BOOK IIWHAT HAPPENED AT NINE O’CLOCK
BOOK IIWHAT HAPPENED AT NINE O’CLOCK
Half an hour is a short or a long time, depending upon the individual mood or the exigencies of the moment. It was a short half hour to Captain Thorne—to continue to give him the name by which he was commonly known—out in the moonlight and the rose garden with Edith Varney. It was short to him because he loved her and because he realised that in that brief space must be packed experience enough to last him into the long future, it might be into the eternal future!
It was short to Edith Varney, in part at least for the same reason, but it was shorter to him than to her, for at the end of that period the guilt or innocence of the man she loved and who loved her would be established beyond peradventure; either he was the brave, devoted, self-sacrificing Confederate soldier she thought him, or he was a spy; and since he came of a Virginia family, although West Virginia had separated from the Old Dominion, she coupled the word spy with that of traitor. Either or both would be enough to condemn him. Fighting against suspicion, she would fain have postponed the moment of revelation, of decision, therefore too quickly passed the flying moments.
It was a short half hour to Thorne, because he might see her no more. It was a short half hour again to Edith because she might see him no more, and it might be possible that she could not even allow herself to dream upon him in his absence in the future. The recollection of the woman would ever be sweet and sacred to the man, but it might be necessary for the woman to blot out utterly the remembrance of the man.
It was a short half hour to young Wilfred in his own room, waiting impatiently for old Martha to bring him the altered uniform, over which Caroline was busily working in the large old-fashioned kitchen. She had chosen that odd haven of refuge because there she was the least likely to be interrupted and could pursue her task without fear of observation by any other eyes than those of old Martha. The household had been reduced to its smallest limit and the younger maids who were still retained in the establishment had been summarily dismissed to their quarters for the night by the old mammy.
Now that Wilfred had taken the plunge, his impatience to go was at fever heat. He could not wait, he felt, for another moment. He had spent some of his half hour in composing a letter with great care. It was a short letter and therefore was soon finished, and he was now pacing up and down his room with uneasy steps waiting for old Martha’s welcome voice.
It was a long half hour for little Caroline Mitford, busily sewing away in the kitchen. It seemed to her that she was taking forever to turn up the bottoms of the trouser legs and make a “hem” on each, as she expressed it. She was not very skilful at such rough needlework and her eyes were not so very clear as she played at tailoring. This is no reflection upon their natural clarity and brightness, but they were quite often dimmed with tears, which once or twice brimmed over and dropped upon the coarse fabric of the garment upon which she worked. She had known the man who had worn them last, he had been a friend of hers, and she knew the boy who was going to wear them next.
If she could translate the emotions of her girlish heart, the new wearer was more than a friend. Was the same fate awaiting the latter that the former had met?
The half hour was very long to Jonas, the old butler, trembling with fright, suffering from his rough usage and terror-stricken with anticipation of the further punishment that awaited him.
The half hour was longest of all to Mrs. Varney. After her visit to Howard, who had enjoyed one of his lucid moments and who seemed to be a little better, she had come down to the drawing-room, at Mr. Arrelsford’s suggestion, to see that no one from the house who might have observed, or divined, or learned, in any way what was going on within should go out into the garden and disturb the young couple, or give an alarm to the man who was the object of so much interest and suspicion, so much love and hatred.
About the only people who took no note of the time were the busy sempstresses in the room across the hall, and the first sign of life came from that room. Miss Kittridge, who appeared to have been constituted the messenger of the workers, came out of the room, went down the hall to the back of the house, and presently entered the drawing-room, by the far door.
“Well,” she began, seeing Mrs. Varney, “we have just sent off another batch of bandages.”
“Did the same man come for them?” asked the mistress of the house.
“No, they sent another one.”
“Did you have much?”
“Yes, quite a lot. We have all been at the bandages, they say that that is what they need most. So long as we have any linen left we will work at it.” She turned to go away, but something in the elder woman’s face and manner awakened a slight suspicion in her mind. She stopped, turned, and came back. “You look troubled, Mrs. Varney,” she began. “Do you want anything?”
“No, nothing, thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do or anything any of us can do?”
“Not a thing, my dear,” answered Mrs. Varney, trying to smile and failing dismally.
“Is it Howard?” persisted the other, anxious to be of service.
“He seems to be a little better,” returned the woman.
“I am glad to hear it, and if there is anything any of us could do for you, you would certainly tell me.”
The elder woman nodded and Miss Kittridge turned decisively away and stepped briskly toward the door. On second thought, there was something she could do, reflected Mrs. Varney, and so she rose, stepped to the door in turn, and called her back.
“Perhaps it would be just as well,” she said, “if any of the ladies want to go to let them out the other way. You can open the door into the back hall. We’re expecting some one here on important business, you know, and we——”
“I understand,” said Miss Kittridge.
“And you will see to this?”
“Certainly; trust me.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Varney turned with a little sigh of relief and went back to her place by the table, where her work basket sat near to hand. No woman in Richmond was without a work basket with work in it for any length of time during those days. The needle was second only to the bayonet in the support of the dying Confederacy! She glanced at it, but, sure evidence of the tremendous strain under which she laboured, she made no motion to take it up. Instead, after a moment of reflection, she crossed to the wall and pulled the bell rope. In a short time, considering her bulk and unwieldiness, old Martha appeared at the far door.
“Did you ring, ma’am?” she asked.
“Yes,” was the answer. “Has Miss Caroline gone yet?”
“No, ma’am,” answered Martha, smilingly displaying a glorious set of white teeth. “She’s been out in de kitchen fo’ a w’ile.”
“In the kitchen?”
“Yas’m. Ah took her out dere. She didn’t want to be seed by no one.”
“And what is she doing there?”
“She’s been mostly sewin’ an’ behabin’ mighty strange about sumfin a gret deal ob de time. She’s a-snifflin’ an’ a-weepin’, but Ah belieb she’s gittin’ ready to gwine home now.”
“Very well,” said Mrs. Varney, “will you please ask her to come in here a moment before she goes.”
“Yas’m, ’deed Ah will,” said old Martha, turning and going out of the door through which, presently, Caroline herself appeared.
She looked very demure and the air of innocence, partly natural but largely assumed, well became her although it did not deceive Mrs. Varney for a moment, or would not have deceived her if she had had any special interest in Caroline’s actions or emotions. The greater strain under which she laboured made the girl of small moment; she would simply use her, that was all.
