Arthur felt ill and much fatigued when he retired to rest, and was restless and disturbed with fever throughout the night. He had overtasked his delicate frame, yet scarce recovered from the effects of recent suffering, and he arose in the morning with a feeling of prostration that he could with difficulty overcome. However, he refreshed himself with a cup of tea, and prepared to call upon Miss Ayleff. It was but seven o'clock, a somewhat early hour for a morning visit, but the occasion was one for little ceremony. As he was on the point of leaving his room, there was a peremptory knock at the door, and, upon his invitation to walk in, a stranger entered. It was a gentlemanly personage, with a searching eye and a calm and quiet manner. Arthur was vexed to be delayed, but received the intruder with a civil inclination of the head, somewhat surprised, however, that no card had been sent to give him intimation of the visit.
"Are you Mr. Arthur Wayne?" inquired the stranger.
"I am he," replied Arthur. "Be seated, sir."
"I thank you. My name is ——. I am a deputy United States marshal of this district."
Arthur bowed, and awaited a further statement of the purpose of his visit.
"You have lately arrived from Virginia, I understand?"
"A few days since, sir—from a brief sojourn in the vicinity of Richmond."
"And yesterday received a communication from that quarter?"
"I did. A letter from an intimate acquaintance."
"My office will excuse me from an imputation of inquisitiveness. May I see that letter?"
"Excuse me, sir. Its contents are of a private and delicate nature, and intended only for my own perusal."
"It is because its contents are of that nature that I am constrained to ask you for it. Pardon me, Mr. Wayne; but to be brief and frank you, I must either receive that communication by your good will, or call in my officers, and institute a search. I am sure you will not make my duty more unpleasant than necessary."
Arthur paused awhile. He was conscious that it would be impossible for him to avoid complying with the marshal's request, and yet it was most annoying to be obliged to make a third party cognizant of the facts contained in Beverly's epistle.
"I have no desire to oppose you in the performance of your functions," he finally replied, "but really there are very particular reasons why the contents of this letter should not be made public."
A very faint indication of a smile passed over the marshal's serious face; Arthur did not observe it, but continued:
"I will hand you the letter, for I perceive there has been some mistake and misapprehension which of course it is your duty to clear up. But you must promise me that, when your perusal of it shall have satisfied you that its nature is strictly private, and not offensive to the law, you will return it me and preserve an inviolable secrecy as to its contents."
"When I shall be satisfied on that score, I will do as you desire."
Arthur handed him the letter, somewhat to the other's surprise, for he had certainly been watching for an attempt at its destruction, or at least was prepared for prevarication and stratagem. He took the paper from its envelope and read it carefully. It was in the following words:
Richmond,May—, 1861.Dear Arthur: This will be handed to you by a sure hand. Communicate freely with the bearer—he can be trusted. The arms can be safely shipped as he represents, and you will therefore send them on at once. Your last communication was of great service to the cause, and, although I would be glad to have you with us, the President thinks you are too valuable, for the present, where you are. When you come, the commission will be ready for you. Yours truly,Beverly Weems, Capt. C.S.A.
Richmond,May—, 1861.
Dear Arthur: This will be handed to you by a sure hand. Communicate freely with the bearer—he can be trusted. The arms can be safely shipped as he represents, and you will therefore send them on at once. Your last communication was of great service to the cause, and, although I would be glad to have you with us, the President thinks you are too valuable, for the present, where you are. When you come, the commission will be ready for you. Yours truly,
Beverly Weems, Capt. C.S.A.
"Are you satisfied?" inquired Arthur, after the marshal had silently concluded his examination of the document.
"Perfectly satisfied," replied the other, placing the letter in his pocket. "Mr. Wayne, it is my duty to arrest you."
"Arrest me!"
"In the name of the United States."
"For what offence?"
"Treason."
Arthur remained for a while silent with astonishment. At last, as the marshal arose and took his hat, he said:
"I cannot conceive what act or word of mine can be construed as treasonable. There is some mistake, surely; I am a quiet man, a stranger in the city, and have conversed with but one or two persons since my arrival. Explain to me, if you please, the particular nature of the charge against me."
"It is not my province, at this moment, to do so, Mr. Wayne. It is sufficient that, upon information lodged with me last evening, and forwarded to Washington by telegraph, I received from the Secretary of War orders for your immediate arrest, should I find the information true. I have found it true, and I arrest you."
"Surely, nothing in that letter can be so misconstrued as to implicate me."
"Mr. Wayne, this prevarication is as useless as it is unseemly. Youknowthat the letter is sufficient warrant for my proceeding. My carriage is at the door. I trust you will accompany me without further delay."
"Sir, I was about to proceed, when you entered, upon an errand that involves the safety and happiness of the young lady mentioned in that letter. The letter itself will inform you of the circumstance, and I assure you, events are in progress that require my immediate action. You will at least allow me to visit the party?"
The marshal looked at him with surprise.
"What party?"
"The lady of whom my friend makes mention."
"I do not understand you. I can only conceive that, for some purpose of your own, you are anxious to gain time. I must request you to accompany me at once to the carriage."
"You will permit me at least to send a, letter—a word—a warning?"
