CHAPTER IV
MISS MITFORD’S INTERVENTION
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 argumentum ad feminam with a vengeance. Caroline hesitated. A swift blush overspread her cheek, but she was game to the core.
“Why, of course I would, if there was anything I—could do,” she answered.
“Well, there is something you can do.” He unrolled his package and seized the trousers by the waistband and dangled them before her eyes. “Cut those off,” he said; “they are twice too long. All you have to do is to cut them here and sew up the ends, so that they don’t ravel out.”
Caroline stared at him in great bewilderment. She had expected something quite different.
“Why, they are uniform trousers,” she said finally. “You are going to join the army?” She clapped her hands gleefully. “Give them to me.”
“Hush! don’t talk so loud, for Heaven’s sake,” said Wilfred. “I’ve got a jacket here, too.” He drew out of the parcel a small army jacket, a private soldier’s coat. “It’s nearly a fit. It came from the hospital. Johnny Seldon wore it, but he won’t want it any more, you know, and he was just about my size, only his legs were longer. Well,” he continued, as the girl continued to look at him strangely, “I thought you said you wanted to help me.”
“I certainly do.”
“What are you waiting for, then?” asked Wilfred.
The girl took the trousers and dropped on her knees before him.
“Stand still,” she said, as she measured the trousers from the waistband to the floor.
“This is about the place, isn’t it?”
“Yes, just there.”
“Wait,” she continued, “until I mark it with a pin.”
Wilfred stood quietly until the proper length had been ascertained, and then he assisted Caroline to her feet.
“Do you see any scissors about?” she asked in a businesslike way.
“I don’t believe there are any in the drawing-room, but I can get some from the women sewing over there. Wait a moment.”
“No, don’t,” said the girl; “they would want to know what you wanted with them, and then you would have to tell them.”
“Yes,” said the boy; “and I want to keep this a secret between us.”
“When are you going to wear them?”
“As soon as you get them ready.”
“But your mother——”
“She knows it. She is going to write to father to-night. She said she would send it by a special messenger, so we ought to get an answer by to-morrow.”
“But if he says no?”
“I am going anyway.”
“Oh, Wilfred, I am so glad. Why, it makes another thing of it,” cried the girl. “When I said that about staying in Richmond, I didn’t know—— Oh, I do want to help all I can.”
“You do? Well, then, for Heaven’s sake, be quick about it and cut off those trousers. So long as I get them in the morning,” said Wilfred, “I guess it will be in plenty of time.”
“When did you say your mother was going to write?”
“To-night.”
“Of course, she doesn’t want you to go, and she’ll tell your father not to let you. Yes,” she continued sagely, as Wilfred looked up, horror-stricken at the idea; “that’s the way mothers always do.”
“What can I do, then?” he asked her.
“Why don’t you write to him yourself, and then you can tell him just what you like.”
“That’s a fine idea. I’ll tell him that I can’t stay here, and that I’m going to enlist whether he says so or not. That’ll make him say yes, won’t it?”
“Why, of course; there’ll be nothing else for him to say.”
“Say, you are a pretty good girl,” said Wilfred, catching her hand impulsively. “I’ll go upstairs and write it now. You finish these as soon as you can. You can ask those women for some scissors, and when they are ready leave them in this closet, but don’t let any one see you doing it, whatever happens.”
“No, I won’t,” said Caroline, as Wilfred hurried off.
She went over to the room where the women were sewing, and borrowed a pair of scissors; then she came back and started to cut off the trousers where they were marked. The cloth was old and worn, but it was, nevertheless, stiff and hard, and her scissors were dull. Men spent their time in sharpening other things than women’s tools during those days in Richmond, and her slender fingers made hard work of the amputations. Beside, she was prone to stop and think and dream of her soldier boy while engaged in this congenial work. She had not finished the alteration, therefore, when she heard a step in the hall. She caught up the trousers, striving to conceal them, entirely forgetful of the jacket which lay on the table.
“Oh,” said Mrs. Varney, as she came into the room; “you haven’t gone yet?”
“No,” faltered the girl; “we don’t assemble for a little while, and——”
“Don’t assemble?”
“I mean for the party. It doesn’t begin for half an hour yet, and——”
“Oh; then you have plenty of time.”
