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BOOK I
WHAT HAPPENED AT EIGHT O’CLOCK
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CHAPTER I||THE BATTERY PASSES
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Outside, the softness of an April night; the
verdure of tree and lawn, the climbing roses,
already far advanced in that southern latitude,
sweetly silvered in the moonlight. Within the
great old house apparently an equal calm.
Yet, neither within nor without was the night
absolutely soundless. Far away to the southward
the cloudless horizon, easily visible from
the slight eminence on which the house stood,
was marked by quivering flashes of lurid light.
From time to time, the attentive ear might catch
the roll, the roar, the reverberation of heavy
sound like distant thunder-peals intermingled
with sharper detonations. The flashes came
from great guns, and the rolling peals were the
sound of the cannon, the detonations explosions
of the shells. There was the peace of God in the
heaven above; there were the passions of men
on the earth beneath.
Lights gleamed here and there, shining
through the twining rose foliage, from the windows of the old house, which stood far back from
the street. From a room on one side of the hall,
which opened from the broad pillared portico
of Colonial fashion, a hum of voices arose.
A group of women, with nervous hands and
anxious faces, working while they talked, were
picking lint, tearing linen and cotton for bandages.
Their conversation was not the idle
chatter of other days. They “told sad stories
of the death of kings!” How “Tom” and
“Charles” and “Allen” and “Page” and
“Burton” had gone down into the Valley of the
Shadow of Death, whence they had not come
back. How this fort had been hammered yesterday,
the other, the day before. How So-and-So’s
wounds had been ministered to. How Such-a-One’s
needs had been relieved. How the enemy
were drawing closer and closer and closer,
and how they were being held back with courage,
which, alas! by that time was the courage of
despair. And much of their speech was of their
own kind, of bereft women and fatherless children.
And ever as they talked, the busy fingers
flew.
Upstairs from one of the front rooms the light
shone dimly through a window partly covered
by a half-drawn Venetian blind. One standing
at the side of the house and listening would
have heard out of the chamber low moanings,
muttered words from feverish lips and delirious
brain. The meaningless yet awful babble was
broken now and again by words of tenderness
and anguish. Soft hands were laid on the burning
brow of the poor sufferer within, while a
mother’s eyes dropped tears upon bloodstained
bandages and wasted frame.
And now the gentle wind which swept softly
through the trees bore a sudden sharper, stranger
sound toward the old house in the garden.
The tramp of horse, the creak of wheels, the
faint jingling of arms and sabres drew nearer
and rose louder. Sudden words of command
punctured the night. Here came a battery,
without the rattle of drum or the blare of bugles,
with no sound but its own galloping it rolled
down the street. Lean, gaunt horses were ridden
and driven by leaner and gaunter men in
dusty, worn, ragged, tattered uniforms. Only
the highly polished brass guns—twelve-pounder
Napoleons—gleamed bright in the moonlight.
The sewing women came out on the porch
and the blind of the window above was lifted
and a white-haired woman stood framed in the
light.
No, those watchers did not cheer as the battery
swept by on its way to the front. For one
thing, a soldier lay upstairs dying; for another,
they had passed the time when they cheered that
tattered flag. Now they wept over it as one
weeps as he beholds for the last time the face of
a friend who dies. Once they had acclaimed it
as the sunrise in the morning, now they watched
it silently go inevitably to the sunset of defeat.
The men did not cheer either. They were not
past cheering—oh, no! They were made of
rougher stuff than the women, and the time
would come when, in final action, they would
burst forth into that strange, wild yell that
struck terror to the hearts of the hearers. They
could cheer even in the last ditch, even in
the jaws of death—face the end better for
their cheering perhaps; but women are more
silent in the crisis. They bear and give no
tongue.
The officer in command saw the little group
of women on the porch. The moonlight shone
from the street side and high-lighted them, turning
the rusty black of most of the gowns, home-dyed mourning,—all that could be come at in
those last awful days in Richmond,—into soft
shadows, above which their faces shone angelic.
He saw the woman’s head in the window, too.
He knew who lay upon the bed of death within
the chamber. He had helped to bring him back
from the front several days before. He bit his
lips for a moment and then, ashamed of his emotion,
his voice rang harsh. With arm and sabre
the battery saluted the women and passed on,
while from the window of the great drawing-room,
opposite the room of the lint-pickers and
bandage-tearers, a slender boy stared and
stared after the disappearing guns, his eyes full
of envy and vexatious tears as he stamped his
foot in futile protest and disappointment.
The noise made by the passing cannon soon
died away in the distance. Stillness supervened
as before; workers whispered together, realising
that some of those passing upon whom they
had looked would pass no more, and that they
would look upon them never again. Upstairs
the moans of the wounded man had died away,
the only thing that persisted was the fearful
thundering of the distant guns around beleaguered
Petersburg. Within the drawing-room, the boy walked up and down restlessly,
muttering to himself, evidently nerving himself
to desperate resolution.
“I won’t do it,” he said. “I won’t stay here
any longer.”
He threw up his hands and turned to the portraits
that adorned the room, portraits that carried
one back through centuries to the days of
the first cavalier of the family, who crossed the
seas to seek his fortune in a new land, and it
was a singular thing that practically every one
of them wore a sword.
“You all fought,” said the boy passionately,
“and I am going to.”
The door at the other end was softly
opened. The great room was but dimly lighted
by candles in sconces on the wall; the great
chandelier was not lighted for lack of tapers,
but a more brilliant radiance was presently cast
over the apartment by the advent of old Martha.
She had been the boy’s “Mammy” and the
boy’s father’s “Mammy” as well, and no one
dared to speculate how much farther into the
past she ran back.
“Is dat you, Mars Wilfred?” said the old
woman, waddling into the room, both hands extended, bearing two many-branched candle-sticks,
which she proceeded to deposit upon the
handsome mahogany tables with which the long
drawing-room was furnished.
“Yes, it is I, Aunt Martha. Did you see Benton’s
Battery go by?”
“Lawd lub you, chile, Ah done seed so many
guns an’ hosses an’ soljahs a-gwine by Ah don’t
tek no notice ob ’em no mo’. ’Peahs lak dey
keep on a-passin’ by fo’ebah.”
“Well, there won’t be many more of them
pass by,” said the boy in a clear accent, but
with that soft intonation which would have betrayed
his Southern ancestry anywhere, “and
before they are all gone, I would like to join one
of them myself.”
“Why, my po’ li’l lamb!” exclaimed Martha,
her arms akimbo, “dat Ah done nussed in dese
ahms, is you gwine to de fight!”
The boy’s demeanour was anything but lamb-like.
He made a fierce step toward her.
“Don’t you call me ‘lamb’ any more,” he
said, “it’s ridiculous and——”
Mammy Martha started back in alarm.