"That your accomplice may receive information? Assuredly not."
"Be yourself the messenger—or send"——
"This subterfuge is idle." He opened the door and stood beside it. "I must request your company to the carriage."
Arthur's cheek flushed for a moment with anger.
"This severity," he said, "is ridiculous and unjust. I tell you, you and those for whom you act will be accountable for a great crime—for innocence betrayed—for a young life made desolate—for perhaps a dishonored grave. I plead not for myself, but for one helpless and pure, who at this hour may be the victim of a villain's plot. In the name of humanity, I entreat you give me but time to avert the calamity, and I will follow you without remonstrance. Go with me yourself. Be present at the interview. Of what consequence to you will be an hour's delay?"
"It may be of much consequence to those who are in league with you. I cannot grant your request. You must come with me, sir, or I shall be obliged to call for assistance," and he drew a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.
Arthur perceived that further argument or entreaty would be of no avail. He was much agitated and distressed beyond measure at the possible misfortune to Miranda, which, by this untimely arrest, he was powerless to avert. Knowing nothing of the true contents of the letter which Philip had substituted for the one received from Beverly, he could not imagine an excuse for the marshal's inflexibility. He was quite ill, too, and what with fever and agitation, his brain was in a whirl. He leaned against the chair, faint and dispirited. The painful cough, the harbinger of that fatal malady which had already brought a sister to an early grave, oppressed him, and the hectic glowed upon his pale cheeks. The marshal approached him, and laid his hand gently on his shoulder.
"You seem ill," he said; "I am sorry to be harsh with you, but I must do my duty. They will make you as comfortable as possible at the fort. But you must come."
Arthur followed him mechanically, and like one in a dream. They stepped into the carriage and were driven rapidly away; but Arthur, as he leaned back exhausted in his seat, murmured sorrowfully:
"And poor little Mary, too! Who will befriend her now?"
In the upper apartment of a cottage standing alone by the roadside on the outskirts of Boston, Miranda, pale and dejected, sat gazing vacantly at the light of the solitary lamp that lit the room. The clock was striking midnight, and the driving rain beat dismally against the window-blinds. But one month had passed since her elopement with Philip Searle, yet her wan cheeks and altered aspect revealed how much of suffering can be crowded into that little space of time. She started from her revery when the striking of the timepiece told the lateness of the hour. Heavy footsteps sounded upon the stairway, and, while she listened, Philip, followed by Bradshaw, entered the room abruptly.
"How is this?" asked Philip, angrily. "Why are you not in bed?"
"I did not know it was so late, Philip," she answered, in a deprecating tone. "I was half asleep upon the rocking-chair, listening to the storm. It's a bad night, Philip. How wet you are!"
He brushed off the hand she had laid upon his shoulder, and muttered, with bad humor:
"I've told you a dozen times I don't want you to sit up for me. Fetch the brandy and glasses, and go to bed."
"Oh, Philip, it is so late! Don't drink: to-night, Philip. You are wet, and you look tired. Come to bed."
"Do as I tell you," he answered, roughly, flinging himself into a chair, and beckoning Bradshaw to a seat. Miranda sighed, and brought the bottle and glasses from the closet.
"Now, you go to sleep, do you hear; and don't be whining and crying all night, like a sick girl."
The poor girl moved slowly to the door, and turned at the threshold.
"Good night, Philip."
"Oh, good night—there, get along," he cried, impatiently, without looking at her, and gulping down a tumblerful of spirits. Miranda closed the door and left the two men alone together.
They remained silent for a while, Bradshaw quietly sipping his liquor, and Philip evidently disturbed and angry.
"You're sure 'twas she?" he asked at last.
"Oh, bother!" replied Bradshaw. "I'm not a mole nor a blind man. Don't I know Moll when I see her?"
"Curse her! she'll stick to me like a leech. What could have brought her here? Do you think she's tracked me?"
"She'd track you through fire, if she once got on the scent. Moll ain't the gal to be fooled, and you know it."
"What's to be done?"
"Move out of this. Take the girl to Virginia. You'll be safe enough there."
"You're right, Bradshaw. It's the best way. I ought to have done it at first. But, hang the girl, she'll weary me to death with her sermons and crying fits. Moll's worth two of her for that, matter—she scolds, but at least she never would look like a stuck fawn when I came home a little queer. For the matter of that, she don't mind a spree herself at times." And, emptying his glass, the libertine laughed at the remembrance of some past orgies.
While he was thus, in his half-drunken mood, consoling himself for present perplexities by dwelling upon the bacchanalian joys of other days, a carriage drove up the street, and stopped before the door. Soon afterward, the hall bell was rung, and Philip, alarmed and astonished, started from his seat.
"Who's that?" he asked, almost in a whisper.
"Don't know," replied his companion.
"She couldn't have traced me here already—unless you have betrayed me, Bradshaw," he added suddenly, darting a suspicious glance upon his comrade.
"You're just drunk enough to be a fool," replied Bradshaw, rising from his seat, as a second summons, more violent than the first, echoed through the corridors. "I'll go down and see what's the matter. Some one's mistaken the house, I suppose. That's all."