“Yes,” said Caroline. “But I will have to go now, sure enough.” She turned away and, as she did so, her scissors fell clattering to the floor.
“You dropped your scissors, my dear,” said Mrs. Varney.
“I thought I heard something fall,” she faltered in growing confusion.
She came back for her scissors, and, in her agitation and nervousness, she dropped one of the pieces of trouser leg on the floor.
“What are you making, Caroline?” asked Mrs. Varney, looking curiously at the little huddled-up soiled piece of grey on the carpet, while Caroline made a desperate grab at it.
“Oh, just altering an old—dress, Mrs. Varney. That’s all.”
Mrs. Varney looked at her through her glasses. As she did so, Caroline’s agitated movement caused the other trouser leg, with its half-severed end hanging from it, to dangle over her arm.
“And what is that?” asked Mrs. Varney.
“Oh—that’s—er—one of the sleeves,” answered Caroline desperately, hurrying out in great confusion.
Mrs. Varney laughed softly to herself. As she did so, her glance fell upon the little heap of grey on the table. She picked it up and opened it. It was a grey jacket, a soldier’s jacket. It looked as if it might be about Wilfred’s size. There was a bullet hole in the breast, and there was a dull brown stain around the opening. Mrs. Varney kissed the worn coat. She saw it all now.
“For Wilfred,” she whispered. “He has probably got it from some dead soldier at the hospital, and Caroline’s dress that she was altering——”
She clasped the jacket tightly to her breast, looked up, and smiled and prayed through her tears.
CHAPTER V
THE UNFAITHFUL SERVANT
But Mrs. Varney was not allowed to indulge in either her bitter retrospect or her dread anticipations very long. Her reverie was interrupted by the subdued trampling of heavy feet upon the floor of the back porch. The long drawing-room extended across the house, and had porches at front and back, to which access was had through long French windows. The sound was so sudden and so unexpected that she dropped the jacket on the couch and turned to the window. The sound of low, hushed voices came to her, and the next moment a tall, fine-looking young man of rather distinguished appearance entered the room. He was not in uniform, but wore the customary full-skirted frock coat of the period, and carried his big black hat in his hand. For the rest, he was a very keen, sharp-eyed man, whose movements were quick and stealthy, and whose quick, comprehensive glance seemed to take in not only Mrs. Varney, but everything in the room. Through the windows and the far door soldiers could be seen dimly. Mrs. Varney was very indignant at the entrance of this newcomer in this unceremonious manner.
“Mr. Arrelsford!” she exclaimed haughtily.
In two or three quick steps Mr. Benton Arrelsford of the Confederate Secret Service was by her side. Although she was alone, through habit and excessive caution he lowered his voice when he spoke to her.
“Your pardon, Mrs. Varney,” he said, with just a shade too much of the peremptory for perfect breeding, “I was compelled to enter without ceremony. You will understand when I tell you why.”
“And those men——” said Mrs. Varney, pointing to the back windows and the far door. “What have we done that we should be——”
“They are on guard.”
“On guard!” exclaimed the woman, greatly surprised and equally resentful.
“Yes, ma’am; and I am very much afraid we shall be compelled to put you to a little inconvenience; temporary, I assure you, but necessary.” He glanced about cautiously and pointed to the door across the hall. “Is there anybody in that room, Mrs. Varney?”
“Yes, a number of ladies sewing for the hospital; they expect to stay all night.”
“Very good,” said Arrelsford. “Will you kindly come a little farther away? I would not have them overhear by any possibility.”
There was no possibility of any one overhearing their conversation, but if Mr. Arrelsford ever erred it was not through lack of caution. Still more astonished, Mrs. Varney followed him. They stopped by the fireplace.
“One of your servants has got himself into trouble, Mrs. Varney, and we’re compelled to have him watched,” he began.
“Watched by a squad of soldiers?”
“It is well not to neglect any precaution, ma’am.”
“And what kind of trouble, pray?” asked the woman.
“Very serious, I am sorry to say. At least that is the way it looks now. You’ve got an old white-haired butler here——”
“You mean Jonas?”
“I believe that’s his name,” said Arrelsford.
“And you suspect him of something?”
Mr. Arrelsford lowered his voice still further and assumed an air of great importance.
“We don’t merely suspect him; we know what he has done.”