“’Peahs mo’ lak a lion’d be better,” she
admitted.
“Where’s mother?” asked the boy, dismissing
the subject as unworthy of argument.
“I reckon she’s upstaihs wid Mars Howard,
suh. Yo’ bruddah——”
“I want to see her right away,” continued
the boy impetuously.
“Mars Howard he’s putty bad dis ebenin’,”
returned Martha. “Ah bettah go an’ tell her
dat you want her, but Ah dunno’s she’d want
to leab him.”
“Well, you tell her to come as soon as she
can. I’m awfully sorry for Howard, but it’s
living men that the Confederacy needs most
now.”
“Yas, suh,” returned the old nurse, with a
quizzical look out of her black eyes at the slender
boy before her. “Dey suah does need
men,” she continued, and as the youngster took
a passionate step toward her, she deftly passed
out of the room and closed the door behind her,
and he could hear her ponderous footsteps
slowly and heavily mounting the steps.
The boy went to the window again and stared
into the night. In his preoccupation he did not
catch the sound of a gentler footfall upon the
stairs, nor did he notice the opening of the door
and the silent approach of a woman, the woman
with white hair who had stood at the window.
The mother of a son dead, a son dying, and a
son living. No distinctive thing that in the Confederacy.
Almost any mother who had more
than one boy could have been justly so characterised.
She stopped half-way down the room
and looked lovingly and longingly at the slight,
graceful figure of her youngest son. Her eyes
filled with tears—for the dying or the living or
both? Who can say? She went toward him,
laid her hand on his shoulder. He turned instantly
and at the sight of her tears burst out
quickly:
“Howard isn’t worse, is he?” for a moment
forgetful of all else.
The woman shook her head.
“I am afraid he is. The sound of that passing
battery seemed to excite him so. He thought
he was at the front again and wanted to get up.”
“Poor old Howard!”
“He’s quieter now, perhaps——”
“Mother, is there anything I can do for
him?”
“No, my son,” answered the woman with a
sigh, “I don’t think there is anything that anybody can do. We can only wait—and hope. He
is in God’s hands, not ours.”
She lifted her face for a moment and saw beyond
the room, through the night, and beyond
the stars a Presence Divine, to Whom thousands
of other women in that dying Confederacy made
daily, hourly, and momentary prayers. Less
exalted, more human, less touched, the boy
bowed his head, not without his own prayer,
too.
“But you wanted to see me, Wilfred, Martha
said,” the woman presently began.
“Yes, mother, I——”
The boy stopped and the woman was in no
hurry to press him. She divined what was coming
and would fain have avoided it all.
“I am thankful there is a lull in the cannonading,”
she said, listening. “I wonder why it
has stopped?”
“It has not stopped,” said Wilfred, “at
least it has gone on all evening.”
“I don’t hear it now.”
“No, but you will—there!”
“Yes, but compared to what it was yesterday—you
know how it shook the house—and
Howard suffered so through it.”
“So did I,” said the boy in a low voice
fraught with passion.
“You, my son?”
“Yes, mother, when I hear those guns and
know that the fighting is going on, it fairly
maddens me——”
But Mrs. Varney hastily interrupted her boy.
Woman-like she would thrust from her the decision
which she knew would be imposed upon
her.
“Yes, yes,” she said; “I know how you suffered,—we
all suffered, we——” She turned
away, sat down in a chair beside the table,
leaned her head in her hands, and gave way to
her emotions. “There has been nothing but
suffering, suffering since this awful war began,”
she murmured.
“Mother,” said Wilfred abruptly, “I want
to speak to you. You don’t like it, of course, but
you have just got to listen this time.”
Mrs. Varney lifted her head from her hands.
Wilfred came nearer to her and dropped on his
knees by her side. One hand she laid upon his
shoulder, the other on his head. She stared
down into his up-turned face.
“I know—I know, my boy—what you want.”
“I can’t stay here any longer,” said the
youth; “it is worse than being shot to pieces.
I just have to chain myself to the floor whenever
I hear a cannon-shot or see a soldier. When
can I go?”
The woman stared at him. In him she saw
faintly the face of the boy dying upstairs. In
him she saw the white face of the boy who lay
under the sun and dew, dead at Seven Pines.
In him she saw all her kith and kin, who, true
to the traditions of that house, had given up
their lives for a cause now practically lost. She
could not give up the last one. She drew him
gently to her, but, boy-like, he disengaged himself
and drew away with a shake of his head,
not that he loved his mother the less, but honour—as
he saw it—the more.
“Why don’t you speak?” he whispered at
last.
“I don’t know what to say to you, Wilfred,”
faltered his mother, although there was but one
thing to say, and she knew that she must
say it, yet she was fighting, woman-like, for
time.
“I will tell you what to say,” said the boy.
“What?”
“Say that you won’t mind if I go down to
Petersburg and enlist.”
“But that would not be true, Wilfred,” said
his mother, smiling faintly.
“True or not, mother, I can’t stay here.”
“Oh, Wilfred, Russell has gone, and Howard
is going, and now you want to go and get
killed.”
“I don’t want to be killed at all, mother.”
“But you are so young, my boy.”
“Not younger than Tom Kittridge,” answered
the boy; “not younger than Ell Stuart
or Cousin Steven or hundreds of other boys
down there. See, mother—they have called for
all over eighteen, weeks ago; the seventeen call
may be out any moment; the next one after that
takes me. Do you want me to stay here until
I am ordered out! I should think not. Where’s
your pride?”
“My pride? Ah, my son, it is on the battlefield,
over at Seven Pines, and upstairs with
Howard.”
“Well, I don’t care, mother,” he persisted
obstinately. “I love you and all that, you know
it,—but I can’t stand this. I’ve got to go. I
must go.”
Mrs. Varney recognised from the ring of determination
in the boy’s voice that his mind was
made up. She could no longer hold him. With
or without her consent he would go, and why
should she withhold it? Other boys as young as
hers had gone and had not come back. Aye,
there was the rub: she had given one, the other
trembled on the verge, and now the last one!
Yes, he must go, too,—to live or die as God
pleased. If they wanted her to sacrifice everything
on the altar of her country, she had her
own pride, she would do it, as hundreds of other
women had done. She rose from her chair and
went toward her boy. He was a slender lad of
sixteen but was quite as tall as she. As he stood
there he looked strangely like his father,
thought the woman.
“Well,” she said at last, “I will write to
your father and——”
“But,” the boy interrupted in great disappointment,
“that’ll take forever. You never
can tell where his brigade is from day to day.
I can’t wait for you to do that.”
“Wilfred,” said his mother, “I can’t let you
go without his consent. You must be patient.
I will write the letter at once, and we will send
it by a special messenger. You ought to hear
by to-morrow.”
The boy turned away impatiently and strode
toward the door.