“Caroline, dear,” she began immediately, “are you in a great hurry to go home?”
“No, ma’am, not particularly, especially if I can do anything for you here,” answered the girl readily, somewhat surprised.
“It happens that you can,” said Mrs. Varney; “if you can stay here a few minutes while I go upstairs to Howard it will be a great help to me.”
“You want me just to wait here, is that it?” asked the girl, somewhat mystified.
Why on earth anybody should be required to wait in a vacant room was something which Caroline could not understand, but Mrs. Varney’s next words sought to explain it.
“I don’t want you merely to wait here but—well, in fact, I don’t want anybody to go out on the veranda, or into the garden, from the front of the house, under any circumstances.”
Caroline’s eyes opened in great amazement. She did not in the least understand what it was all about until Mrs. Varney explained further.
“You see Edith’s there with——”
“Oh, yes,” laughed the girl, at last, as she thought, comprehending, “you want them to be left alone. I know how that is, whenever I am—when some—that is of course I will see to it,” she ended rather lamely and in great confusion.
“Just a few minutes, dear,” said Mrs. Varney, smiling faintly at the girl’s blushing cheeks and not thinking it worth while to correct the misapprehension, “I won’t be long.” She stepped across the room, but turned in the doorway for her final injunction, “Do be careful, won’t you?”
“Careful!” said Caroline to herself, “I should think I would be careful. As if I didn’t know enough for that. I can guess what is going on out there in the moonlight. I wouldn’t have them disturbed for the world. Why, if I were out there with—with—Wil—with anybody, I wouldn’t——”
She stopped in great dismay at her own admissions and stood staring toward the front windows, over which Mrs. Varney had most carefully drawn the heavy hangings.
Presently her curiosity got the better of her sense of propriety. She went to the nearest window, pulled the curtains apart a little, and peered eagerly out. She saw nothing, nothing but the trees in the moonlight, that is; Edith and Captain Thorne were not within view nor were they within earshot. She turned to the other window. Now that she had made the plunge, she determined to see what was going on if she could. She drew the couch up before the window and knelt down upon it, and parting the curtains, looked out, but with the same results as before. In this questionable position she was unfortunately caught by Wilfred Varney.
He was dressed in the grey jacket and the trousers which she had repaired. She had not made a skilful job of her tailoring but it would serve. The whole suit was worn, ill-fitting, and soiled; but it was whole. That was more than could be said of ninety-nine per cent. of the uniforms commonly seen round about Richmond. Measured by these, Wilfred was sumptuously, even luxuriously, dressed, and the pride expressed in his port and bearing was as complete as it was naïve. He walked softly up the long room, intending to surprise the girl, but boy-like, he stumbled over a stool on his way forward, and the young lady turned about quickly and confronted him with an exclamation. Wilfred came close to her and spoke in a low, fierce whisper.
“Mother isn’t anywhere about, is she?”
“No,” said Caroline in the same tone, “she’s just gone upstairs to see Howard, but she is coming back in a few minutes, she said.”
“Well,” returned Wilfred, throwing his chest out impressively, “I am not running away from her, but if she saw me with these on she might feel funny.”
“I don’t think,” returned Caroline quickly, “that she would feel very funny.”
“Well, you know what I mean,” said Wilfred, flushing a little. “You know how it is with a fellow’s mother.”
Caroline nodded gravely.
“Yes, I have learned how it is with mothers,” she said, thinking of the mothers she had known since the war began, young though she was.
“Other people don’t care,” said Wilfred, “but mothers are different.”
“Some other people don’t care,” answered Caroline softly, fighting hard to keep back a rush of tears.
In spite of herself her eyes would focus themselves upon that little round blood-stained hole in the left breast of the jacket. She had not realised before how straight that bullet had gone to the heart of the other wearer. There was something terribly ominous about it. But Wilfred blundered blindly on, unconscious of this emotion or of its cause. He drew from the pocket in his blouse a paper. He sat down at the table, beckoning Caroline as he did so. The girl came closer and looked over his shoulder as he unfolded the paper.
“I have written that letter,” he said, “to the General, my father, that is. Here it is. I have got to send it to him in some way. It is all written but the last words and I am not sure about them. I’m not going to say ‘your loving son’ or anything of that kind. This is a man’s letter, a soldier’s letter. I love him, of course, but this is not the time or the place to put that sort of a thing in. I have been telling him——” He happened to glance up as he spoke and discovered to his great surprise that Caroline had turned away from him and was no longer looking at him. “Why, what’s the matter?” he exclaimed.
“Nothing, nothing,” answered the girl, forcing herself to face him once more.
“I thought you wanted to help me,” he continued.
“Oh, yes! I do, I do.”
“Well, you can’t help me way off there,” said Wilfred. “Come closer.”
He spoke like a soldier already, thought the girl, but she meekly, for her, obeyed the imperious command. He stared at her, as yet unconscious but strangely agitated nevertheless. The silence was soon insupportable, and Caroline herself broke it.
“The—the——” she pointed at the trousers, “are they how you wanted them?”
“Fine,” replied Wilfred; “they are just perfect. There isn’t a girl in Richmond who could have done them better. Now about the letter. I want your advice on it; what do you think?”
“Tell me what you said.”
“You want to hear it?” asked Wilfred.
“I’ve got to, haven’t I? How could I help you if I didn’t know what it was all about?”
“You’re a pretty good girl, Caroline. You will help me, won’t you?”
Her hand rested on the table as she bent over him, and he laid his own hand upon it and squeezed it warmly, too warmly thought Caroline, as she slowly drew it away and was sorry she did it the moment she had done so.
“Yes, I will help you,” she said. “But about the letter? You will have to hurry. I am sure your mother will be here in a short time.”
“Well, that letter is mighty important, you know. Everything depends upon it, much more than on mother’s letter, I am sure.”
“I should think so,” said the girl.
She drew a chair up to the table and sat down by the side of the boy.
“I am just going to give it to him strong,” said Wilfred.
“That’s the way to give it to him,” said Caroline. “He’s a soldier and he’s accustomed to such things.”
“You can’t fool much with father. He means business,” said Wilfred; “but he will find that I mean business, too.”
“That’s right,” assented Caroline sapiently, “everybody has got to mean business now. What did you say to him?”
“I said this,” answered the youngster, reading slowly and with great pride, “‘General Ransom Varney, Commanding Division, Army of Northern Virginia, Dear Papa’——”
“I wouldn’t say ‘dear papa’ to a General,” interrupted Caroline decisively.