“And what has he done, sir?”
“He has been down to Libby Prison under pretence of selling things to the Yankees we’ve got in there, and he now has on his person a written communication from one of them which he intends to deliver to some Yankee spy or agent, here in Richmond.”
Mrs. Varney gasped in astonishment at this tremendous charge, which was made in Arrelsford’s most impressive manner.
“I don’t believe it,” she said at last. “He has been in the family for years; he wouldn’t dare.”
Arrelsford shook his head.
“I am afraid it is true,” he said.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Varney decidedly, apparently not at all convinced. “I will send for the man. Let us see——”
She reached out her hand to the bell-rope hanging from the wall, but Mr Arrelsford caught her arm, evidently to her great repugnance.
“No, no!” he said quickly, “not yet. We have got to get that paper, and if he’s alarmed he will destroy it, and we must have it. It will give us the clue to one of their cursed plots. They have been right close on this town for months, trying to break down our defences and get in on us. This is some rascally game they are at to weaken us from the inside. Two weeks ago we got word from our secret agents that we keep over there in the Yankee lines, telling us that two brothers, Lewis and Henry Dumont——”
“The Dumonts of West Virginia?” interrupted Mrs. Varney, who was now keenly attentive to all that was said.
“The very same.”
“Why, their father is a General in the Yankee Army.”
“Yes; and they are in the Federal Secret Service, and they are the boldest, most desperately determined men in the whole Yankee Army. They’ve already done us more harm than an army corps.”
“Yes?”
“They have volunteered to do some desperate piece of work here in Richmond, we have learned. We have close descriptions of both these men, but we have never been able to get our hands on either of them until last night.”
“Have you captured them?”
“We’ve got one of them, and it won’t take long to get the other,” said Arrelsford, in a fierce, truculent whisper.
“The one you caught, was he here in Richmond?” asked Mrs. Varney, greatly affected by the other’s overwhelming emotion.
“No, he was brought in last night with a lot of men we captured in a little sortie.”
“Taken prisoner?”
“Yes, but without resistance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He let himself be taken. That’s one of their tricks for getting into our lines when they want to bring a message or give some signal.”
“You mean that they deliberately allow themselves to be taken to Libby Prison?”
“Yes, damn them!” said Arrelsford harshly. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but——”
Mrs. Varney waved her hand as if Mr. Arrelsford’s oaths, like his presence, were nothing to her.
“We were on the lookout for this man, and we spotted him pretty quickly. I gave orders not to search him, and not to have his clothes taken away from him, but to put him in with the others and keep the closest watch on him that was ever kept on a man. We knew from his coming in that his brother must be here in the city, and he’d send a message to him the first chance he got.”
“But Jonas, how could he——”
“Easily enough. He comes down to the prison to sell things to the prisoners with other negroes. We let him pass in, watching him as we watch them all. He fools around a while, until he gets a chance to brush against this man Dumont. My men are keeping that fellow under close observation, and they saw a piece of paper pass between them. By my orders they gave no sign. We want to catch the man to whom he is to deliver the paper. He has the paper on him now.”
“I will never believe it.”
“It is true, and that is the reason for these men on the back porch that you see. I have put others at every window at the back of the house. He can’t get away; he will have to give it up.”
“And the man he gives it to will be the man you want?” said Mrs. Varney.
“Yes; but I can’t wait long. If that nigger sees my men or hears a sound, he will destroy it before we can jump in on him. I want the man, but I want the paper, too. Excuse me.” He stepped to the back window. “Corporal!” he said softly. The long porch window was open on account of the balmy air of the night, and a soldier, tattered and dusty, instantly appeared and saluted. “How are things now?” asked Arrelsford.
“All quiet now, sir.”
“Very good,” said Arrelsford. “I was afraid he would get away. We’ve got to get the paper. If we have the paper, perhaps we can get the man. It is the key to the game they are trying to play against us, and without it the man is helpless.”
“No, no,” urged Mrs. Varney. “The man he is going to give it to, get him.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” assented Arrelsford; “but that paper might give us a clue. If not, I’ll make the nigger tell. Damn him, I’ll shoot it out of him. How quickly can you get at him from that door, Corporal?”
“In no time at all, sir. It’s through a hallway and across the dining-room. He is in the pantry.”
