of his former incertitude had not changed. It seemed to

him that he had reached the crisis of his life where he was no longer a

free agent, and could wait, superior alike to effort or expectation. And

it was with a merely dispassionate curiosity that he found a note the

next morning from the President's private secretary, informing him that

the President would see him early that day.

A few hours later he was ushered through the public rooms of the White

House to a more secluded part of the household. The messenger stopped

before a modest door and knocked. It was opened by a tall figure--the

President himself. He reached out a long arm to Brant, who stood

hesitatingly on the threshold, grasped his hand, and led him into the

room. It had a single, large, elaborately draped window and a handsome

medallioned carpet, which contrasted with the otherwise almost appalling

simplicity of the furniture. A single plain angular desk, with a

blotting pad and a few sheets of large foolscap upon it, a waste-paper

basket and four plain armchairs, completed the interior with a contrast

as simple and homely as its long-limbed, black-coated occupant.

Releasing the hand of the general to shut a door which opened into

another apartment, the President shoved an armchair towards him and sank

somewhat wearily into another before the desk. But only for a moment;

the long shambling limbs did not seem to adjust themselves easily to

the chair; the high narrow shoulders drooped to find a more comfortable

lounging attitude, shifted from side to side, and the long legs moved

dispersedly. Yet the face that was turned towards Brant was humorous and

tranquil.

“I was told I should have to send for you if I wished to see you,” he

said smilingly.

Already mollified, and perhaps again falling under the previous

influence of this singular man, Brant began somewhat hesitatingly to

explain.

But the President checked him gently,--

“You don't understand. It was something new to my experience here to

find an able-bodied American citizen with an honest genuine grievance

who had to have it drawn from him like a decayed tooth. But you have

been here before. I seem to remember your face.”

Brant's reserve had gone. He admitted that he had twice sought an

audience--but--

“You dodged the dentist! That was wrong.” As Brant made a slight

movement of deprecation the President continued: “I understand! Not from

fear of giving pain to yourself but to others. I don't know that THAT

is right, either. A certain amount of pain must be suffered in this

world--even by one's enemies. Well, I have looked into your case,

General Brant.” He took up a piece of paper from his desk, scrawled with

two or three notes in pencil. “I think this is the way it stands. You

were commanding a position at Gray Oaks when information was received

by the department that, either through neglect or complicity, spies were

passing through your lines. There was no attempt to prove your neglect;

your orders, the facts of your personal care and precaution, were all

before the department. But it was also shown that your wife, from whom

you were only temporarily separated, was a notorious secessionist; that,

before the war, you yourself were suspected, and that, therefore, you

were quite capable of evading your own orders, which you may have

only given as a blind. On this information you were relieved by the

department of your command. Later on it was discovered that the spy was

none other than your own wife, disguised as a mulatto; that, after her

arrest by your own soldiers, you connived at her escape--and this was

considered conclusive proof of--well, let us say--your treachery.”

“But I did not know it was my wife until she was arrested,” said Brant

impulsively.

The President knitted his eyebrows humorously.

“Don't let us travel out of the record, General. You're as bad as the

department. The question was one of your personal treachery, but you

need not accept the fact that you were justly removed because your wife

was a spy. Now, General, I am an old lawyer, and I don't mind telling

you that in Illinois we wouldn't hang a yellow dog on that evidence

before the department. But when I was asked to look into the matter by

your friends, I discovered something of more importance to you. I

had been trying to find a scrap of evidence that would justify the

presumption that you had sent information to the enemy. I found that it

was based upon the fact of the enemy being in possession of knowledge at

the first battle at Gray Oaks, which could only have been obtained

from our side, and which led to a Federal disaster; that you, however,

retrieved by your gallantry. I then asked the secretary if he was

prepared to show that you had sent the information with that view, or

that you had been overtaken by a tardy sense of repentance. He preferred

to consider my suggestion as humorous. But the inquiry led to my further

discovery that the only treasonable correspondence actually in evidence

was found upon the body of a trusted Federal officer, and had been

forwarded to the division commander. But there was no record of it in

the case.”

“Why, I forwarded it myself,” said Brant eagerly.

“So the division commander writes,” said the President, smiling, “and he

forwarded it to the department. But it was suppressed in some way. Have

you any enemies, General Brant?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Then you probably have. You are young and successful. Think of the

hundred other officers who naturally believe themselves better than you

are, and haven't a traitorous wife. Still, the department may have made

an example of you for the benefit of the only man who couldn't profit by

it.”

“Might it not have been, sir, that this suppression was for the good

report of the service--as the chief offender was dead?”

“I am glad to hear you say so, General, for it is the argument I have

used successfully in behalf of your wife.”

“Then you know it all, sir?” said Brant after a gloomy pause.

“All, I think. Come, General, you seemed just now to be uncertain about

your enemies. Let me assure you, you need not be so in regard to your

friends.”

“I dare to hope I have found one, sir,” said Brant with almost boyish

timidity.