“No? What would you say?”
“I would say ‘Sir,’ of course; that is much more businesslike and soldiers are always so awfully abrupt.”
“You are right,” said the boy, beginning again, “‘General Ransom Varney, Commanding Division, Army of Northern Virginia, Sir’—that sounds fine, doesn’t it?”
“Splendid,” said the girl, “go on.”
“‘This is to notify you that I want you to let me join the Army right now. If you don’t, I will enlist anyway, that’s all. The seventeen call is out and I am not going to wait for the sixteen. Do you think I am a damned coward’——”
Wilfred paused and looked apprehensively at Caroline, who nodded with eyes sparkling brightly.
“That’s fine,” she said.
“I thought it sounded like a soldier.”
“It does; you ought to have heard the Third Virginia swear——”
“Oh,” said Wilfred, who did not quite relish that experience; but he went on after a little pause. “‘Tom Kittridge has gone; he was killed yesterday at Cold Harbor. Billie Fisher has gone and so has Cousin Stephen. He is not sixteen, he lied about his age, but I don’t want to do that unless you make me. I will, though, if you do. Answer this right now or not at all.’”
“I think that is the finest letter I have ever heard,” said Caroline proudly, as Wilfred stopped, laid the paper down, and stared at her.
“Do you really think so?”
“It is the best letter I——”
“I am glad you are pleased with it. Now the next thing is how to end it.”
“Why, just end it.”
“But how?”
“Sign your name, of course.”
“Nothing else?”
“What else is there?”
“Just Wilfred?”
“No, Wilfred Varney.”
“That’s the thing.” He took up a pen from the table and scrawled his name at the bottom of this interesting and historical document. “And you think the rest of it will do?”
“I should think it would,” she assented heartily. “I wish your father had it now.”
“So do I,” said Wilfred. “Maybe it will take two or three days to get it to him and I just can’t wait that long.”
Caroline rose to her feet suddenly under the stimulus of a bright idea that came into her mind.
“I tell you what we can do.”
“What?”
“We can telegraph him,” she exclaimed.
“Good idea,” cried Wilfred, more and more impressed with Caroline’s wonderful resourcefulness, but a disquieting thought immediately struck him. “Where am I going to get the money?” he asked dubiously.
“It won’t take very much.”
“It won’t? Do you know what they are charging now? Over seven dollars a word only to Petersburg.”
“Well, let them charge it,” said Caroline calmly, “we can cut it down to only a few words and the address won’t cost anything.”
“Won’t it?”
“No, they never charge for that,” continued the girl. “That’s a heap of money saved, and then we can use what we save on the address for the rest.”
Wilfred stared at her as if this problem in economics was not quite clear to his youthful brain, but she gave him no time to question her ingenious calculations.
“What comes after the address?” she asked in her most businesslike manner.
“‘Sir.’”
“Leave that out.”
Wilfred swept his pen through it.
“He knows it already,” said Caroline. “What’s next?”
“‘This is to notify you that I want you to let me come right now.’”
“We could leave out that last ‘to,’” said Caroline.
Wilfred checked it off, and then read, “‘I want you—let me come right now.’ That doesn’t sound right, and anyway it is such a little word.”
“Yes, but it costs seven dollars just the same as a big word,” observed Caroline.
“But it doesn’t sound right without it,” argued the boy; “we have got to leave it in. What comes after that?”
Caroline in turn took up the note and read,
“‘If you don’t, I’ll come anyhow, that’s all.’”
“You might leave out ‘that’s all,’” said Wilfred.
“No, don’t leave that out. It’s very important. It doesn’t seem to be so important, but it is. It shows—well—it shows that that’s all there is about it. That one thing might convince him.”
“Yes, but we’ve got to leave out something.”
“Not that, though. Perhaps there is something else. ‘The seventeen call is out’—that’s got to stay.”
“Yes,” said Wilfred.
“‘The sixteen comes next.’ That’s just got to stay.”
“Of course. Now, what follows?”
“‘I’m not going to wait for it,’” read Caroline.
“We can’t cut that out,” said Wilfred; “we don’t seem to be making much progress, do we?”
“Well, we will find something in a moment. ‘Do you think I am’——” she hesitated a moment, “‘a damned coward,’” she read with a delicious thrill at her rash, vicarious wickedness.
Wilfred regarded her dubiously. He felt as an author does when he sees his pet periods marked out by the blue pencil of the ruthless editor.
“You might leave that out,” he began, cutting valiantly at his most cherished and admired phrase.
“No,” protested Caroline vehemently, “certainly not! That is the best thing in the whole letter.”
“That ‘damn’ is going to cost us seven dollars, you know.”
“It is worth it,” said Caroline, “it is the best thing you have written. Your father is a General in the army, he’ll understand that kind of language. What’s next? I know there’s something now.”
“‘Tom Kittridge has gone. He was killed yesterday at Cold Harbor.’”
“Leave out that about”—she caught her breath, and her eyes fixed themselves once more on that little round hole in the breast of his jacket—“about his being killed.”
“But he was killed and so was Johnny Sheldon—I have his uniform, you know.”
“I know he was, but you don’t have to tell your father,” said Caroline, choking up, “you don’t have to telegraph him the news, do you?”
“No, of course not, but——”
“That’s all there is to the letter except the end.”
“Why, that leaves it just the same except the part about——”
“Yes,” said Caroline in despair, “and after all the work we have done.”
“Let’s try it again,” said Wilfred.
“No,” said Caroline, “there is no use. Everything else has got to stay.”
“Well, then we can’t telegraph it. It would cost hundreds of dollars.”
“Yes, we can telegraph it,” said Caroline determinedly, “you give it to me. I’ll get it sent.”
“But how are you going to send it?” asked Wilfred, extending the letter.
“Never you mind,” answered the girl.
“See here!” the boy cried. “I am not going to have you spend your money, and——”
“There’s no danger of that, I haven’t any to spend.” She took the letter from his hand. “I reckon Douglass Foray’ll send it for me. He’s in the telegraph office and he’ll do most anything for me.”
“No,” said Wilfred sternly.
“What’s the reason he won’t?” asked the girl.
“Because he won’t.”
“What do you care so long as he sends it?”
“Well, I do care and that’s enough. I’m not going to have you making eyes at Dug Foray on my account.”
“Oh, well,” said the girl, blushing. “Of course if you feel that way about it, I——”
“That’s the way I feel all right. But you won’t give up the idea of helping me, will you, because I—feel like that?”