“Well,” said Arrelsford, “take two men, and——”
“Wait,” said Mrs. Varney; “I still doubt your story, but I am glad to help. Why don’t you keep your men out of sight and let me send for him here, and then——”
Arrelsford thought a moment.
“That may be the better plan,” he admitted. “Get him in here and, while you are talking to him, they can seize him from behind. He won’t be able to do a thing. Do you hear, Corporal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Keep your men out of sight; get them back there in the hall, and while we’re making him talk, send a man down each side and pin him. Hold him stiff. He mustn’t destroy any paper he’s got.”
The Corporal raised his hand in salute and left the room. The men disappeared from the windows, and the back porch looked as empty as before. The whole discussion and the movements of the men had been practically noiseless.
“Now, Mr. Arrelsford, are you ready?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Varney rang the bell on the instant. The two watched each other intently, and in a moment old Martha appeared at the door.
“Did you-all ring, ma’am?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Varney; “I want some one to send to the hospital.”
“Luthah is out heah, ma’am.”
“Luther? He’s too small, I don’t want a boy.”
“Well, den, Jonas——”
“Yes, Jonas will do; tell him to come in here immediately.”
“Yas’m.”
“Perhaps you had better sit down, Mrs. Varney,” said Arrelsford; “and if you will permit me, I will stand back by the front window yonder.”
“That will be just as well,” said Mrs. Varney, seating herself near the table, while Arrelsford, making no effort at concealment, stepped over to the window. Old Jonas entered the door just as they had placed themselves. He bowed low before Mrs. Varney, entirely unsuspicious of anything out of the ordinary until his eye fell on the tall form of Arrelsford. He glanced furtively at the man for a moment, stiffened imperceptibly, but, as there was nothing else to do, came on.
“Jonas,” said Mrs. Varney, her voice low and level in spite of her agitation.
“Yes’m.”
“Have you any idea why I sent for you?”
“Ah heahd you was gwine send me to de hossiple, ma’am.”
“Oh, then Martha told you,” said Mrs. Varney.
While the little dialogue was taking place, Mr. Arrelsford had made a signal, and the Corporal and two men had entered the room silently, and now swiftly advanced to the side of the still unobserving old negro.
“She didn’t ezzactly say whut you——” he began.
The next instant the two men fell upon him. He might have made some struggle, although it would have been useless. The windows were instantly filled with men, and an order would have called them into the room. He was an old man, and the two soldiers that seized him were young. He was too surprised to fight, and stood as helpless as a lamb about to be slaughtered, his face fairly grey with sudden terror. The Corporal flung open the butler’s faded livery coat, and for the moment Jonas, menaced now by a search, and knowing what the result would be, struggled furiously, but the men soon mastered him, and the Corporal, continuing his search, presently drew from an inside pocket a small folded paper.
“Jonas! Jonas!” said Mrs. Varney, in bitter disappointment; “how could you?”
“I told you so,” said Mr. Arrelsford truthfully, triumphantly, and most aggravatingly under the circumstances, taking the folded paper. “Corporal,” he added, “while I read this, see if he has got anything more.”
A further search, however, revealed nothing. Arrelsford had scarcely completed the reading of the brief note when the Corporal reported:
“That is all he has, sir.”
Arrelsford nodded. The men had released Jonas, but stood by his side, and the Secret Service Agent now approached him.
“Who was this for?” he asked sharply and tensely.
The negro stared at him stolidly and silently, his face ashen with fright.
“Look here,” continued the other, “if you don’t tell me it is going to make it pretty bad for you.”
The words apparently made no further impression upon the servant. Arrelsford tried another tack. He turned to Mrs. Varney, who was completely dismayed at this breach of trust by one who had been attached to the family fortunes for so many years.
“I am right sorry, ma’am,” he said very distinctly, “but it looks like we have got to shoot him.”
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Varney at that. “Jonas, speak!”
But even to that appeal he remained silent. Arrelsford waited a moment and then:
“Corporal,” he said; “take him outside and get it out of him. String him up until he talks. But don’t let him yell or give any alarm; gag him until he’s ready to tell. You understand?”
The Corporal nodded and turned toward the hall door.
“Not that way,” said Arrelsford; “take him to the back of the house and keep him quiet, whatever you do. Nobody must know about this, not a soul.”