“Wilfred,” said his mother gently. The
tender appeal in her voice checked him. She
came over to him and put her arm about his
shoulders. “Don’t feel bad, my boy, that you
have to stay another day with your mother. It
may be many days, you know, before——”
“It isn’t that,” said Wilfred.
“My darling boy—I know it. You want to
fight for your country—and I’m proud of you.
I want my sons to do their duty. But with your
father at the front, one boy dead, and the other
wounded, dying——”
She turned away.
“You will write father to-night, won’t you?”
“Yes—yes!”
“I’ll wait, then, until we have had time to get
a reply,” said the boy.
“Yes, and then you will go away. I know
what your father’s answer will be. The last of
my boys—Oh, God, my boys!”
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CHAPTER II||A COMMISSION FROM THE PRESIDENT
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The door giving entrance to the hall was opened
unceremoniously by the rotund and privileged
Martha. She came at an opportune time, relieving
the tension between the mother and son.
Wilfred was not insensible to his mother’s feelings,
but he was determined to go to the front.
He was glad of the interruption and rather
shamefacedly took advantage of it by leaving
the room.
“Well, Martha, what is it?” asked Mrs. Varney,
striving to regain her composure.
“Deys one ob de men fum de hossiple heah,
ma’am.”
“Another one?”
“Ah ’clah to goodness, ma’am, dey jes’ keeps
a-comin’ an’ a-comin’. ’Peahs like we cain’t
keep no close fo’ ourse’f; de sheets an’ tablecloths
an’ napkins an’ eben de young misstess’
petticoats, dey all hab to go.”
“And we have just sent all the bandages we
have,” said Mrs. Varney, smiling.
“Den we got to git some mo’. Dey says
dey’s all used up, an’ two mo’ trains jes’ come
in crowded full o’ wounded sojahs—an’ mos’
all ob ’em dreffeul bad!”
“Is Miss Kittridge here yet, Martha?”
“Yas’m, Ah jes’ seed her goin’ thu de hall
into de libr’y.”
“Ask her if they have anything to send.
Even if it’s only a little let them have it. What
they need most is bandages. There are some in
Howard’s room, too. Give them half of what
you find there. I think what we have left will
last long enough to—to——”
“Yas’m,” said old Martha, sniffing. “Ah’m
a-gwine. Does you want to see de man?”
“Yes, send him in,” said Mrs. Varney.
There was a light tap on the door after Martha
went out.
“Come in,” said the mistress of the house,
and there entered to her a battered and dilapidated
specimen of young humanity, his arm in
a sling. “My poor man!” exclaimed Mrs.
Varney. “Sit down.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Martha,” she called to the old woman, who
paused at the door on her way to the stairs,
“can’t you get something to eat and drink for
this gentleman?”
“Well, the pantry ain’t obahflowin’, as you
know, Mrs. Varney. But Ah reckon Ah might
fin’ a glass o’ milk ef Ah jes’ had to.”
“All our wine has gone long ago,” said Mrs.
Varney to the soldier, “but if a glass of
milk——”
“I haven’t seen a glass of milk for three
years, ma’am,” answered the man, smiling;
“it would taste like nectar.”
“Martha will set it for you in the dining-room
while you are waiting. What hospital did
you come from, by the way?”
“The Winder, ma’am.”
“And is it full?”
“They are laying them on blankets on the
floor. You can hardly step for wounded
men.”
“I suppose you need everything?”
“Everything, but especially bandages.”
“Have you been over to St. Paul’s Church?
The ladies are working there to-night.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ve been over there, but
they’re not working for the hospital; they’re
making sand-bags for fortifications.”
“And where are you from?”
“I’m a Louisiana Tiger, ma’am,” answered
the man proudly.
“You don’t look much like it now,” said the
woman, smiling.
“No, I guess the lamb is more like me now,
but just wait until I get well enough to go to
the front again,” admitted the soldier cheerfully.
At this moment one of the ladies who had been
working in the other room came in carrying a
small packet of bandages done up in a coarse
brown paper.
“Oh, Miss Kittridge,” said Mrs. Varney,
“here is the gentleman who——”
Miss Kittridge was a very business-like
person.
“This is every scrap we have,” she said,
handing the soldier the parcel with a little bow.
“If you will come back in an hour or two,
perhaps we shall have more for you.”
“Thank you, ladies, and God bless you. I
don’t know what our poor fellows in the hospitals
would do if it weren’t for you.”
“Don’t forget your milk in the dining-room,”
said Mrs. Varney.
“I’m not likely to, ma’am,” returned the
soldier, as, in spite of his wounded arm, he
bowed gracefully to the women.
In the hall Martha’s voice could be heard exclaiming:
“Come right dis way, you po’ chile, an’ see
what Ah’s got fo’ you in de dinin’-room.”
“You must be tired to death,” said Mrs. Varney
to Miss Kittridge, looking at the white face
of the other woman. Her brother had been
killed a few days before, but the clods had
scarcely rattled down upon his coffin before she
was energetically at work again—for other
women’s brothers.
“No, no,” she said bravely; “and our tiredness
is nothing compared to the weariness of
our men. We are going to stay late to-night,
Mrs. Varney, if you will let us. There’s so many
more wounded come in it won’t do to stop now.
We have found some old linen that will make
splendid bandages, and——”
“My dear girl,” said the matron, “stay as
long as you possibly can. I will see if Martha
can’t serve you something to eat after a while.
I don’t believe there is any tea left in the
house.”
“Bread and butter will be a feast,” said Miss
Kittridge.
“And I don’t believe there is much butter
either,” smiled the older woman.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said the other.
“Is—is your son—is there any change?”
“Not for the better,” was the reply. “I am
afraid his fever is increasing.”
“And has the surgeon seen him this evening?”
“Not to-night.”
“Why not!” exclaimed Miss Kittridge in
great surprise. “Surely his condition is sufficiently
critical to demand more than one brief
visit in the morning.”
“I can’t ask him to come twice with so many
waiting for him,” said Mrs. Varney.
“But they would not refuse you, Mrs. Varney,”
said Miss Kittridge quickly. “There’s
that man going back to the hospital, he’s in the
dining-room yet. I’ll call him and send word
that——”
She started impulsively toward the door, but
Mrs. Varney caught her by the arm.
“No,” she said firmly; “I can’t let you.”
“Not for your own son?”
“I am thinking of the sons of other mothers.
The surgeon has done all that he can for him.
And think how many other sons would have to
be neglected if he visited mine twice. He will
come again to-morrow.”
The second woman stood looking at her in
mingled sympathy and amazement, and there
was a touch of pride in her glance, too. She was
proud of her sex, and she had a right to be
there in Richmond that spring, if ever.
“I understand,” said Miss Kittridge at last.