“No,” answered Caroline softly, “I’ll help you all I can—about that letter, do you mean?”
“Yes, about that letter and about other things, too.”
“Give it to me,” said the girl, “I will go over it again.”
She sat down at the desk, and as she scanned it, Wilfred watched her anxiously. To them Mrs. Varney entered. She had an open letter in one hand and a cap and belt in the other. She stopped in the doorway and motioned for some one in the hall to follow her, and an orderly entered the room. His uniform was covered with dust, his sunburned, grim face was covered with sweat and dust also. He stood in the doorway with the ease of a veteran soldier, that is without the painful effort to be precise or formal which marks the young aspirant for military honours.
“Wilfred,” said Mrs. Varney, quickly approaching him, “here is a letter from your father.” She extended the paper. “He sent it by his orderly.”
Wilfred stepped closer to the elder woman while Caroline slowly rose from her chair, her eyes fixed on Mrs. Varney.
“What does he say, mother?” asked Wilfred.
“He says——” answered his mother with measured quietness, and controlling herself with the greatest difficulty, “he tells me that—that you—are——” in spite of her tremendous effort, her voice failed her. “Read it yourself, my boy,” she whispered pitifully.
The letter was evidently exceedingly brief. A moment put Wilfred in possession of its contents. His mother stood with head averted. Caroline stared with trembling lips, a pale face, and a heaving bosom. It was to the orderly that Wilfred addressed himself.
“I am to go back with you?”
“General’s orders, sir,” answered the soldier, saluting, “to enter the service. God knows we need everybody now.”
“When do we start?” asked Wilfred eagerly, his face flushing as he realised that his fondest desire was now to be gratified.
“As soon as you are ready, sir. I am waiting.”
“I am ready now,” said Wilfred. He turned to his mother. “You won’t mind, mother,” he said, his own lips trembling a little for the first time at the sight of her grief.
Mrs. Varney shook her head. She stepped nearer to him, smoothed the hair back from his forehead, and stretched out her arms to him as if she fain would embrace him, but she controlled herself and handed him the cap and belt.
“Your brother,” she said slowly, “seems to be a little better. He wants you to take his cap and belt. I told him your father had sent for you, and I knew you would wish to go to the front at once.”
Wilfred took the belt from her trembling hands, and buckled it about him. His mother handed him the cap.
“Howard says he can get another belt when he wants it, and you are to have his blankets, too. I will go and get them.”
She turned and left the room. She was nearly at the end of her resisting power, and but for the welcome diversion incident to her departure, she could not have controlled herself longer. The last one! One taken, one trembling, and now Wilfred!
The boy entered into none of the emotions of his mother. He clapped the cap on his head and threw it back.
“Fits me just as if it were made for me,” he said, settling the cap firmly in place. “Orderly, I will be with you in a jiffy.”
Caroline stood still near the table, her eyes on the floor.
“We won’t have to send it now, will we?” he pointed to the letter.
Caroline, with a long, deep sigh, shook her head, and slowly handed the letter to him. Wilfred took it mechanically, his eyes fixed on the girl, who had suddenly grown very white of face, trembly of lip, and teary of eye-lashes.
“You are very good,” he said, tearing the letter into pieces, “to help me like you did.”
“It was nothing,” whispered the girl.
“You can help me again, if you want to.”
Caroline lifted her eyes to his face, and he saw within their depths that which encouraged him.
“I can fight twice as well, if——”
Poor little Caroline couldn’t trust herself to speak. She nodded through her tears.
“Good-bye,” said Wilfred, “you will write to me about helping me to fight twice as well, won’t you. You know what I mean?”
Caroline nodded again.
“I wouldn’t mind if you telegraphed me that you would.”
What might have happened further will never be determined, for at this juncture Mrs. Varney came back with an old faded blanket tied in a roll. She handed it to the boy without speaking. Wilfred threw it over his shoulder, and kissed his mother hurriedly.
“You won’t mind much, will you, mother. I will soon be back. Orderly!” he cried.
“Sir.”
“I am ready,” said Wilfred.
He threw one long, meaning look at Caroline, and followed the soldier out of the door and across the hall. The opening and closing of an outside door was heard, and then all was still. Mrs. Varney held her hand to her heart, and long, shuddering breaths came from her. He might soon be back, but how. She knew all about the famous injunction of the Spartan woman, “With your shield or on it,” but somehow she had had no idea of the full significance until it came to her last boy, and for a moment she was forgetful of poor, little Caroline until she saw the girl wavering toward the door, and there was no disguise about the real tears in her eyes now.
“Are you going, dear?” asked Mrs. Varney, forcing herself to speak.
Caroline nodded her head as before.
“Oh, yes,” continued the older woman, “your party, you have to be there.”
At that the girl found voice, and without looking back she murmured, “There won’t be any party to-night.”
Caroline’s departure was again interrupted by the inopportune reëntrance from the back hall of Mr. Arrelsford, who was accompanied by two soldiers, whom he directed to remain by the door. As he advanced rapidly toward Mrs. Varney, Caroline stepped aside toward the rear window.
“Is he——” began Arrelsford, turning toward the window, and starting back in surprise as he observed Caroline for the first time.
“Yes, he is there,” answered the woman.
“Oh, Mrs. Varney,” cried Caroline, “there’s a heap of soldiers out in your backyard here. You don’t reckon anything’s the matter, do you?”
The girl did not lower her voice, and was greatly surprised at the immediate order for silence which proceeded from Mr. Arrelsford, whose presence she acknowledged with a very cool, indifferent bow.
“No, there is nothing the matter, dear,” said Mrs. Varney. “Martha,” she said to the old servant who had come in response to her ring, “I want you to go home with Miss Mitford. You must not go alone, dear. Good-night.”
“Thank you very much, Mrs. Varney,” answered Caroline. “Come, Martha.” As she turned, she hesitated. “You don’t reckon she could go with me somewhere else, do you?”
“Why, where else do you want to go at this hour, my dear girl?” asked Mrs. Varney.
“Just to—to the telegraph office,” answered Caroline.
Mr. Arrelsford, who had been waiting with ill-concealed impatience during this dialogue, started violently.
“Now!” exclaimed Mrs. Varney in great surprise, not noticing the actions of her latest guest. “At this time of night?”
“Yes,” answered Caroline, “it is on very important business, and—I——”
“Oh,” returned Mrs. Varney, “if that is the case, Martha must go with you.”