“Very good, sir,” said the Corporal, saluting. He gave an order to the men, and they marched Jonas off, swiftly and silently. Nothing that had been said or done had disturbed the women across the hall. Mrs. Varney glanced up at the unfolded piece of paper in Mr. Arrelsford’s hand. He was smiling triumphantly.
“Was there anything in that?” she asked.
“Yes, there was. We know the trick they meant to play.”
“But not the man who was to play it?”
“I didn’t say that, ma’am.”
“Does it give you a clue to it?”
“It does.”
“Will it answer?”
“It will.”
“Then you know——”
“As plain as if we had his name.”
“Thank God for that,” exclaimed the woman. “May I see it?”
Arrelsford hesitated.
“I see no reason why you should not.”
He extended his hand toward her, and she glanced at the paper.
“Attack to-night. Plan 3. Use telegraph!” she read. She looked up.
“What does it mean?” she asked tremulously.
“They are to attack to-night, and the place where they are to strike is indicated by Plan 3.”
“Plan 3?” questioned the woman.
“Yes; the man this is sent to will know what is meant by that. It has been arranged beforehand, and——”
“But the last words,” said Mrs. Varney. “Use telegraph?”
“That is plain, too. He is to use our War Department Telegraph and send some false order to weaken that position, the one they indicate by ‘Plan 3,’ so that when they assault it, they will find it feebly defended or not at all, and break through and come down on the city and swamp us.”
“But,” exclaimed Mrs. Varney in deepest indignation and excitement, “the man who was to do this? Who is he? There is nothing about him that I can see.”
“But I can see something.”
“What? Where?”
“In the words, ‘Use Telegraph.’ We know every man on the telegraph service, and every one of them is true. There is some one who will try to get into that service if the game is carried out, and——”
“Then he will be the man,” said Mrs. Varney.
“Yes; there aren’t so many men in Richmond that can do that. It isn’t every man that’s expert enough——Mrs. Varney, Jonas brought this paper to your house, and——”
“To my house?” exclaimed the woman in great astonishment, and then she stopped, appalled by a sudden thought which came to her.
“At the same time,” said Arrelsford, “your daughter has been trying to get an appointment for some one on the telegraph service. Perhaps she could give us some idea, and——”
Mrs. Varney rose and stood as if rooted to the spot.
“You mean——”
“Captain Thorne,” said Arrelsford impressively.
CHAPTER VI
THE CONFIDENCE OF EDITH VARNEY
Mrs. Varney had, of course, divined toward whom Arrelsford’s suspicion pointed. She had been entirely certain before he had mentioned the name that the alleged spy or traitor could be none other than her daughter’s friend; indeed, it would not be stretching the truth to say that Thorne was her friend as well as her daughter’s, and her keen mother’s wit was not without suspicion that if he were left to himself, or if he were permitted to follow his own inclinations, the relation between himself and the two women might have been a nearer one still and a dearer one, yet, nevertheless, the shocking announcement came to her with sudden, sharp surprise.
We may be perfectly certain, absolutely sure, of a coming event, but when it does occur its shock is felt in spite of previous assurance. We may watch the dying and pray for death to end anguish, and know that it is coming, but when the last low breath has gone, it is as much of a shock to us as if it had not been expected, or even dreamed of.
The announcement of the name was shattering to her composure. She knew very well why Arrelsford would rejoice to find Thorne guilty of anything, and she would have discounted any ordinary accusation that he brought against him, but the train of the circumstances was so complete in this case and the coincidences so unexplainable upon any other theory, the evidence so convincing, that she was forced to admit that Arrelsford was fully justified in his suspicion, and that without regard to the fact that he was a rejected suitor of her daughter’s.
Surprise, horror, and conviction lodged in her soul, and were mirrored in her face. Arrelsford saw and divined what was passing in her mind, and, eager to strike while the iron was hot, bent forward open-mouthed to continue his line of reasoning and denunciation, but Mrs. Varney checked him. She laid her finger upon her lips and pointed with the other hand to the front of the house.
“What!” exclaimed the Confederate Secret Service agent; “is he there?”
Mrs. Varney nodded.
“He may be. He went out to the summerhouse some time ago to wait for Edith; they were going over to Caroline Mitford’s later on. I saw him go down the walk.”