"Let no one in, Bradshaw," cried Philip, as that worthy left the room. He descended the stairs, opened the door, and presently afterward the carriage drove rapidly away. Philip, who had been listening earnestly, could hear the sound of the wheels as they whirled over the pavement.
"All right," he said, as he applied himself once more to the bottle before him. "Some fool has mistaken his whereabouts. Curse me, but I'm getting as nervous as an old woman."
He was in the act of lifting the glass to his lips, when the door was flung wide open. The glass fell from his hands, and shivered upon the floor. Moll stood before him.
She stood at the threshold with a wicked gleam in her eye, and a smile of triumph upon her lips; then advanced into the room, closed the door quietly, locked it, seated herself composedly in the nearest chair, and filled herself a glass of spirits. Philip glared upon her with an expression of mingled anger, fear and wonderment.
"Are you a devil? Where in thunder did you spring from?" he asked at last.
"You'll make me a devil, with your tricks, Philip Searle," she said, sipping the liquor, and looking at him wickedly over the rim of the tumbler.
"Ha! ha! ha!" she laughed aloud, as he muttered a curse between his clenched teeth, "I'm not the country girl, Philip dear, that I was when you whispered your sweet nonsense in my ear. I know your game, my bully boy, and I'll play you card for card."
"Bradshaw" shouted Philip, going to the door and striving to open it.
"It's no use," she said, "I've got the key in my pocket. Sit down. I want to talk to you. Don't be a fool."
"Where's Bradshaw, Moll?"
"At the depot by this time, I fancy, for the carriage went off at a deuce of a rate."
She laughed again, while he paced the room with angry strides.
"'Twas he, then, that betrayed me. The villain! I'll have his life for that, as I'm a sinner."
"Your a great sinner; Philip Searle. Sit down, now, and be quiet. Where's the girl?"
"What girl?"
"Miranda Ayleff. The girl you've ruined; the girl you've put in my place, and that I've come to drive out of it. Where is she?"
"Don't speak so loud, Moll. Be quiet, can't you? See here, Moll," he continued, drawing a chair to her side, and speaking in his old winning way—"see here, Moll: why can't you just let this matter stand as it is, and take your share of the plunder? You know I don't care about the girl; so what difference does it make to you, if we allow her to think that she's my lawful wife? Come, give us a kiss, Moll, and let's hear no more about it."
"Honey won't catch such an old fly as I am, Philip," replied the woman, but with a gentled tone. "Where is the girl?" she asked suddenly, starting from the chair. "I want to see her. Is she in there?"
"No," said Philip, quickly, and rising to her passage to the door of Miranda's chamber. "She is not there, Moll; you can't see her. Are you crazy? You'd frighten the poor girl out of her senses."
"She's in there. I'm going in to speak with her. Yes I shall, Philip, and you needn't stop me."
"Keep back. Keep quiet, can't you?"
"No. Don't hold me, Philip Searle. Keep your hands off me, if you know what's good for you."
She brushed past him, and laid her hand upon the door-knob; but he seized her violently by the arm and pulled her back. The action hurt her wrist, and she was boiling with rage in a second. With her clenched fist, she struck him straight in the face repeatedly, while with every blow, she screamed out an imprecation.
"Keep quiet, you hag! Keep quiet, confound you!" said the infuriated man. "Won't you? Take that!" and he planted his fist upon her mouth.
The woman, through her tears and sobs, howled at him curse upon curse. With one hand upon her throat, he essayed to choke her utterance, and thus they scuffled about the room.
"I'll cut you, Philip; I will, by ——"
Her hand, in fact, was fumbling about her pocket, and she drew forth a small knife and thrust it into his shoulder. They were near the table, over which Philip had thrust her down. He was wild with rage and the brandy he had drank. His right hand instinctively grasped the heavy bottle that by chance it came in contact with. The next instant, it descended full upon her forehead, and with a moan of fear and pain, she fell like lead upon the floor, and lay bleeding and motionless.
Philip, still grasping the shattered bottle, gazed aghast upon the lifeless form. Then a cry of terror burst upon his ear. He turned, and beheld Miranda, with dishevelled hair, pale as her night-clothes, standing at the threshold of the open door. With a convulsive shudder, she staggered into the room, and fainted at his feet, her white arm stained with the blood that was sinking in little pools into the carpet.
He stood there gazing from one to the other, but without seeking to succor either. The fumes of brandy, and the sudden revulsion from active wrath to apathy, seemed to stupefy his brain. At last he stooped beside the outstretched form of Molly, and, with averted face, felt in her pocket and drew out the key. Stealthily, as if he feared that they could hear him, he moved toward the door, opened it, and passing through, closed it gently, as one does who would not waken a sleeping child or invalid. Rapidly, but with soft steps, he descended the stairs, and went out into the darkness and the storm.