“You know we haven’t a single servant left at our house,” Caroline said in explanation of her request.
“I know,” said Mrs. Varney, “and, Martha, don’t leave her for an instant.”
“No’m,” answered Martha, “Ah’ll take ca’ ob huh.”
As soon as she had left the room, passing between the two soldiers, Arrelsford took up the conversation. He spoke quickly and in a sharp voice. He was evidently greatly excited.
“What is she going to do at the telegraph office?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” answered the woman.
“Has she had any conversation with him?” said Arrelsford, pointing to the front of the house.
“They were talking together in this room early this evening before you came the first time, but it isn’t possible she could——”
“Anything is possible,” snapped Arrelsford impatiently. He was evidently determined to suspect everybody, and leave no stone unturned to prevent the failure of his plans. “Corporal,” he cried, “have Eddinger follow that girl. He must get to the telegraph office as soon as she does, and don’t let any despatch she tries to send get out before I see it. Let her give it in, but hold it. Make no mistake about that. Get an order from the department for you to bring it to me.” As the Corporal saluted and turned away to give the order, Arrelsford faced Mrs. Varney again. “Are they both out there?”
“Yes,” answered the woman. “Did you bring the man from Libby Prison?”
“I did, the guards have him out in the street on the other side of the house. When we get Thorne in here alone I’ll have him brought over to that back window and shoved into the room.”
“And where shall I stay?”
“Out there,” said Arrelsford, “by the lower door, opening upon the back hall. You can get a good view of everything from there.”
“But if he sees me?”
“He won’t see you if it is dark in the hall.” He turned to the Corporal who had reëntered and resumed his station. “Turn out those lights out there,” he said. “We can close these curtains, can’t we?”
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Varney, opening the rear door and drawing the heavy portières, but leaving space between them so that any one in the dark hall could see through them but not be seen from the room.
“I don’t want too much light in here, either,” said Arrelsford. As he spoke he blew out the candles in the two candelabra which had been placed on the different tables, and left the large, long room but dimly illuminated by the candles in the sconces on the walls.
Mrs. Varney watched him with fascinated awe. In spite of herself there still lingered a hope that Arrelsford might be mistaken. Thorne had enlisted her interest, and he might under other conditions have aroused her matronly affections, and she was hoping against hope that he might yet prove himself innocent, not only because of his personality but as well because the thought that she might have entertained a spy was repugnant to her, and because of the honour of the Dumont family, which was one of the oldest and most important ones in the western hills of the Old Dominion.
Arrelsford meantime completed his preparations by moving the couch which Caroline Mitford had placed before the window back to the wall.
“Now, Mrs. Varney,” he said, stepping far back out of sight of the window, “will you open the curtains? Do it casually, carelessly, please, so as not to awaken any suspicion if you are seen.”
“But your soldiers, won’t they——”
“They are all at the back of the house. They came in the back way, and the field in front is absolutely clear, although I have men concealed in the street to stop any one who may attempt to escape that way.”
Mrs. Varney walked over to the window and drew back the curtains. She stood for a moment looking out into the clear, peaceful quietness of a soft spring night. The moon was full, and being somewhat low shone through the long windows and into the room, the candle light not being bright enough to dim its radiance. Her task being completed, she turned, and once more the man who was in command pointed across the hall toward the room on the other side.
“Are those women in there yet?” he asked peremptorily.
“Yes.”
“Where is the key?”
Mrs. Varney left the room and went to the door.
“It is on this side,” she said.
“Will you lock it, please?”
The woman softly turned the key in the lock, and returned to the drawing-room without a sound. As she did so the noise of the opening of one of the long French windows in the front of the room attracted the attention of both of them. Edith Varney entered the room nervously and stepped forward. She began breathlessly, in a low, feverishly excited voice.
“Mamma!”
Mrs. Varney hurried toward her and caught her outstretched hand.
“I want to speak to you,” whispered the girl.
“We can’t wait,” said Arrelsford, stepping forward.
“You must,” persisted the girl. She turned to her mother again, “I can’t do it, I can’t! Oh, let me go!”
“But, my dear,” said her mother, “you were the one who suggested that——”
“But I was sure then, and now——”
“Has he confessed?” asked Mrs. Varney.
“No, no,” answered the girl with a glance of fear and apprehension toward Arrelsford, who stood staring menacingly at her elbow.
“Don’t speak so loud,” whispered the Secret Service Agent.
“Edith,” said her mother soothingly, “what is it that has changed you?”
She waited for an answer, but none came. The girl’s face had been very pale but it now flushed suddenly with colour.
“Dear,” said her mother, “you must tell me.”
Edith motioned Mr. Arrelsford away. He went with ill-concealed impatience to the far side of the room and waited nervously to give the signal, anxious lest something should miscarry because of this unfortunate unwillingness of the girl to play her part.
“What is it, dear?” whispered her mother.
“Mamma,” said Edith, she forced the words out, “he—he—loves me.”
“Impossible!” returned Mrs. Varney, controlling her voice so that the other occupant of the room could not hear.
“Yes,” faltered the girl, “and I—some one else must do it.”
“You don’t mean,” said Mrs. Varney, “that you return——”
But Mr. Arrelsford’s patience had been strained to the breaking point. He did not know what interchange was going on between the two women, but it must be stopped. He came forward resolutely. The girl saw his determination in his face.
“No, no,” she whispered, “not that, not now!”
She shrank away from him as she spoke.
“But, Edith,” said Mrs. Varney, “more reason now than ever.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Mr. Arrelsford, “but we must go on.”
“But why—why are you doing this?” asked Edith, pleading desperately.
“Because I please,” snapped out the Secret Service Agent, and it was quite evident that he was pleased. Some of his satisfaction was due to the fact that he had by his own efforts at last succeeded in unearthing a desperate plot, and had his hands on the plotters. That he was thereby serving his country and demonstrating his fitness for his position of responsibility and trust also added to his satisfaction, but this was greatly enhanced by the fact that Thorne was his rival, and he could make a guess that he was a successful rival in love as well as in war.
“You have never pleased before,” persisted Edith. “Hundreds of suspicious cases have come up—hundreds of men have been run down—but you preferred to sit at your desk in the War Department, until——”
“Edith! Edith!” interposed her mother.
“I can’t discuss that now,” said Arrelsford.
“No, we will not discuss it. I will have nothing more to do with the affair.”
“You won’t,” whispered Arrelsford threateningly.