“I suppose you are right.”
They stared at each other, white-faced, a moment,
when there entered to them youth and
beauty incarnate. There was enough resemblance
between the pale, white-haired mother
and the girlish figure in the doorway to proclaim
their relationship. The girl’s cheek had
lost some of its bloom and some of its roundness.
There was too much that was appalling and
fearful in and about Richmond then not to leave
its mark even upon the most youthful and the
most buoyant, yet things did not come home to
the young as they did to those older. She was
still a lovely picture, especially in the soft radiance
of the candles. She carried her hat in her
hand. The flowers upon it were assuredly those
of yester-year, it would not have passed muster
as the mode anywhere except in besieged Richmond;
and her dress, although it fitted her perfectly,
was worn and faded and had been turned
and patched and altered until it was quite beyond
further change, yet she wore it as airily
as if it had been tissue of silver or cloth of gold.
The mother’s face brightened.
“Edith dear,” she exclaimed, “how late you
are! It is after eight o’clock. You must be
tired out.”
“I am not tired at all,” answered the girl
cheerily. “I have not been at the hospital all
afternoon; this is my day off. How is Howard?”
“I wish I could say just the same, but he
seems a little worse.”
The girl’s face went suddenly grave. She
stepped over to her mother, took her hand and
patted it softly.
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“My dear,” said her mother, “Howard—we—are
all in God’s hands.”
She drew a long breath and lifted her head
bravely.
“Miss Kittridge,” said the girl, “I have
something very important to tell mother,
and——”
Miss Kittridge smiled back at her.
“I am going right away, honey. There is
lots of work for us to do and——”
“You don’t mind, I hope,” said Edith Varney,
calling after her as she went into the hall.
“No, indeed,” was the reply.
Mrs. Varney sat down wearily by the table,
and Edith pulled up a low stool and sat at her
feet.
“Well, my dear?”
“Mamma—what do you think? What do you
think?”
“I think a great many things,” said Mrs.
Varney, “but——”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t ever think of this.”
“Certainly I shall not, unless you tell me.”
“Well, I have been to see the President.”
“The President—Mr. Davis!”
“Yes.”
“And what did you go to see the President
for?”
“I asked him for an appointment for Captain
Thorne.”
“For Captain Thorne! My dear——”
“Yes, mother, for the War Department Telegraph
Service. And he gave it to me, a special
commission. He gave it to me for father’s sake
and for Captain Thorne’s sake,—he has met
him and likes him,—and for my own.”
“What sort of an appointment?”
“Appointing him to duty here in Richmond,
a very important position. He won’t be sent to
the front, and he will be doing his duty just the
same.”
“But, Edith, you don’t—you can’t——”
“Yes, it will, mother. The President,—I
just love him,—told me they needed a man who
understood telegraphing and who was of high
enough rank to take charge of the service. As
you know, most of the telegraph operators are
privates, and Captain Thorne is an expert.
Since he’s been here in Richmond he’s helped
them in the telegraph office often. Lieutenant
Foray told me so.”
Mrs. Varney rose and moved away. Edith
followed her.
“Now, mamma!” she exclaimed; “I feel
you are going to scold me, and you must not,
because it’s all fixed and the commission will
be sent over here in a few minutes—just
as soon as it can be made out—and when
it comes I am going to give it to him myself.”
Mrs. Varney moved over toward the table and
lifted a piece of paper, evidently a note.
“He is coming this evening,” she said.
“How do you know?” asked her daughter.
“Well, for one thing,” said her mother, “I
can remember very few evenings when he hasn’t
been here since he was able to walk out of the
hospital.”
“Mamma!”
“And for another thing, this note came about
half an hour ago.”
“Is it for me?”
“For me, my dear, else I shouldn’t have
opened it. You can read it, if you like.”
“Has it been here all this time?” exclaimed
Edith jealously.
“All this time. You will see what he says.
This will be his last call; he has his orders to
leave.”
“Why, it’s too ridiculous!” said the girl;
“just as if the commission from the President
wouldn’t supersede everything else. It puts
him at the head of the Telegraph Service. He
will be in command of the Department. He says
it is a good-bye call, does he?” She looked at
the note again and laughed, “All the better, it
will be that much more of a surprise. Now,
mamma, don’t you breathe a word about it, I
want to tell him myself.”
“But, Edith dear—I am sorry to criticise
you—but I don’t at all approve of your going to
the President about this. It doesn’t seem quite
the proper thing for a young lady to interest
herself so far——”
“But listen, mamma,” and as she spoke the
light went out of Miss Edith’s face at her
mother’s grave and somewhat reproving aspect.
“I couldn’t go to the War Department people.
Mr. Arrelsford is there in one of the offices, and
ever since I—I refused him, you know how he
has treated me! If I had applied for anything
there, it would have been refused at once, and
he would have got them to order Captain
Thorne away right off. I know he would—why,
that is where his orders came from!”
“But, my dear——”
“That is where they came from. Isn’t it
lucky I got that commission to-day. There’s
the bell; I wonder who it can be?” She stopped
and listened while the door opened and Jonas,
the butler, entered. “Is it Captain Thorne?”
asked Edith eagerly.
“No, ma’am.”
“Oh!”
“It’s another offisuh, ma’am. He says he’s
fum de President an’ he’s got to see Miss Edith
pussonally.”
Jonas extended a card which, as he spoke,
Edith took and glanced at indifferently.
“Lieutenant Maxwell,” she read.
“Ask the gentleman in, Jonas,” said Mrs.
Varney.
“It’s come,” whispered Edith to her mother.
“Do you know who he is?”
“No—but he’s from the President—it must
be that commission.”
At this moment old Jonas ushered into the
drawing-room a very dashing young officer,
handsome in face, gallant in bearing, and
dressed in a showy and perfectly fitting uniform,
which was quite a contrast to the worn
habiliments of the men at the front. Mrs. Varney
stepped forward a little, and Lieutenant
Maxwell bowed low before her.
“Good-evening, ma’am. Have I the honour
of addressing Miss Varney?”
“I am Mrs. Varney, sir.”
“Madam,” said the Lieutenant, “I am very
much afraid this looks like an intrusion on my
part, but I come from the President, and he desires
me to see Miss Varney personally.”
“Any one from the President could not be
otherwise than welcome, sir. This is my daughter.
Edith, let me present Lieutenant Maxwell.”
The young Lieutenant, greatly impressed,
bowed profoundly before her, and taking a large
brown envelope from his belt, handed it to her.
“Miss Varney,” he said, “the President
directed me to deliver this into your hands, with
his compliments. He is glad to be able to do
this, he says, not only at your request, but because
of your father and for the merits of the
gentleman in question.”
“Oh, thank you,” cried the girl, taking the
envelope.