When Miranda awakened from her swoon, the lamp was burning dimly, and the first light of dawn came faintly through the blinds. All was still around her, and for some moments she could not recall the terrible scene which had passed before her eyes. Presently her fingers came in contact with the clots of gore that were thickening on her garment, and she arose quickly, and, with a shudder, tottered against the wall. Her eyes fell upon Moll's white face, the brow mangled and bruised, and the dishevelled hair soaking in the crimson tide that kept faintly oozing from the cut. She was alone in the house with that terrible object; for Philip, careless of her convenience, had only procured the services of a girl from a neighboring farm-house, who attended to the household duties during the day, and went home in the evening. But her womanly compassion was stronger than her sense of horror, and kneeling by the side of the prostrate woman, with inexpressible relief she perceived, by the slight pulsation of the heart, that life was there. Entering her chamber, she hastily put on a morning wrapper, and returning with towel and water, raised Moll's head upon her lap, and washed the thick blood from her face. The cooling moisture revived the wounded woman; her bosom swelled with a deep sigh, and she opened her eyes and looked languidly around.
"How do you feel now, madam?" asked Miranda, gently.
"Who are you?" said Moll, in reply, after a moment's pause.
"Miranda—Miranda Searle, the wife of Philip," she added, trembling at the remembrance of the woman's treatment at her husband's hands.
Molly raised herself with an effort, and sat upon the floor, looking at Miranda, while she laughed with a loud and hollow sound.
"Philip's wife, eh? And you love him, don't you? Well, dreams can't last forever."
"Don't you feel strong enough to get up and lie upon the bed?" asked Miranda, soothingly, for she was uncomfortable tinder the strange glare that the woman fixed upon her.
"I'm well enough," said Moll. "Where's Philip?"
"Indeed, I do not know. I am very sorry, ma'am, that—that"—
"Never mind. Give me a glass of water."
Miranda hastened to comply, and Moll swallowed the water, and remained silent for a moment.
"Shan't I go for assistance?" asked Miranda, who was anxious to put an end to this painful interview, and was also distressed about her husband's absence. "There's no one except ourselves in the house, but I can go to the farmer's house near by."
"Not for the world," interrupted Moll, taking her by the arm. "I'm well enough. Here, let me lean on you. That's it. I'll sit on the rocking-chair. Thank you. Just bind my head up, will you? Is it an ugly cut?" she asked, as Miranda, having procured some linen, carefully bandaged the wounded part.
"Oh, yes! It's very bad. Does it pain you much, ma'am?"
"Never mind. There, that will do. Now sit down there. Don't be afraid of me. I ain't a-going to hurt you. It's only the cut that makes me look so ugly."
"Oh, no! I am not at all afraid, ma'am," said Miranda, shuddering in spite of herself.
"You are a sweet-looking girl," said Moll, fixing her haggard, but yet beautiful eyes upon the fragile form beside her. "It's a pity you must be unhappy. Has that fellow been unkind to you?"
"What fellow madam?"
"Philip."
"He is my husband, madam," replied Miranda, mildly, but with the slightest accent of displeasure.
"He is, eh? Hum! You love him dearly, don't you?"
Miranda blushed, and asked:
"Do you know my husband?"
"Know him! If you knew him as well, it would be better for you. You'll know him well enough before long. You come from Virginia, don't you?"
"Yes."
"You must go back there."
"If Philip wishes it."
"I tell you, you must go at once—to-day. I will give you money, if you have none. And you must never speak of what has happened in this house. Do you understand me?"
"But Philip"—
"Forget Philip. You must never see him any more. Why should you want to? Don't you know that he's a brute, and will beat you as he beat me, if you stay with him. Why should. you care about him?"
"He is my husband, and you should not speak about him so to me," said Miranda, struggling with her tears, and scarce knowing in what vein to converse with the rude woman, whose strange language bewildered and frightened her.
"Bah!" said Moll, roughly. "You're a simpleton. There, don't cry, though heaven knows you've cause enough, poor thing! Philip Searle's a villain. I could send him to the State prison if I chose."
"Oh, no! don't say that; indeed, don't."
"I tell you I could; but I will not, if you mind me, and do what I tell you. I'm a bad creature, but I won't harm you, if I can help it. You helped me when I was lying there, after that villain hurt me, and I can't help liking you. And yet you've hurt me, too."
"I!"
"Yes. Shall I tell you a story? Poor girl! you're wretched enough now, but you'd better know the truth at once. Listen to me: I was an innocent girl, like you, once. Not so beautiful, perhaps, and not so good; for I was always proud and willful, and loved to have my own way. I was a country girl, and had money left to me by my dead parents. A young man made my acquaintance. He was gay and handsome, and made me believe that he loved me. Well, I married him—do you hear? I married him—at the church, with witnesses, and a minister to make me his true and lawful wife. Curse him! I wish he had dropped down dead at the altar. There, you needn't shudder; it would have been well for you if he had. I married him, and then commenced my days of sorrow and—of guilt. He squandered my money at the gambling-table, and I was sometimes in rags and without food. He was drunk half the time, and abused me; but I was even with him there, and gave him as good as he gave me. He taught me to drink, and such a time as we sometimes made together would have made Satan blush. I thought I was low enough; but he drove me lower yet. He put temptation in my way—he did, curse his black heart! though he denied it. I fell as low as woman can fall, and then I suppose you think he left me? Well, he did, for a time; he went off somewhere, and perhaps it was then he was trying to ruin some other girl, as foolish as I had been. But he came back, and got money from me—the wages of my sin. And all the while, he was as handsome, and could talk as softly as if he was a saint. And with that smooth tongue and handsome face he won another bride, and married her—married her, I tell you; and that's why I can send him to the State prison."