“Don’t say that,” urged Mrs. Varney.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” said Edith.
“At your own suggestion, Miss Varney,” persisted the Secret Service Agent vehemently, “I agreed to accept a plan by which we could criminate this friend of yours or establish his innocence. When everything is ready you propose to withdraw and make the experiment a failure, perhaps allowing him to escape altogether and being a party to treason against your own country.”
Edith looked from Arrelsford’s set face, with his bitter words, the truth of which she was too just not to acknowledge, ringing in her ears, to the face of her mother. It was a sweet face, full of sympathy and love, but it was set in the same way as the man’s. The patriotism of the woman was aroused. The kind of help that Edith wanted in her mother’s look she did not find there.
“You mustn’t do this, Edith; you must do your part,” said Mrs. Varney.
The resolution of the girl gave way.
“He is there,” she faltered piteously, “he is there at the further end of the veranda. What more do you want of me?” Her voice rose in spite of her efforts to control herself.
“Call him to the room, and do it naturally. If any one else should do it he would suspect something immediately and be on his guard.”
“Very well,” said the girl helplessly. “I will call him.”
She turned toward the window.
“Wait,” said Arrelsford, “one thing more. I want him to have this paper.” He handed Edith the communication which had been taken from Jonas earlier in the evening.
“What am I to do with this?” asked the girl, taking it.
“Give it to him, and tell him where it came from. Tell him old Jonas got it from a prisoner at Libby Prison and brought it to you.”
“But why am I to do this?” asked the girl.
“Why not? If he is innocent, what’s the harm? If not, if he is in the plot and we can’t catch him otherwise, the message on the paper will send him to the telegraph office to-night, and that’s where we want him.”
“But I never promised that,” said the girl with obvious reluctance to do anything not only that might tend to harm the suspected, but that might work to the furtherance of Arrelsford’s designs.
“Do you still believe him innocent?” sneered the man.
Edith lifted her head and for the first time she looked Arrelsford full in the face.
“I still believe him innocent,” answered the girl, slowly and with deliberate emphasis.
“Then why are you afraid to give him the paper?” asked Arrelsford, directly with cunning adroitness.
The girl, thus entrapped, clasped the paper to her breast, and turned toward the window. Her mind was made up, but it was not necessary for her to call. Her ear, tuned to every sound he made, caught the noise of his footfall on the porch. She turned her head and spoke to the other two.
“Captain Thorne is coming,” she whispered expressionlessly, “unless you want to be seen, you had better go.”
“Here, this way, Mrs. Varney,” said Arrelsford, taking that lady by the arm and going down to the far end to the door covered by the portières.
The two disappeared, and it was impossible for a soul to see them in the darkness of the hall, although they could see clearly enough, even in the dimly lighted drawing-room, everything that would happen. Edith stood as if rooted to the floor, the paper still in her hand, when Thorne opened the sash which she had closed behind her and entered in his turn the window through which she had come a short time before. He stepped eagerly toward her.
“You were so long,” he whispered, “coming for me, that——” He stopped abruptly, and looked at her face, “is anything the matter?”
“No.”
“You had been away such a long time that I thought——”
“Only a few minutes.”
“Only a few years,” said the man passionately. His voice was low and gently modulated, not because he had anything to conceal but because of the softness of the moonlight and the few candles dimly flickering upon the walls of the great room, the look in the girl’s eyes, and the feeling in his heart. A few minutes, the girl had said!—Ah, it was indeed a few years to him.
“If it was a few years to you,” returned the girl with a violent effort at lightness, although her heart was torn to pieces with the emotions of the moment, “what a lot of time there is.”
“No,” said Thorne, “there is only to-night.”
Edith threw out her hand to check what she would fain have heard, but Thorne caught it. He came closer to her.
“There’s only to-night, and you in the world,” he said.
“You overwhelm me.”
“I can’t help myself. I came here determined not to tell you how I loved you, and for the last half hour I have been telling you nothing else. I could tell you all my life and never finish. Ah, my darling, my darling,—there’s only to-night and you.”
Edith swayed toward him for a moment, completely influenced by his ardour, but then drew back.
“No, no,” she faltered. “You mustn’t.” She glanced around the room apprehensively. “No, no, not now!”
“You are right,” said the man. She dragged herself away from him. He would not retain her against her will, and without a struggle he released her hand. “You are right. Don’t mind what I said, Miss Varney. I have forgotten myself, believe me.” He drew further away from her. “I came to make a brief call, to say good-bye, and——”
He turned and walked toward the hall door, after making her a low bow, and it was not without a feeling of joy that she noticed that he walked unsteadily, blindly.
“Oh, Captain Thorne,” she said, just as he had reached the door, “I——”
He stopped and looked back.
“Before you go I want to ask your advice about something.”
“My advice!”
“Yes, it seems to be a military matter, and——”
“What is it?” asked Thorne, turning back.
“What do you think this means?” said the girl, handing him the folded despatch.
She had intended to look him full in the face as he took it, but at the last moment her courage failed her. She looked away and did not see the instant but quickly mastered start of surprise. She was only conscious that Thorne had possessed himself of the document.
“What is it?” asked Thorne, holding it in his hand.
“That is what I want you to tell me,” said the girl.
“Oh, don’t you know?” said Thorne, now entirely master of himself.
“No,” answered the girl, but there was something in her voice which now fully aroused the suspicions of the man.
“It appears to be a note from some one,” he said casually, “but it is so dark in here. With your permission, I will light some of the candles on the table, and then we can see what it is.”
He took one of the candles from the sconces on the wall and lighted the candelabra that stood on the nearest table. Holding the paper near the light, he glanced around rapidly, and then read it, giving no outward evidence of his surprise and alarm, although the girl was now watching him narrowly. He glanced at her and then looked at the paper again, and slowly read aloud its message.
“‘Attack to-night?’” he said very deliberately. “Umph, ‘Plan 3? Attack to-night, plan 3!’ This seems to be in some code, Miss Varney, or a puzzle.”
“It was taken from a Yankee prisoner.”
“From a Yankee prisoner!” he exclaimed in brilliantly assumed surprise.
“Yes, one captured to-day. He is down at Libby now. He gave it to one of our servants, old Jonas, and——”
“That’s a little different,” said Thorne, examining the paper again. “It puts another face on the matter. This may be something important. ‘Attack to-night,’” he read again, “‘Plan 3, use telegraph’!This sounds important to me, Miss Varney. It looks to me like a plot to use the Department Telegraph lines. To whom did Jonas give it?”