“Won’t you be seated, Lieutenant Maxwell?”
said Mrs. Varney.
“Yes, do,” urged the girl, holding the envelope
pressed very tightly to her side.
“Nothing would please me so much, ladies,”
answered the Lieutenant, “but I must go back
to the President’s house right away. I’m on
duty this evening. Would you mind writing me
off a line or two, Miss Varney, just to say you
have received the communication?”
“Why, certainly, you want a receipt. I’ll go
upstairs to my desk; it won’t take a moment.
And could I put in how much I thank him for
his kindness?”
“I am sure he would be more than, pleased,”
smiled Lieutenant Maxwell, as Edith left the
room and hastened up the stairs.
“We haven’t heard so much cannonading to-day,
Lieutenant,” said Mrs. Varney. “Do you
know what it means?”
“I don’t think they are quite positive, ma’am,
but they can’t help looking for a violent attack
to follow.”
“I don’t see why it should quiet down before
an assault.”
“Well, there is always a calm before a
storm,” said the Lieutenant. “It might be
some signal, or it might be they are moving their
batteries to open on some special point of attack. They are trying every way to break
through our defences, you know.”
“It’s very discouraging. We can’t seem to
drive them back this time.”
“We’re holding them where they are,
though,” said Maxwell proudly. “They’ll
never get in unless they do it by some scurvy
trick; that’s where the danger lies. We are
always looking out for it, and——”
At this moment Edith Varney reëntered the
room. She had left her hat upstairs with the
official-looking envelope, and had taken time to
glance at a mirror and then to thrust a red rose
in her dark hair. The impressionable young
Lieutenant thought she looked prettier than
ever.
“Lieutenant Maxwell,” she said, extending
a folded paper, “here is your receipt——”
The butler’s words to some one in the hall interrupted
her further speech.
“Will you jes’ kin’ly step dis way, suh!”
she heard Jonas say, and as Edith turned she
found herself face to face with Captain Thorne!
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch03
CHAPTER III||ORDERS TO CAPTAIN THORNE
.sp 2
On the sleeves of Captain Thorne’s coat the insignia
of a Captain of Confederate Artillery
were displayed; his uniform was worn, soiled,
and ill-fitting, giving honourable evidence of
hard service; his face was pale and thin and
showed signs of recent illness, from which he
had scarcely recovered. In every particular he
was a marked contrast to Lieutenant Maxwell.
“Miss Varney,” he said, bowing low.
“We were expecting you,” answered Edith,
giving her hand to Thorne. “Here’s Captain
Thorne, mamma!”
Mrs. Varney shook hands with him graciously
while her daughter turned once more to the
other man, with the acknowledgment of the
order, which she handed to him.
“I wasn’t so very long writing it, was I,
Lieutenant Maxwell?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen a quicker piece of work,
Miss Varney,” returned that young man, putting the note in his belt and smiling as he did
so. “When you want a clerkship over at the
Government offices, you must surely let me
know.”
“You would better not commit yourself,”
said Edith jestingly; “I might take you at your
word.”
“Nothing would please me more,” was the
prompt answer. “All you have got to do is
just apply, and refer to me, of course.”
“Lots of the other girls are doing it,” continued
Edith half-seriously. “They have to
live. Aren’t there a good many where you
are?”
“Well, we don’t have so many as they do
over at the Treasury. I believe there are more
ladies over there than men. And now I must
go.”
“A moment,” said Mrs. Varney, coming forward
with Thorne. “Do you gentlemen know
each other?”
Captain Thorne shook his head and stepped
forward, looking intently at the other.
“Let me have the pleasure of making you
acquainted, then. Captain Thorne—Lieutenant
Maxwell.”
Thorne slowly inclined his head. Maxwell
also bowed.
“I have not had the pleasure of meeting
Captain Thorne before, although I have heard
of him a great many times,” he said
courteously.
“Yes?” answered the other, who seemed to
be a man of few words.
“In fact, Captain, there is a gentleman in one
of our offices who seems mighty anxious to pick
a fight with you.”
“Really!” exclaimed Captain Thorne, smiling
somewhat sarcastically; “pick a fight with
me! To what office do you refer, sir?”
“The War Office, sir,” said Lieutenant Maxwell,
rather annoyed, he could not exactly say
why.
“Dear, dear!” continued Thorne urbanely;
“I didn’t suppose there was anybody in the
War Office who wanted to fight!”
“And why not, sir?” asked Lieutenant Maxwell
haughtily, while Edith barely stifled a
laugh, and her mother even smiled.
“Well, if he wanted to fight, he’d hardly
be in an office at a time like this, would
he?”
Captain Thorne’s sarcasm seemed to perturb
the youngster, but his good breeding got the
better of his annoyance.
“I’d better not tell him that, Captain,” he
said with a great effort at lightness; “he would
certainly insist upon having you out.”
“That would be too bad,” said the Captain.
“It might interfere with his office hours
and——”
“He doesn’t believe it, Miss Varney,” said
Maxwell, turning to the younger woman, “but
it is certainly true. I dare say you know the
gentleman——”
“Please don’t, Lieutenant,” interrupted
Edith quickly. “I would rather not talk about
it, if you please.”
“Of course,” said Maxwell, “I didn’t know
there was anything——”
“Yes,” said Edith. “Let’s talk about
something else. You know there is always the
weather to fall back on——”
“I should say so,” laughed the Lieutenant,
“and mighty bad weather for us, too.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
They turned away, talking and laughing
somewhat constrainedly, while Mrs. Varney
picked up the note that was still lying on the
table.
“From your note, I suppose you are leaving
us immediately, Captain Thorne. Your orders
have come?”
“Yes, Mrs. Varney,” said the Captain. “I
am afraid this must be the last of my pleasant
calls.”
“Isn’t it rather sudden? Are you quite
well? It seems to me they ought to give you a
little more time to recover.”
“I have no doubt that I am, or feel, much better
than I look,” said the Captain, “and we
have to be ready for anything, you know. I
have been idle too long already.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Varney.
“Well, it has been a great pleasure to have
you call upon us. When you are away, we shall
greatly miss your visits.”
“Thank you; I shall never forget what they
have been to me.”
“Lieutenant Maxwell is going, mamma,”
said Edith.
“So soon! Please excuse me a moment,
Captain. I am very sorry you have to hurry
away, Lieutenant; we shall hope for the pleasure of seeing you again, if your duties permit.”
“I shall certainly avail myself of your invitation,
if you will allow me.” He saluted
Captain Thorne. “Good-evening, sir.”
Thorne, of course, returned the courteous
salute of his junior.
“Lieutenant Maxwell,” he said pleasantly, as
Mrs. Varney followed Lieutenant Maxwell into
the hall.
“Now remember, you are to come some time
when duty doesn’t call you away so soon,” she
said, as he bowed himself out.