"Send him! Who? My God! what do you mean?" cried Miranda, rising slowly from her chair, with clasped hands and ashen cheeks.
"Philip Searle, my husband!" shouted Moll, rising also, and standing with gleaming eyes before the trembling girl.
Miranda sank slowly back into her seat, tearless, but shuddering as with an ague fit. Only from her lips, with a moaning sound, a murmur came:
"No, no, no! oh, no!"
"May God strike me dead this instant, if it is not true!" said Moll, sadly; for she felt for the poor girl's, distress.
Miranda rose, her hands pressed tightly against her heart, and moved toward the door with tottering and uncertain steps, like one who suffocates and seeks fresh air. Then her white lips were stained with purple; a red stream gushed from her mouth and dyed the vestment on her bosom; and ere Moll could reach her, she had sunk, with an agonizing sob, upon the floor.
The night after the unhappy circumstance we have related, in the bar-room of a Broadway hotel, in New York city, a colonel of volunteers, moustached and uniformed, and evidently in a very unmilitary condition of unsteadiness, was entertaining a group of convivial acquaintances, with bacchanalian exercises and martian gossip.
He had already, with a month's experience at the seat of war, culled the glories of unfought fields, and was therefore an object of admiration to his civilian friends, and of envy to several unfledged heroes, whose maiden swords had as yet only jingled on the pavement of Broadway, or flashed in the gaslight of saloons. They were yet none the less conscious of their own importance, these embryo Napoleons, but wore their shoulder straps with a killing air, and had often, on a sunny afternoon, stood the fire of bright eyes from innumerable promenading batteries, with gallantry, to say the least.
And now they stood, like Caesars, amid clouds of smoke, and wielded their formidable goblets with the ease of veterans, though not always with a soldierly precision. And why should they not? Their tailors had made them heroes, every one; and they had never yet once led the van in a retreat.
"And how's Tim?" asked one of the black-coated hangers-on upon prospective glory.
"Tim's in hot water," answered the colonel, elevating his chin and elbow with a gesture more suggestive of Bacchus than of Mars.
"Hot brandy and water would be more like him," said the acknowledged wit of the party, looking gravely at the sugar in his empty glass, as if indifferent to the bursts of laughter which rewarded his appropriate sally.
"I'll tell you about it," said the colonel. "Fill up, boys. Thompson, take a fresh segar."
Thompson took it, and the boys filled up, while the colonel flung down a specimen of Uncle Sam's eagle with an emphasis that demonstrated what he would do for the bird when opportunity offered.
"You see, we had a party of Congressmen in camp, and were cracking some champagne bottles in the adjutant's tent. We considered it a military necessity to floor the legislators, you know; but one old senator was tough as a siege-gun, and wouldn't even wink at his third bottle. So the corks flew about like minié balls, but never a man but was too good a soldier to cry 'hold, enough.' As for that old demijohn of a senator, it seemed he couldn't hold enough, and wouldn't if he could; so we directed the main battle against him, and opened a masked battery upon him, by uncovering a bottle of Otard; but he never flinched. It was a game ofBragall over, and every one kept ordering 'a little more grape.' Presently, up slaps a mounted aid, galloping like mad, and in tumbles the sleepy orderly for the officer of the day.
"'That's you, Tim,' says I. But Tim was just then singing the Star Spangled Banner in a convivial whisper to the tune of the Red, White, and Blue, and wouldn't be disturbed on no account.
"'Tumble out, Tim,' says I, 'or I'll have you court-martialled and shot.'
"'In the neck,' says Tim. But he did manage to tumble out, and finished the last stanzas with a flourish, for the edification of the mounted aid-de-camp.
"'Where's the officer of the day?' asked the aid, looking suspiciously at Tim's shaky knees.
"'He stands before you,' replied Tim, steadying himself a little by affectionately hanging on to the horse's tail.
"'You sir? you're unfit for duty, and I'll report you, sir, at headquarters,' said the aid, who was a West Pointer, you know, stiff as a poker in regimentals.
"'Sir!—hic,' replied Tim, with an attempt at offended dignity, the effect of which was rather spoiled by the accompanying hiccough.
"'Where's the colonel!' asked the aid.
"'Drunk,' says that rascal, Tim, confidentially, with a knowing wink.
"'Where's the adjutant?'
"'Drunk.'
"'Good God, sir, are you all drunk?'
"''Cept the surgeon—he's got the measles.'
"'Orderly, give this dispatch, to the first sober officer you can find.'
"'It's no use, captain,' says Tim, 'the regiment's drunk—'cept me, hic!' and Tim lost his balance, and tumbled over the orderly, for you see the captain put spurs to his horse rather suddenly, and whisked the friendly tail out of his hands.
"So we were all up before the general the next day, but swore ourselves clear, all except Tim, who had the circumstantial evidence rather too strong against him."