“To no one.”
“Well, how did you——”
“We took it away from him,” answered Edith.
This was a very different statement from her original intention, but for the moment the girl forgot her part.
“Oh,” said Thorne, “I think that was a mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“You should have let him deliver it, but it is too late now. Never mind.” He turned toward the door.
Edith caught him by the arm. Was he going out to certain death or what?
“What are you going to do?” she asked breathlessly.
“Find Jonas, and make him tell for whom this paper was intended. He is the man we want.”
The girl released him, and caught her throat with her hand.
“Captain Thorne,” she choked out, and there was joy and triumph in her face, “they have lied about you.”
Thorne turned to her quickly.
“Lied about me!” he exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
He caught the girl’s hands in his and bent over her.
“Don’t be angry,” pleaded Edith, “I didn’t think it would be like this.”
“Yes, yes, but what do you mean?”
Edith sought to draw her hands away from him, but Thorne would not be denied.
“I must know,” he said.
“Let me go,” pleaded the girl, “don’t you understand——”
But what she might have said further was interrupted by the sharp, stern voice of the Corporal outside. He spoke loud and clearly, there was no necessity for precaution now.
“This way! Look out for that side, will you?”
Thorne released the hands of the woman he loved and stood listening. Edith Varney took advantage of such a diversion to dart through the upper door, the nearer one, into the hall.
“I don’t want to be here now,” she said, as she flew away.
Thorne’s hand went to his revolver which hung at his belt. He had not time to draw it before the Corporal and the two men burst through the door. There were evidently others outside. Thorne’s hand fell away from his revolver, and his position was one of charming nonchalance.
“Out here!” cried the Corporal to one of the soldiers. “Look out there!” pointing to the doorway through which the two men instantly disappeared.
“What is it, Corporal?” asked Thorne composedly.
The Corporal turned and saluted.
“Prisoner, sir, broke out of Libby! We’ve run him down the street, and he turned in here somewhere. If he comes in that way, would you be good enough to let us know?”
“Go on, Corporal,” said Thorne coolly. “I’ll look out for this window.”
He stepped down the long room toward the far window, drew the curtains, and with his hand on his revolver, peered out into the trees beyond the front of the house.
A glance through the window showed Captain Thorne that the yard beyond, which had been empty all evening, was now full of armed men. The Corporal had gone out through the hall door back of the house whence he had entered. There was no doubt but that the back windows would be equally well guarded. The house was surrounded, no escape was possible. He was trapped, virtually a prisoner, although for the time being, they had left him a certain liberty—the liberty of that one large room! It was quite evident to him that he was the object of their suspicions, and he more than feared that his real affiliations had been at last discovered.
Apparently, there would be no opportunity now in which he could carry out his part in the cunningly devised scheme of attack. “Plan 3” would inevitably result in failure, as so many previous plans had resulted, because he would not be able to send the orders that would weaken the position. The best he could hope for, in all probability, was the short shrift of a spy. He had staked his life on the game and it appeared that he had lost.
Nay, more than life had been wagered, honour. He knew the contempt in which the spy was held; he knew that even the gallantry and intrepidity of André and Hale had not saved them from opprobrium and disgrace.
And there was even more than honour upon the board. His love! Not the remotest idea of succumbing to the attractions of Edith Varney ever entered his head when he attempted the desperate, the fatal rôle. At first he had regarded the Varney house and herself as a chessboard and a pawn in the game. The strength of character which had enabled him to assume the unenviable part he played, because of his country’s need, for his country’s good, and which would have carried him through the obloquy and scorn that were sure to be visited upon him—with death at the end!—did not stand him in good stead when it came to thoughts of her. Until he yielded to his passion, and broke his self-imposed vow of silence, he had fought a good fight. Now he realised that the woman who should accept his affections would compromise herself forever in the eyes of everything she held dear, even if he succeeded and lived, which was unlikely.
He had never, so he fancied, in the least and remotest way given her any evidence that he loved her. In reality, she had read him like an open book, as women always do. He had come there that night to get the message from Jonas, and then to bid her good-bye forever, without disclosing the state of his affections. If he succeeded in manipulating the telegraph and carrying out his end of the project, he could see no chance of escape. Ultimate detection and execution appeared certain, and any avowal would therefore be useless. But he had counted without her. She had shown her feelings, and he had fallen. To the temptation of her presence and her artless disclosure, he had not been able to make adequate resistance.
He was the last man on earth to blame her or to reproach her for that; but the fierce, impetuous temperament of the man was overwhelming when it once broke loose, and he felt that he must tell her or die.
Because of his iron self-repression for so long he was the less able to stand the pressure in the end. He had thrown everything to the winds, and had told her how he loved her.
Out there in the moonlight in the rose arbour, the scent of the flowers, the southern night wind, the proximity of the girl, her eyes shining like stars out of the shadows in which they stood, the pallor of her face, the rise and fall of her bosom, the fluttering of her hand as unwittingly or wittingly, who knows, she touched him, had intoxicated him, and his love and passion had broken all bounds, and he had spoken to her and she had answered. She loved him. What did that mean to him now?
Sometimes woman’s love makes duty easy, sometimes it makes it hard. Sometimes it is the crown which victors wear, and sometimes it is the pall that overshadows defeat.
What Edith Varney knew or suspected concerning him, he could not tell. That she knew something, that she suspected something, had been evident, but whatever her knowledge and suspicion, they were not sufficiently powerful or telling to prevent her from returning love for love, kiss for kiss. But did she love him in spite of her knowledge and suspicion? The problem was too great for his solution then.
These things passed through his mind as he stood there by the window, with his hand on his revolver, waiting. It was all he could do. Sometimes even to the most fiery and the most alert of soldiers comes the conviction that there is nothing to do but wait. And if he thinks of it, he will sympathise with the women who are left behind in times of war, who have little to do but wait.
The room had suddenly become his world, the walls his horizon, the ceiling his sky. At any exit he would find the way barred. Why had they left him in the room, free, armed, his revolver in his hand?
None but the bravest would have entered upon such a career as he had chosen. His nerves were like steel in the presence of danger. He had trembled before the woman in the garden a moment since; the stone walls of the house were no more rigidly composed than he in the drawing-room now. It came to him that there was nothing left but one great battle in that room unless they shot him from behind door or window or portière, giving him no chance. If they did confront him openly he would show them that if he had chosen the Secret Service and the life of a spy he could fight and die like a man and a soldier. He held some lives within the chamber of his revolver, and they should pay did they give him but a chance.