“Oh, not me!” said the President, with a laugh of deprecation. “Some one

much more potent.”

“May I know his name, Mr. President?”

“No, for it is a woman. You were nearly ruined by one, General. I

suppose it's quite right that you should be saved by one. And, of

course, irregularly.”

“A woman!” echoed Brant.

“Yes; one who was willing to confess herself a worse spy than your

wife--a double traitor--to save you! Upon my word, General, I don't

know if the department was far wrong; a man with such an alternately

unsettling and convincing effect upon a woman's highest political

convictions should be under some restraint. Luckily the department knows

nothing of it.”

“Nor would any one else have known from me,” said Brant eagerly. “I

trust that she did not think--that you, sir, did not for an instant

believe that I”--

“Oh dear, no! Nobody would have believed you! It was her free confidence

to me. That was what made the affair so difficult to handle. For even

her bringing your dispatch to the division commander looked bad for you;

and you know he even doubted its authenticity.”

“Does she--does Miss Faulkner know the spy was my wife?” hesitated

Brant.

The President twisted himself in his chair, so as to regard Brant more

gravely with his deep-set eyes, and then thoughtfully rubbed his leg.

“Don't let us travel out of the record, General,” he said after a pause.

But as the color surged into Brant's cheek he raised his eyes to the

ceiling, and said, in half-humorous recollection,--

“No, I think THAT fact was first gathered from your other friend--Mr.

Hooker.”

“Hooker!” said Brant, indignantly; “did he come here?”

“Pray don't destroy my faith in Mr. Hooker, General,” said the

President, in half-weary, half-humorous deprecation. “Don't tell me

that any of his inventions are TRUE! Leave me at least that magnificent

liar--the one perfectly intelligible witness you have. For from the

time that he first appeared here with a grievance and a claim for

a commission, he has been an unspeakable joy to me and a convincing

testimony to you. Other witnesses have been partisans and prejudiced;

Mr. Hooker was frankly true to himself. How else should I have known of

the care you took to disguise yourself, save the honor of your uniform,

and run the risk of being shot as an unknown spy at your wife's side,

except from his magnificent version of HIS part in it? How else should

I have known the story of your discovery of the Californian conspiracy,

except from his supreme portrayal of it, with himself as the hero? No,

you must not forget to thank Mr. Hooker when you meet him. Miss Faulkner

is at present more accessible; she is calling on some members of my

family in the next room. Shall I leave you with her?”

Brant rose with a pale face and a quickly throbbing heart as the

President, glancing at the clock, untwisted himself from the chair, and

shook himself out full length, and rose gradually to his feet.

“Your wish for active service is granted, General Brant,” he said

slowly, “and you will at once rejoin your old division commander, who

is now at the head of the Tenth Army Corps. But,” he said, after a

deliberate pause, “there are certain rules and regulations of your

service that even I cannot, with decent respect to your department,

override. You will, therefore, understand that you cannot rejoin the

army in your former position.”

The slight flush that came to Brant's cheek quickly passed. And there

was only the unmistakable sparkle of renewed youth in his frank eyes as

he said--

“Let me go to the front again, Mr. President, and I care not HOW.”

The President smiled, and, laying his heavy hand on Brant's shoulder,

pushed him gently towards the door of the inner room.

“I was only about to say,” he added, as he opened the door, “that

it would be necessary for you to rejoin your promoted commander as

a major-general. And,” he continued, lifting his voice, as he gently

pushed his guest into the room, “he hasn't even thanked me for it, Miss

Faulkner!”

The door closed behind him, and he stood for a moment dazed, and still

hearing the distant voice of the President, in the room he had just

quitted, now welcoming a new visitor. But the room before him, opening

into a conservatory, was empty, save for a single figure that turned,

half timidly, half mischievously, towards him. The same quick,

sympathetic glance was in both their faces; the same timid, happy look

in both their eyes. He moved quickly to her side.

“Then you knew that--that--woman was my wife?” he said, hurriedly, as he

grasped her hand.

She cast a half-appealing look at his face--a half-frightened one around

the room and at the open door beyond.

“Let us,” she said faintly, “go into the conservatory.”

*****

It is but a few years ago that the veracious chronicler of these pages

moved with a wondering crowd of sightseers in the gardens of the White

House. The war cloud had long since lifted and vanished; the Potomac

flowed peacefully by and on to where once lay the broad plantation of a

great Confederate leader--now a national cemetery that had gathered the

soldier dead of both sections side by side in equal rest and honor--and

the great goddess once more looked down serenely from the dome of the

white Capitol. The chronicler's attention was attracted by an erect,

handsome soldierly-looking man, with a beard and moustache slightly

streaked with gray, pointing out the various objects of interest to a

boy of twelve or fourteen at his side.

“Yes; although, as I told you, this house belongs only to the President

of the United States and his family,” said the gentleman, smilingly, “in

that little conservatory I proposed to your mother.”

“Oh! Clarence, how can you!” said the lady, reprovingly, “you know it

was LONG after that!”