“Trust me not to forget that, Mrs. Varney,”
said the Lieutenant, as he disappeared on the
porch.
Captain Thorne and Edith were left alone.
The girl stepped over to a small table on which
stood a vase of roses, and, with somewhat
nervous hands, she busied herself arranging
them. The young officer watched her in silence
for a little while, the moments tense with emotion.
“Shall I see Mrs. Varney again?” he began
at last.
“Oh, I suppose so, but not now. I heard her
go upstairs to Howard.”
“How is he?”
“Desperately ill.”
“I am sorry.”
“Yes,” said the girl.
“I have a very little time to stay and——”
“Oh—not long?” asked Edith.
“No, I am sorry to say.”
“Well, do you know,” she looked at him
archly, “I believe you will have more time
than you really think you have. It would be
odd if it came out that way, wouldn’t it?” she
continued, as she played with the flower in her
hand.
“Yes, but it won’t come out that way,” said
Thorne, as he stepped closer to her.
“You don’t know,” she faltered, as Thorne
drew the flower from her and took her hand in
his. They stood there quiet a moment, and she
did not draw her hand away. “Well, it makes
no difference how soon you are going away; you
can sit down in the meantime if you want to.”
“It is hardly worth while,” he said; “my
time is so short.”
“You would better,” interrupted the girl;
“I have a great many things to say to
you.”
“Have you?” he asked, sitting down on the
little sofa by her side in compliance with her
invitation.
“Yes.”
“But I have only one thing to say to you—Miss
Varney and—that is”—Thorne took her
other hand in both of his—“good-bye.”
Very different words had trembled on his lips,
as he knew and as the girl knew.
“But I don’t really think you will have to
say that, Captain Thorne,” said Edith slowly.
“I know I will.”
“Then,” said Edith more softly, “it will be
because you want to say it.”
“No,” said Thorne, resolutely and of his
own motion releasing her hands, which she had
allowed him to hold without remonstrance; “it
will be because I must.”
He rose to his feet and took up his hat from
the table as if, the thing being settled, he had
only to go. But the girl observed with secret
joy that he made no other effort at departure.
“Oh, you think you must, do you, Captain
Thorne?” said Edith, looking up at him mischievously.
“You are a very wise person, but
you don’t know all that I know.”
“I think that is more than likely, Miss Varney,
but won’t you tell me some of the things
that you know that I don’t, so that I can approach
your knowledge in that respect?”
“I wouldn’t mind telling you one thing, and
that is that it is very wrong for you to think of
leaving Richmond now.”
“Oh, but you don’t know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, what do you know?” asked Thorne
curiously.
“Whatever you were going to say. Most
likely it was that there’s something or other I
don’t know about, but I do know this. You
were sent here to recover, and you haven’t
nearly had enough time for it yet.”
“I do look as if a high wind would blow me
away, don’t I?” he laughed.
“No matter how you look, you ought not to
go. You are just making fun of it, as you always
do of everything. No matter, you can
have all the fun you like, but the whole thing is
settled; you are not going away at all, you are
going to stay here,” she concluded with most
decided but winning emphasis.
“Oh, I’m not going? Well, that is quite a
change for me,” said Thorne composedly. He
laid his hat back on the table and came closer to
Edith. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me
what I am going to do.”
“I don’t mind at all, and it is this. You see,
I have been to see—I am almost afraid to tell
you.”
“Don’t tell me,” said the man with sudden
seriousness, laying aside all his pleasantry,
“because it can’t be true. I have my orders,
and I am leaving to-night.”
“Where—to Petersburg—to the front?”
“We can’t always tell where orders will take
us,” he said evasively, again sitting down beside
her on the lounge.
He could scarcely tear himself away from
her, from the delicious yet painful emotion
aroused by her presence. He ought to have
gone long since, yet he was with her, as he supposed,
for the last time. Surely he might indulge
himself a little. He loved her so desperately,
so hopelessly.
“But listen,” said the girl; “supposing
there were other orders, orders from a higher
authority, appointing you to duty here?”
“It would not make any difference.”
“You don’t mean you would go in spite of
them!” cried the girl in sudden alarm.
Thorne looked at her gravely and nodded
his head.
“But if it were proved that your first orders
were a mistake——”
She stretched out her hand toward him, which
Thorne clasped closely again.
“But it wasn’t a mistake, and I must go,”
he said slowly, rising to his feet once more, but
still holding her hand.
“Is it something dangerous?” asked the girl
apprehensively.
“Oh, well, enough to make it interesting.”
But Edith did not respond to his well simulated
humour. She drew her hand away, and
Thorne fancied with a leap of his heart that she
did it with reluctance. She began softly:
“Don’t be angry with me if I ask you again
about your orders. I must know.”
“But why?” asked Thorne curiously.
“No matter, tell me.”
“I can’t do that. I wish I could,” he answered
with a slight sigh.
“You needn’t,” said the girl triumphantly;
“I do know.”
The Captain started and, in spite of his control,
a look of dismay and apprehension flitted
across his face as the girl went on:
“They’re sending you on some mission
where death is almost certain. They will sacrifice
your life, because they know you are fearless
and will do anything. There is a chance
for you to stay here, and be just as much use,
and I am going to ask you to take it. It isn’t
your life alone—there are—others to think of
and—that’s why I ask you. It may not sound
well, perhaps I ought not—you won’t understand,
but you——”
As she spoke she rose to her feet, confronting
him, while she impulsively thrust out her
hand toward him again. Once more he took
that beloved hand in his own, holding it close
against him. Burning avowals sprang to his
lips, and the colour flamed into her face as she
stood motionless and expectant, looking at him.
She had gone as far as a modest woman might.
Now the initiative was his. She could only
wait.
“No,” said the man at last, by the exercise
of the most iron self-control and repression,
“you shall not have this against me, too.”
Edith drew closer to him, leaving her hand in
his as she placed her other on his shoulder. She
thought she knew what he would have said.
And love gave her courage. The frankness of
war was in the air. If this man left her now,
she might never see him again. She was a
woman, but she could not let him go without an
effort.
“Against you! What against you? What
do you mean?” she asked softly.
The witchery of the hour was upon him, too,
and the sweetness of her presence. He knew
he had but to speak to receive his answer, to
summon the fortress and receive the surrender.
Her eyes dropped before his passionately
searching look, her colour came and went, her
bosom rose and fell. She thought he must certainly
hear the wild beating of her heart. He
pressed her hands closely to his breast for a
moment, but quickly pulled himself together
again.
“I must go,” he said hoarsely; “my business
is—elsewhere. I ought never to have seen
you or spoken to you, but I had to come to this
house and you were here, and how could I help
it? Oh—I couldn’t for my whole—it’s only
you in this——” He stopped and thrust her
hands away from him blindly and turned away.