“Do you suppose my men could have alarmed him?” asked Arrelsford, greatly perturbed at this unexpected development.
“I don’t know. They were all at the back windows. They didn’t seem to make much noise. I suppose not. You have a description of the man for whom the letter was intended?”
“Yes, at the office; but I remember it perfectly.”
“Does it fit this—this Captain Thorne?”
“You might as well know sooner as later, Mrs. Varney, that there is no Captain Thorne. This is an assumed name, and the man you have in your house is Lewis Dumont.”
“Do you mean that he came here to——”
“He came to this town, to this house,” said Arrelsford vindictively, his voice still subdued but full of fury, “knowing your position, the influence of your name, your husband’s rank and service, for the sole purpose of getting recognised as a reputable person, so that he would be less likely to be suspected. He has corrupted your servants—you saw old Jonas—and he has contrived to enlist the powerful support of your daughter. His aim is the War Department Telegraph Office. He is friends with the men at that office. What else he hasn’t done or what he has, the Lord only knows. But Washington is not the only place where they have a secret service; we have one at Richmond. Whatever game he plays, it is one that two can play; and now it is my play.”
The patter of light footsteps was heard on the stairs, a flash of white seen through the open door into the hall dimly lighted, and Edith Varney came rapidly, almost breathlessly, into the room. She had changed her dress, and if Caroline Mitford had been there, she would have known certainly from the little air of festivity about her clean but faded and darned, sprigged and flowered white muslin frock that she was going to accept the invitation. In one hand she held her hat, which she swung carelessly by its long faded ribbons, and in the other that official envelope which had come to her from the President of the Confederacy. She called to her mother as she ran down.
“Mamma!” Her face was white and her voice pitched high, fraught with excited intensity. “Under my window, in the rosebushes, at the back of the house! They’re hurting somebody frightfully, I am sure!”
She burst into the room with the last word. Mrs. Varney stared at her, understanding fully who, in all probability, was being roughly dealt with in the rosebushes, and realising what a terrible effect such disclosures as she had listened to would produce upon the mind of the girl.
“Come,” said Edith, turning rapidly toward the rear window; “we must stop it.”
Mrs. Varney stood as if rooted to the floor.
“Well,” said the girl, in great surprise, “if you aren’t coming, I will go myself.”
These words awakened her mother to action.
“Wait, Edith,” she said.
Now, and for the first time, Edith noticed Mr. Arrelsford, who had stepped back and away from her mother. She replied to his salutation with a cold and distant bow. The man’s face flushed; he turned away.
“But, mamma, the men outside,” persisted the girl.
“Wait, my dear,” said her mother, taking her gently by the arm; “I must tell you something. It will be a great shock to you, I am afraid.”
“What is it, mamma? Has father or——”
“No, no, not that,” said Mrs. Varney. “A man we have trusted as a friend has shown himself a conspirator, a spy, a traitor.”
“Who is it?” cried the girl, at the same time instinctively divining—how or why she could not tell, and that thought smote her afterward—to whom the reference was being made.
Mrs. Varney naturally hesitated to say the name. Arrelsford, carried away by his passion for the girl and his hatred for Thorne, was not so reticent. He stepped toward her.
“It is the gentleman, Miss Varney, whose attentions you have been pleased to accept in the place of mine,” he burst out bitterly.
His manner and his meaning were unmistakable. The girl stared at him with a white, haughty face, in spite of her trembling lips. Mechanically she thrust the envelope with the commission into her belt, and confronted the man who loved her and whom she did not love, who accused of this hateful thing the man whom, in the twinkling of an eye, she realised she did love. Then the daughter turned to her mother.
“Is it Mr Arrelsford who makes this accusation?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Arrelsford, again answering for Mrs. Varney, “since you wish to know. From the first I have had my suspicions about this——”
But Edith did not wait for him to finish his sentence. She turned away from him with loathing, and moved rapidly toward the front window.
“Where are you going!” asked Arrelsford.
“For Captain Thorne.”
“Not now,” he said peremptorily.
The colour flamed in the girl’s cheek again.
“Mr. Arrelsford, you have said something to me about Captain Thorne. Are you afraid to say it to him?”