"And such are the men in whom the country has placed its trust?" muttered a grey-headed old gentleman, who, while apparently absorbed in his newspaper, had been listening to the colonel's narrative.
A young man who had lounged into the room approached the party and caught the colonel's eye:
"Ah! Searle, how are you? Come up and take a drink."
A further requisition was made upon the bartender, and the company indulged anew. Searle, although a little pale and nervous, was all life and gaiety. His coming was a fresh brand on the convivial flame, and the party, too much exhilarated to be content with pushing one vice to excess, sallied forth in search of whatever other the great city might afford. They had not to look far. Folly is at no fault in the metropolis for food of whatever quality to feed upon; and they were soon accommodated with excitement to their hearts content at a fashionable gambling saloon on Broadway. The colonel played with recklessness and daring that, if he carries it to the battle-field, will wreathe his brow with laurels; but like many a rash soldier before him, he did not win. On the contrary, his eagles took flight with a rapidity suggestive of the old adage that "gold hath wings," and when, long after midnight, he stood upon the deserted street alone with Philip Searle and his reflections, he was a sadder and a soberer man.
"Searle, I'm a ruined man."
"You'll fight all the better for it," replied Philip, knocking the ashes from his segar. "Come, you'll never mend the matter by taking cold here in the night air; where do you put up? I'll see you home."
"D—n you, you take it easy," said the colonel, bitterly. Philip could afford to take it easy, for he had most of the colonel's money in his pocket. In fact, the unhappy votary of Mars was more thoroughly ruined than his companion was aware of, for when fortune was hitting him hardest, he had not hesitated to bring into action a reserve of government funds which had been intrusted to his charge for specific purposes.
"Searle," said the colonel, after they had walked along silently for a few minutes, "I was telling you this evening about that vacant captaincy."
"Yes, you were telling me I shouldn't have it," replied Philip, with an accent of injured friendship.
"Well, I fancied it out of my power to do anything about it. But"—
"Well, but?"—
"I think I might get it for you, for—for"——
"A consideration?" suggested Philip, interrogatively.
"Well, to be plain with you, let me have five hundred, and you've won all of that to-night, and I'll get you the captaincy."
"We'll talk about it to-morrow morning," replied Philip.
And in the morning the bargain was concluded; Philip, with the promise that all should be satisfactorily arranged, started the same day for Washington, to await the commission so honorably disposed of by the gallant colonel.
We will let thirty days pass on, and bear the reader South of the Potomac, beyond the Federal lines and within rifle-shot of an advanced picket of the Confederate army, under General Beauregard. It was a dismal night—the 16th of July. The rain fell heavily and the wind moaned and shrieked through the lone forests like unhappy spirits wailing in the darkness. A solitary horseman was cautiously wending his way through the storm upon the Centreville road and toward the Confederate Hue. He bore a white handkerchief, and from time to time, as his ear seemed to catch a sound other than the voice of the tempest, he drew his rein and raised the fluttering symbol at his drawn sword's point. Through the dark masses of foliage that skirted the roadside, presently could be seen the fitful glimmer of a watchfire, and the traveller redoubled his precautions, but yet rode steadily on.
"Halt!" cried a stern, loud voice from a clump of bushes that looked black and threatening in the darkness. The horseman checked his horse and sat immovable in the centre of the road.
"Who goes there?" followed quick, in the same deep, peremptory tone.
"An officer of the United States, with a flag of truce," was answered in a clear, firm voice.
"Stand where you are." There was a pause, and presently four dark forms emerged from the roadside, and stood at the horse's head.
"You've chosen a strange time for your errand, and a dangerous one," said one of the party, with a mild and gentlemanly accent.
"Who speaks?"
"The officer in command of this picket."
"Is not that Beverly Weems?"
"The same. And surely I know that voice."
"Of course you do, if you know Harold Hare."
And the stranger, dismounting, stretched out his hand, which was eagerly and warmly clasped, and followed by a silent and prolonged embrace.
"How rash you have been, Harold," said Beverly, at last. "It is a mercy that I was by, else might a bullet have been your welcome. Why did you not wait till morning?"
"Because my mission admits of no delay. It is most opportune that I have met you. You have spoken to me at times, and Oriana often, of your young cousin, Miranda."
"Yes, Harold, what of her?"
"Beverly, she is within a rifle-shot of where we stand, very sick—dying I believe."
"Good God, Harold! what strange tale is this?"
"I am in command of an advanced picket, stationed at the old farm-house yonder. Toward dusk this evening, a carriage drove up, and when challenged, a pass was presented, with orders to assist the bearer, Miranda Ayleff, beyond the lines. I remembered the name, and stepping to the carriage door, beheld two females, one of whom was bending over her companion, and holding a vial, a restorative, I suppose, to her lips.
"'She has fainted, sir,' said the woman, 'and is very ill. I'm afraid she won't last till she gets to Richmond. Can't you help her; isn't there a surgeon among you at the farm-house there?'