As there was a God above him he would not do
it. “Your mother—I would like to say good-bye
to her.”
“No, you are not going,” cried the girl
desperately, playing her last card. “Listen,
they need you in Richmond: the President told
me so himself—your orders are to stay here.
You are to be given a special commission on the
War Department Telegraph Service, and
you——”
“No, no, I won’t take it—I can’t take it, Miss
Varney.”
“Can’t you do that much for—me?” said
the girl with winning sweetness, and again she
put out her hands to him.
“It is for you that I will do nothing of the
kind,” he answered quickly; “if you ever think
of me again after—well, when I am gone, remember
that I refused.”
“But you can’t refuse; it is the President’s
desire, it is his order, you have got to obey.
Wait a moment, I left it upstairs. I will fetch
it for you and you will see.”
She turned toward the door.
“No,” said Thorne, “don’t get it, I won’t
look at it.”
“But you must see what it is. It puts you
at the head of everything. You have entire
control. When you see it I know you will accept
it. Please wait.”
“No, Miss Varney, I can’t——”
“Oh, yes, you can,” cried Edith, who would
hear no denial as she ran swiftly toward the
door.
.sp 4
.h2 id=ch04
CHAPTER IV||MISS MITFORD’S INTERVENTION
.sp 2
The Captain stared after her departing figure;
he listened to her footfalls on the stair, and
then came to an instant resolution. He would
take advantage of her opportune withdrawal.
He turned back to the table, seized his hat, and
started for the door, only to come face to face
with another charming young woman, who stood
breathless before him to his great and ill-concealed
annoyance. Yet the newcomer was
pretty enough and young enough and sweet
enough to give any man pause for the sheer
pleasure of looking at her, to say nothing of
speaking to her.
The resources of an ancient wardrobe, that
looked as though it had belonged to her great-grandmother,
had been called upon for a costume
which was quaint and old-fashioned and
altogether lovely. She was evidently much
younger than Edith Varney, perhaps just sixteen,
Wilfred’s age. With outstretched arms
she barred the door completely, and Thorne, of
course, came to an abrupt stop.
“Oh, good-evening,” she panted, as soon as
she found speech; she had run without stopping
from her house across the street.
“Good-evening, Miss Mitford,” he answered,
stepping to one side to let her pass, but through
calculation or chance she kept her position at
the door.
“How lucky this is!” she continued. “You
are the very person I wanted to see. Let’s sit
down and then I’ll tell you all about it. Goodness
me, I am all out of breath just running
over from our house.”
Thorne did not accept her invitation, but
stood looking at her. An idea came to him.
“Miss Mitford,” he said at last, stepping
toward her, “will you do something for
me?”
“Of course I will.”
“Thank you very much, indeed. Just tell
Miss Varney when she comes down—just say
good-night for me and tell her that I’ve gone.”
“I wouldn’t do such a thing for the wide,
wide world,” returned Caroline Mitford in pretended
astonishment.
“Why not?”
“It would be a wicked, dreadful story, because
you wouldn’t be gone.”
“I am sorry you look at it that way,” said
Thorne, “because I am going. Good-night,
Miss Mitford.”
But before he could leave the room, the girl,
who was as light on her feet as a fairy, caught
him by the arm.
“No—you don’t seem to understand. I’ve
got something to say to you.”
“Yes, I know,” said Thorne; “but some
other time.”
“No, now.”
Of course, he could have freed himself by the
use of a little force, but such a thing was not
to be thought of. Everything conspired to keep
him when his duty called him away, he thought
quickly.
“There isn’t any other time,” said Caroline,
“it is to-night. We are going to have a
Starvation party.”
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Thorne; “another!”
“Yes, we are.”
“I can’t see how it concerns me.”
“It is going to be over at our house, and we
expect you in half an hour.”
“I shouldn’t think you would want to play
at this time.”
“We are not going to play. We are going to
make bandages and sandbags and——”
“You won’t need me.”
“Yes, you can tell us the best way to——”
“Thank you, Miss Mitford, I can’t come. I
have my orders and I am leaving to-night.”
“Now, that won’t do at all,” said the girl,
pouting. “You went to Mamie Jones’ party;
I don’t see why you should treat me like this.”
“Mamie Jones!” said Thorne. “Why,
that was last Thursday, and now I have got
orders, I tell you, and——”
But Caroline was not to be put off.
“Now, there’s no use talking about it,” she
said vehemently.
“Yes, I see that.”
“Didn’t you promise to obey orders when
I gave them? Well, these are orders.”
“Another set,” laughed Thorne.
“I don’t know anything about any others.
These are mine.”
“Well, but this time——”
“This time is just the same as all the other
times, only worse; besides I told her you would
be there.”
“What’s that?”
“I say she expects you, that’s all.”
“Who expects me?”
“Why, Edith, of course; who do you suppose
I was talking about all this time?”
“Oh, she expects me to——”
“Why, of course, she does. You are to take
her over. You needn’t stay if you don’t want
to. Now I will go and tell her you are waiting.”
“Oh, very well,” said Thorne, smiling; “if
she expects me to take her over I will do so, of
course, but I can’t stay a moment.”
“Well,” said Caroline, “I thought you
would come to your senses some time or another.
See here, Mr. Captain, was she ’most
ready?”
“Well, how do I know.”
“What dress did she have on?”
“Dress?”
“Oh, you men! Why, she’s only got two.”
“Yes; well, very likely, this was one of them,
Miss Mitford.”
“No matter, I am going upstairs to see, anyway.
Captain Thorne, you can wait out there
on the veranda or, perhaps, it would be pleasanter
if you were to smoke a cigar out in the
summerhouse at the side of the garden. It is
lovely there in the moonlight, and——”
“I know, but if I wait right here——”
“Those are my orders. It’s cooler outside,
you know, anyway, and——”
“Pardon me, Miss Mitford, orders never
have to be explained, you know,” interrupted
the Captain, smiling at the charming girl.
“That’s right; I take back the explanation,”
she said, as Thorne stepped toward the window;
“and, Captain,” cried the girl.
“Yes?”
“Be sure and smoke.”
Thorne laughed, as he lighted his cigar and
stepped out onto the porch, and thence into the
darkness of the garden path.
“Oh,” said Caroline to herself, “he is
splendid. If Wilfred were only like that!” she
pouted. “But then—our engagement’s broken
off anyway, so what’s the difference. If he
were like that—I’d—— No!—I don’t think
I’d——”
Her soliloquy was broken by the entrance of
Mrs. Varney, who came slowly down the room.
“Why, Caroline dear! What are you talking
about, all to yourself?”
“Oh—just—I was just saying, you know—that—why,
I don’t know what I was—— Do
you think it is going to rain?” she returned in
great confusion.