“Miss Varney,” answered Arrelsford hotly, “if you—if you——”
“Edith,” said Mrs. Varney, “Mr. Arrelsford has good reasons for not meeting Captain Thorne now.”
“I should think he had,” returned the girl swiftly; “for a man who made such a charge to his face would not live to make it again.”
“My dear, my dear,” said her mother, gently but firmly, “you don’t understand, you don’t——”
“Mamma,” said the girl, “this man has left his desk in the War Department so that he can have the pleasure of persecuting me.”
Both the mother and the rejected suitor noticed her identification of herself with Captain Thorne in the pronoun “me,” one with sinking heart and the other with suppressed fury.
“He has never attempted anything active in the service before,” continued Edith, “and when I ask him to face the man he accuses, he turns like a coward!”
“Mrs. Varney, if she thinks——”
“I think nothing,” said the girl furiously; “I know that Captain Thorne’s character is above suspicion.”
Arrelsford sneered.
“His character! Where did he come from—what is he?”
“For that matter,” said Edith intensely, “where did you come from, and what are you?”
“That is not the question,” was the abrupt reply.
“Neither,” said the girl, “is it the question who he is. If it were, I’d answer it—I’d tell you that he is a soldier who has fought and been wounded in service, while you——”
Arrelsford made a violent effort to control himself under this bitter jibing and goading, and to his credit, succeeded in part.
“We are not so sure of that, Miss Varney,” he said more coolly.
“But I am sure,” answered the girl. “Why, he brought us letters from Stonewall Jackson himself.”
“Has it occurred to you that General Jackson was dead before his letters were presented?” asked Arrelsford quickly.
“What does that signify if he wrote them before he was killed?”
“Nothing certainly,” assented the other, “if he wrote them.”
“The signatures and the letters were verified.”
“They may have been written for some one else and this Thorne may have possessed himself of them by fraud, or——”
“Mr. Arrelsford,” cried the girl, more and more angry, “if you mean——”
“My dear child,” said Mrs Varney, “you don’t understand. They have proofs of a conspiracy. The Yankees are going to try to break through our lines to-night, some one is going to use the telegraph, and two men in the Northern Secret Service have been sent here to do this work. One is in Libby Prison. Our faithful Jonas has been corrupted. He went there to-day and took a message from one and brought it here to deliver it to the other. They are trying to make him speak out there to tell who——Our country, our cause, is at stake.”
“Is this Mr. Arrelsford’s story?” asked the daughter stubbornly, apparently entirely unconvinced.
“No; these are facts. We had Jonas in here,” answered her mother; “caught him off his guard, and found the incriminating paper on him.”
“But he has not said it was for——” persisted Edith desperately.
“Not yet,” whispered Mr. Arrelsford, “but he will. You may be sure of that; we have means to—Oh, Corporal,” he broke off eagerly, looking toward the door where the Corporal stood, his hand at salute. “Well, speak out, what does he say?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“What have you done with him?”
“Strung him up three times, and——”
“Well, string him up again,” snarled Arrelsford. “If he won’t speak, shoot it out of him, kill the dog. We don’t need his evidence any way, there’s enough without it.”
“There is nothing,” said Edith tersely.
“By midnight,” answered Arrelsford, “you shall have all the proof——”
“There is no proof to have,” persisted the girl.
“I will show it to you at the telegraph office, if you dare to go with me.”
“Dare! I will go anywhere, even with you, for that——”
“I will call for you in half an hour then,” said Arrelsford, going toward the door.
“Wait,” interrupted Edith; “what are you going to do?”
“I am going to let him get this paper,” said Arrelsford, coming back to the table. “He will know what they want him to do, and then we’ll see him try to do it.”
“You are going to spy on him, are you?”
“I am going to prove what he is.”
“Then prove it openly at once. It is shameful to let such a suspicion rest upon an honourable man. Let him come in here, and——”
“It is impossible.”
“Then do something, something, but do it now!” cried the girl. “You will soon know that he is innocent, you must know it. Wait! You say the prisoner in Libby is his brother—that’s what you said—his brother. Bring him here. Go to the prison and bring that man here.”
“What?”
“Let them meet. Bring them face to face, then you can see whether——”
“You mean bring them together here?”
“Yes.”
“As if the prisoner were trying to escape?”