"We had no surgeon, but I had her taken into the house, and made as comfortable as possible. When she recovered from her swoon, she asked for you, and repeatedly for Oriana, and would not be comforted until I promised her that she should be taken immediately on to Richmond. 'She could not die there, among strangers,' she said; 'she must see one friend before she died. She must go home at once and be forgiven.' And thus she went, half in delirium, until I feared that her life would pass away, from sheer exhaustion. I determined to ride over to your picket at once, not dreaming, however, that you were in command. At dawn to-morrow we shall probably be relieved, and it might be beyond my power then to meet her wishes."
"I need not say how much I thank you, Harold. But you were ever kind and generous. Poor girl! Let us ride over at once, Harold. Who is her companion?"
"A woman some years her senior, but yet young, though prematurely faded. I could get little from her. Not even her name. She is gloomy and reserved, even morose at times; but she seems to be kind and attentive to Miranda."
Beverly left some hasty instructions with his sergeant, and rode over with Harold to the farm-house. They found Miranda reclining upon a couch of blankets, over which Harold had spread his military cloak, for the dwelling had been stripped of its furniture, and was, in fact, little more than a deserted ruin. The suffering girl was pale and attenuated, and her sunken eyes were wild and bright with the fire of delirium. Yet she seemed to recognize Beverly, and stretched out her thin arms when he approached, exclaiming in tremulous accents:
"Take me home, Beverly, oh, take me home!"
Moll was seated by her side, upon a soldier's knapsack; her chin resting upon her hands, and her black eyes fixed sullenly upon the floor. She would give but short and evasive answers to Beverly's questions, and stubbornly refused to communicate the particulars of Miranda's history.
"She broke a blood-vessel a month ago in Boston. But she got better, and was always wanting to go to her friends in Richmond. And so I brought her on. And now you must take care of her, for I'm going back to camp."
This was about all the information she would give, and the two young men ceased to importune her, and directed their attentions to the patient.
The carriage was prepared and the cushions so arranged, with the help of blankets, as to form a kind of couch within the vehicle. Upon this Miranda was tenderly lifted, and when she was told that she should be taken home without delay, and would soon see Oriana, she smiled like a pleased child, and ceased complaining.
Beverly stood beside his horse, with his hand clasped in Harold's. The rain poured down upon them, and the single watchfire, a little apart from which the silent sentinel stood leaning on his rifle, threw its rude glare upon their saddened faces.
"Good bye, old friend," said Beverly. "We have met strangely to-night, and sadly. Pray heaven we may not meet more sadly on the battle-field."
"Tell Oriana," replied Harold, "that I am with her in my prayers." He had not spoken of her before, although Beverly had mentioned that she was at the old manor house, and well. "I have not heard from Arthur," he continued, "for I have been much about upon scouting parties since I came, but I doubt not he is well, and I may find a letter when I return to camp. Good bye; and may our next meeting see peace upon the land."
They parted, and the carriage, with Beverly riding at its side, moved slowly into the darkness, and was gone.
Harold returned into the farm-house, and found Moll seated where he had left her, and still gazing fixedly at the floor. He did not disturb her, but paced the floor slowly, lost in his own melancholy thoughts. After a silence of some minutes, the woman spoke, without looking up.
"Have they gone?"
"Yes."
"She is dying, ain't she?"
"I fear she is very ill."
"I tell you, she's dying—and it's better that she is."
She then relapsed into her former mood, but after a while, as Harold paused at the window and looked out, she spoke again.
"Will it soon be day?"
"Within an hour, I think," replied Harold. "Do you go back at daylight?"
"Yes."
"You have no horse?"
"You'll lend me one, won't you? If you don't, I don't care; I can walk."
"We will do what we can for you. What is your business at the camp?"
"Never mind," she answered gruffly. And then, after a pause, she asked:
"Is there a man named Searle in your army—Philip Searle?"
"Nay, I know not. There may be. I have never heard the name. Do you seek such a person? Is he your friend, or relative?"
"Never mind," she said again, and then was silent as before.
With the approach of dawn, the sentry challenged an advancing troop, which proved to be the relief picket guard. Harold saluted the officer in command, and having left orders respectively with their subordinates, they entered the farm-house together, and proceeded to the apartment where Moll still remained seated. She did not seem to notice their entrance; but when the new-comer's voice, in some casual remark, reached her ear, she rose up suddenly, and walking straight forward to where the two stood, looking out at the window, she placed her hand heavily, and even rudely, upon his shoulder. He turned at the touch, and beholding her, started back, with not only astonishment, but fear.
"You needn't look so white, Philip Searle," she said at last, in a low, hoarse tone. "It's not a ghost you're looking at. But perhaps you're only angry that you only half did your business while you were at it."
"Where did you pick up this woman?" asked Searle of Harold, drawing him aside.
"She came with an invalid on her way to Richmond," replied Harold.
"What invalid?"
He spoke almost in a whisper, but Moll overheard him, and answered fiercely:
"One that is dying, Philip; and you know well enough who murdered her. 'Twasn't me you struck the hardest blow that night. Do you see that scar? That's nothing; but you struck her to the heart."
"What does she mean?" asked Harold, looking sternly into Philip's disturbed eye.
"Heaven knows. She's mad," he answered. "Did she tell you nothing—no absurd story?"