“Dear me, child; I haven’t thought about it.
Why, what have you got on? Is that a new
dress, and in Richmond?”
“A new dress? Well, I should think so.
These are my great-grandmother’s mother’s
wedding clothes. Aren’t they lovely? Just in
the nick of time, too. I was on my very last
rags, or, rather, they were on me, and I didn’t
know what to do. Mother gave me a key and
told me to open an old horsehair trunk in the
attic, and these were in it.” She seized the
corners of her dress and pirouetted a step or
two forward to show it off, and then dropped
the older woman an elaborate, old-fashioned
courtesy. “I ran over to show them to Edith,”
she resumed. “Where is she? I want her to
come over to my house.”
“Upstairs, I think. I am afraid she can’t
come. I have just come from her room,” Mrs.
Varney continued as Caroline started to interrupt,
“and she means to stay here.”
“I will see about that,” said Caroline, running
out of the room.
Mrs. Varney turned and sat down at her desk
to write a letter which evidently, from her sighs,
was not an easy task. In a short time the girl
was back again. Mrs. Varney looked up from
writing and smiled at her.
“You see it was no use, Caroline,” she
began.
“No use,” laughed the girl; “well, you will
see. I didn’t try to persuade her or argue with
her. I just told her that Captain Thorne was
waiting for her in the summerhouse. Yes,”
she continued, as Mrs. Varney looked her astonishment;
“he is still here, and he said he would
take her over. You just watch which dress she
has on when she comes down. Now I will go out
there and tell him she’ll be down in a minute.
I have more trouble getting people fixed so that
they can come to my party than it would take to
run a blockade into Savannah every fifteen minutes.”
Mrs. Varney looked at her departing figure
pleasantly for a moment, and then, with a deep
sigh, resumed her writing, but she evidently was
not to conclude her letter without further interruption,
for she had scarcely begun again
when Wilfred came into the room with a bundle
very loosely done up in heavy brown paper. As
his mother glanced toward him he made a violent
effort to conceal it under his coat.
“What have you got there, Wilfred?” she
asked incuriously.
“That? Oh, nothing; it is only—say,
mother, have you written that letter yet?”
“No, my dear, I have been too busy. I have
been trying to write it, though, since I came
down, but I have had one interruption after another.
I think I will go into your father’s office
and do it there.” She gathered up her
paper and turned to leave the room. “It is a
hard letter for me to write, you know,” she
added as she went away.
Wilfred, evidently much relieved at his
mother’s departure, took the package from under
his coat, put it on the table, and began to
undo it. He took from it a pair of very soiled,
dilapidated, grey uniform trousers. He had
just lifted them up when he heard Caroline’s
step on the porch, and the next moment she
came into the room through the long French
window. Wilfred stood petrified with astonishment
at the sudden and unexpected appearance
of his young beloved, but soon recovered
himself and began rolling the package together
again, hastily and awkwardly, while Caroline
watched him from the window. She coldly
scrutinised his confusion while he made his ungainly
roll, and, as he moved toward the door,
she broke the silence.
“Ah, good-evening, Mr. Varney,” she said
coolly.
“Good-evening,” he said, his voice as cold as
her own.
They both of them had started for the hall
door and in another second they would have
met.
“Excuse me,” said Caroline, “I’m in a
hurry.”
“That’s plain enough. Another party, I
suppose, and dancing.”
“What of it? What’s the matter with
dancing, I’d like to know.”
“Nothing is the matter with dancing if you
want to, but I must say that it is a pretty way
of going on, with the cannon roaring not six
miles away.”
“Well, what do you want us to do? Cry
about it! I have cried my eyes out already;
that would do a heap of good now, wouldn’t
it?”
“Oh, I haven’t time to talk about such petty
details. I have some important matters to attend
to,” he returned loftily.
“It was you that started it,” said the girl.
Wilfred turned suddenly, his manner at once
losing its badly assumed lightness.
“Oh, you needn’t try to fool me,” he reproached
her; “I know well enough how you
have been carrying on since our engagement
was broken off. Half a dozen officers proposing
to you—a dozen for all I know.”
“What difference does it make?” she retorted
pertly. “I haven’t got to marry them
all, have I?”
“Well, it isn’t very nice to go on like that,”
said Wilfred with an air into which he in vain
sought to infuse a detached, judicial, and indifferent
appearance. “Proposals by the
wholesale!”
“Goodness me!” exclaimed Caroline,
“what’s the use of talking about it to me.
They’re the ones that propose, I don’t. How
can I help it?”
“Oh,” said Wilfred loftily, “you can help it
all right. You helped it with me.”
“Well,” she answered, with a queer look at
him, “that was different.”
“And ever since you threw me over——” he
began.
“I didn’t throw you over, you just went
over,” she interrupted.
“I went over because you walked off with
Major Sillsby that night we were at Drury’s
Bluff,” said the boy, “and you encouraged him
to propose. You admit it,” he said, as the girl
nodded her head.
“Of course I did. I didn’t want him hanging
around forever, did I? That’s the only way
to finish them off. What do you want me to
do—string a placard around my neck, saying,
‘No proposals received here. Apply at the office’?
Would that make you feel any better?
Well,” she continued, as the boy shrugged his
shoulders, “if it doesn’t make any difference
to you what I do, it doesn’t even make as much
as that to me.”
“Oh, it doesn’t? I think it does, though.
You looked as if you enjoyed it pretty well
while the Third Virginia was in the city.”
“I should think I did,” said Caroline
ecstatically. “I just love every one of them.
They are going to fight for us and die for us,
and I love them.”
“Why don’t you accept one of them before
he dies, then, and have done with it? I suppose
it will be one of those smart young fellows with
a cavalry uniform.”
“It will be some kind of a uniform, I can tell
you that. It won’t be any one that stays in
Richmond.”
“Now I see what it was,” said Wilfred,
looking at her gloomily. “I had to stay in
Richmond, and——”
The boy choked up and would not finish.
“Well,” said Caroline, “that made a heap
of difference. Why, I was the only girl on
Franklin Street that didn’t have a—some one
she was engaged to—at the front. Just think
what it was to be out of it like that! You have
no idea how I suffered; besides, it is our duty
to help all we can. There aren’t many things a
girl can do, but Colonel Woolbridge—he’s one
of Morgan’s new men, you know—said that the
boys fight twice as well when they have a—sweetheart
at home. I couldn’t waste an engagement
on——”
“And is that why you let them all propose to
you?” rejoined the youth bitterly.
“Certainly; it didn’t hurt me, and it pleased
them. Most of ’em will never come back to try
it again, and it is our duty to help all we can.”
“And you really want to help all you can, do
you?” asked Wilfred desperately. “Well, if
I were to join the army would you help me—that
way?”
This was a direct question. It was the 