“Exactly.”
“There is something in that,” said Arrelsford; “when do you suggest——”
“Now.”
“I am willing to try it, but it depends upon you. Can you keep Thorne here?”
“I can.”
“It won’t take more than half an hour. Be out there on the veranda. When I tap on the glass bring him into this room and leave him alone. And I can rely upon you to give him no hint or sign that we suspect——”
“Mr. Arrelsford!” said the girl, indignant and haughty, and her mother stepped swiftly toward her, looking at him contemptuously, as if he should have known that such an action would be impossible for either of them.
Arrelsford gazed at them a minute or two, smiled triumphantly, and passed out of the room.
“Mamma, mamma!” moaned the girl, her eyes shut, her hand extended. “Mamma,” she repeated in anguish.
“I am here, Edith dear; I am here,” said Mrs. Varney, coming toward her and taking her tenderly in her arms.
“Do you think—do you think—that he—he could be what they say?” Her hand fell upon the commission in her belt “This commission I got for him this afternoon——”
“Yes?”
“The commission, you know, from the President, for the Telegraph Service—why, he refused to take it,” her voice rose and rang triumphantly through the room; “he refused to take it! That doesn’t look as if he wanted to use the telegraph to betray us.”
“Refused! That’s impossible!” said her mother.
“He said that it was for me that he couldn’t take it.”
“For you! Then it is true,” answered Mrs. Varney.
“No, no,” said the girl; “don’t say it.”
“Yes,” said her mother; “the infamous——” The girl tried to stifle with her hand upon her mother’s lips the words, but Mrs. Varney shook off her hand. “The spy, the traitor,” she added witheringly.
“No, no!” cried the girl, but as she spoke, conviction seemed to come to her. Why was it that her faith was not more substantially based and enduring? she asked herself. “Mamma,” she wailed, “it can’t be.” She buried her face in her hands for a moment and then tore them away and confronted her mother boldly. “Won’t you leave me alone for a little while, mamma?” she asked plaintively. “I must get——”
“I will go to Howard; I will be back in a short time, my dear,” said her mother, gently laying her hand on her daughter’s bent head.
Left alone, the girl took the commission from her belt, opened it, smoothed it out, and read it through, as if bewildered and uncomprehending. She folded it up again, and walked slowly over to one of the front windows, drew aside the curtains, and pushed it open. All was still. She listened for she knew not what. There was a footstep from the far end of the walk leading from the summerhouse, a footstep she knew. Edith moved rapidly away from the window to the table and stood by it, her hand resting upon it, her knees fairly trembling in her emotion, as she waited. The next moment the open space framed the figure of Captain Thorne. He entered fearlessly, but when his eye fell upon her there was something so strained about her attitude that a spark of suspicion was kindled in his soul. Yet his action was prompt enough. He came instantly toward her and took her hand.
“Miss Varney,” he said.
Edith watched his approach fascinated, as a bird by a serpent. His touch awakened her to action. She snatched her hand away and shrank back.
“No; don’t touch me!” she cried.
He looked at her in amazement. The spark of suspicion burst into flame, but she recovered herself instantly.
“Oh, it was you,” she faltered. She forced a smile to her lips. “How perfectly absurd I am. I am sure I ought to be ashamed of myself. Come, let’s go out on the veranda. I want to talk to you about so many things. There’s—there’s half an hour—yet before we must go to Caroline’s.”
She had possessed herself of his hand again as she spoke. She now stepped swiftly toward the window. He followed her reluctantly until they reached the opening. She stepped through it and archly looked back at him, still in the room.
“How lovely is the night,” she said with tender persuasiveness. “Come with me.”
The man looked around him hastily. Every moment was precious to him. Did Miss Varney know. If so, what did she know? What was to be gained or lost by half an hour’s delay on his part? He drew out his watch and glanced at it swiftly. There was time. He would never see her again. He might say he would possibly never see any one again after the hazards of this night. He was entitled to one brief moment of happiness. How long had she said? Half an hour. He would take it.
“Aren’t you coming, Captain Thorne?” cried the girl from the porch, all the coquettish witchery of youth and the South in her voice.
“I am coming,” answered the officer, deliberately stepping through the window, “for just half an hour,” he added.
“That will be time enough,” replied the girl, laughing.