"Nothing. She was sullen and uncommunicative, and half the time took no notice of our questions."
"No wonder, poor thing!" said Philip. "She's mad. However, I have some little power with her, and if you will leave us alone awhile, I will prevail upon her to go quietly back to Washington."
Harold went up to the woman, who was leaning with folded arms against the wall, and spoke kindly to her.
"Should you want assistance, I will help you. We shall be going in half an hour. You must be ready to go with us, you know, for you can't stay here, where there may be fighting presently."
"Thank you," she replied. "Don't mind me. I can take care of myself. You can leave us alone together. I'm not afraid of him."
Harold left the room, and busied himself about the preparations for departure. Left alone with the woman he had wronged, Philip for some moments paced the room nervously and with clouded brow. Finally, he stopped abruptly before Moll, who had been following his motions with her wild, unquiet eyes.
"Where have you sprung from now, and what do you want?"
"Do you see that scar?" she said again, but more fiercely than before. "While that lasts, there's no love 'twixt you and me, and it'll last me till my death."
"Then why do you trouble me. If you don't love me, why do you hang about me wherever I go? We'll be better friends away from each other than together. Why don't you leave me alone?"
"Ha! ha! we must be quits for that, you know," she answered, rather wildly, and pointing to her forehead. "Do you think I'm a poor whining fool like her, to get sick and die when you abuse me? I'll haunt you till I die, Philip; and after, too, if I can, to punish you for that."
Philip fancied that he detected the gleam of insanity in her eye, and he was not wrong, for the terrible blow he had inflicted had injured her brain; and her mind, weakened by dissipation and the action of excitement upon her violent temperament, was tottering upon the verge of madness.
"When I was watching that poor sick girl," she continued, "I thought I could have loved her, she was so beautiful and gentle, as she lay there, white and thin, and never speaking a word against you, Philip, but thinking of her friends far away, and asking to be taken home—home, where her mother was sleeping under the sod—home, to be loved and kissed again before she died. And I would have loved her if I hadn't hated you so much that there wasn't room for the love of any living creature in my bad heart. I used to sit all night and hear her talk—talk in her dreams and in her fever—as if there were kind people listening to her, people that were kind to her long ago. And the room seemed full of angels sometimes, so that I was afraid to move and look about; for I could swear I heard the fanning of their wings and the rustle of their feet upon the carpet. Sometimes I saw big round tears upon her wasted cheeks, and I wouldn't brush them away, for they looked like jewels that the angels had dropped there. And then I tried to cry myself, but, ha! ha! I had to laugh instead, although my heart was bursting. I wished I could have cried; I'm sure it would have made my heart so light, and perhaps it would have burst that ring of hot iron that was pressing so hard around my head. It's there now, sinking and burning right against my temples. But I can't cry, I haven't since I was a little girl, long ago, long ago; but I think I cried when mother died, long ago, long ago."
She was speaking in a kind of dreamy murmur, while Philip paced the room; and finally she sank down upon the floor, and sat there with her hands pressed against her brows, rocking herself to and fro.
"Moll," said Philip, stooping over her, and speaking in a gentle tone, "I'm sorry I struck you, indeed I am; but I was drunk, and when you cut me, I didn't know what I was about. Now let's be friends, there's a good girl. You must go back to Washington, you know, and to New York, and stay there till I come back. Won't you, now, Moll?"
"Won't I? No, Philip Searle, I won't. I'll stay by you till you kill me; yes, I will. You want to go after that poor girl and torment her; but she's dying and soon you won't be able to hurt her any more."
"Was it she, Moll, was it Miranda that came here with you? Was she going to Richmond?"
"She was going to heaven, Philip Searle, out of the reach of such as you and me. I'm good enough for you, Philip, bad as I am; and I'm your wife, besides."
"You told her that?"
"Told her? Ha! ha! Told her? do you think I'm going to make that a secret? No, no. We're a bad couple, sure enough; but I'm not going to deny you, for all that. Look you, young man," she continued, addressing Harold, who at that moment entered the room, "that is Philip Searle, and Philip Searle is my husband—my husband, curse his black heart! and if he dares deny it, I'll have him in the State prison, for I can do it."
"She's perfectly insane," said Philip; but Harold looked thoughtful and perplexed, and scanned his fellow-officer's countenance with a searching glance.
"At all events," he said, "she must not remain here. My good woman, we are ready now, and you must come with us. We have a horse for you, and will make you comfortable. Are you ready?"
"No," she replied, sullenly, "I won't go. I'll stay with my husband."
"Nay," remonstrated Harold, gently, "you cannot stay here. This is no place for women. When we arrive at headquarters, you shall tell your story to General McDowell, and he will see that you are taken care of, and have justice if you have been wronged. But you must not keep us waiting. We are soldiers, you know, and must do our duty."
Still, however, she insisted upon remaining where she was; but when two soldiers, at a gesture from Harold, approached and took her gently by the arms, she offered no resistance, and suffered herself to be led quietly out. Harold coldly saluted Searle, and left him in charge of the post; while himself and party, accompanied by Moll and the coachman who had driven them from Washington, were soon briskly marching toward the camp.