Indeed, they were already giving him a chance, he thought to himself as he waited and listened. He was utterly unable to divine why he was at liberty in the room, and why he was left alone, or what was toward.
In the very midst of these crowding and tumultuous thoughts which ran through his mind in far, far less time than it has taken to record them, he heard a noise at the window at the farther side of the room, as if some one fumbled at the catch. Instantly Thorne shrank back behind the portières of the window he was guarding, not completely concealing himself but sufficiently hid as to be unobserved except by careful scrutiny in the dim light. Once more he clutched the butt of his revolver swinging at his waist. He bent his body slightly, and even the thought of Edith Varney passed from his mind. He stood ready, powerful, concentrated, determined, confronting an almost certain enemy with the fierce heart and envenomed glance of the fighter at bay.
He had scarcely assumed this position when the window was opened, and a man was thrust violently through into the room. At the first glance, Thorne as yet unseen, recognised the newcomer as his elder brother, Henry Dumont. Unlike the two famous brothers of the parable, these two loved each other.
Thorne’s muscles relaxed, his hand still clutched the butt of his revolver, he was still alert, but here was not an enemy. He began at once to fathom something at least of the plan and the purpose of the people who had trapped him. In a flash he perceived that his enemies were not yet in possession of all the facts which would warrant them in laying hands upon him. He was suspected, but the final evidence upon which to turn suspicion into certainty was evidently lacking. He could feel, although he could not see them, that every door and window had eyes, solely for him, and that he was closely watched for some false move which would betray him. The plan for which he had ventured so much was still possible; he had not yet failed. His heart leaped in his breast. The clouds around his horizon lifted a little. There was yet a possibility that he could succeed, that he could carry out his part of the cunningly devised and desperate undertaking, the series of events of which this night and the telegraph office were to be the culmination.
A less cautious and a less resourceful man might have evinced some emotion, might have gone forward or spoken to the newcomer, would have at least done something to have attracted his attention, but save for that relaxation of the tension, which no one could by any possibility observe, Thorne stood motionless, silent, waiting; just as he might have stood and waited had he been what he seemed and had the newcomer been utterly unknown and indifferent to him.
His brother was dressed in the blue uniform of the United States; like the others it had seen good service, but as Thorne glanced from his own clothes to those of his brother, the blood came to his face, it was like seeing his own flag again. For a fleeting moment he wished that he had on his own rightful uniform himself and that he had never put it off for anything; but duty is not made up of wishes, gratified or ungratified, and the thought passed as he watched the other man.
Henry Dumont had been thrust violently into the room by the soldiers outside. He had been captured, as Arrelsford had said, earlier in the day; he had allowed himself to be taken. He had been thrust into Libby Prison with dozens of prisoners taken in the same sortie. He had not been searched, but then none of the others had been; had he been selected for that unwonted immunity alone it would have awakened his suspicions, but the Confederates had made a show of great haste in disposing of their prisoners, and had promised to search them in the morning. Therefore, Henry Dumont had retained the paper which later he had given Jonas, when by previous arrangement he made his daily visit to the prison.
He had been greatly surprised, when about a quarter to nine o’clock, a squad of soldiers had taken him from the prison, had marched him hurriedly through the streets with which he was entirely unfamiliar, and had taken him to the residence section of the city, and had halted at the back of a big house. He had asked no questions, and no explanations had been vouchsafed to him. He was more surprised than ever when he was taken up to the porch, the window was opened, and he was thrust violently into a room, so violently that he staggered and had some difficulty in recovering his balance.
He made a quick inspection of the room. Thorne, in the deeper shadows at the farther end of the room was invisible to him. He stood motionless save for the turning of his head as he looked around him. He moved a few steps toward the end of the room, opposite his entrance, passed by the far door opening into the back hall which was covered with portières, and went swiftly toward the near door into the front hall. The door was slightly ajar, and as he came within range of the opening he saw in the shadows of the hall, crossed bayonets and men. No escape that way!
He went on past the door toward the large windows at the front of the house and in another moment would have been at the front window where Thorne stood. The latter dropped the curtain and stepped out into the room.
For the thousandth part of a second the two brothers stared at each other, and then in a fiercely intense voice, Thorne, playing his part, desperately called out:
“Halt! You are a prisoner!”
Both brothers were quick witted, both knew that they were under the closest observation, both realised that they were expected to betray relationship, which would incriminate both, and probably result fatally for one and certainly ruin the plan. Thorne’s cue was to regard his brother as the prisoner whom it was important to arrest, and Dumont’s cue was to regard his brother as an enemy with whom it was his duty to struggle. The minds of the two were made up instantly. With a quick movement Dumont sought to pass his brother, but with a movement equally as rapid, Thorne leaped upon him, shouting again:
“Halt, I say!”
The two men instantly grappled. It was no mimic struggle that they engaged in, either. They were of about equal height and weight, if anything Thorne was the stronger, but this advantage was offset by the fact that he had been recently ill, and the two fought therefore on equal terms at first. It was a fierce, desperate grapple in which they met. As they struggled violently, both by a common impulse, reeled toward that part of the room near the mantel which was farthest away from doors or windows, and where they would be the least likely to be overheard or to be more closely observed. As they fought together, Thorne called out again:
“Corporal of the Guard, here is your man! Corporal of the Guard, what are you doing?”
At that instant the two reeling bodies struck the wall next to the mantel with a fearful smash, and a chair that stood by was overturned by a quick movement on the part of Henry Dumont, who did not know his brother had already received the important message. In the confusion of the moment, he hissed in Thorne’s ear:
“Attack to-night, plan 3, use telegraph!Did you get that?”
“Yes,” returned Thorne, still keeping up the struggle.
“Good,” said Dumont. “They are watching us. Shoot me in the leg.”
“No, I can’t do it,” whispered Thorne.
All the while the two men were reeling and staggering and struggling against the wall and furniture. The encounter would have deceived the most suspicious.
“Shoot, shoot,” said the elder.
“I can’t shoot my own brother,” the younger panted out.
“It is the only way to throw them off the scent,” persisted Dumont.
“I won’t do it,” answered Thorne, and then he shouted again:
“Corporal of the Guard, I have your prisoner!”
“Let me go, damn you!” roared Dumont furiously, making another desperate effort,—“if you don’t do it, I will,” he added under his breath. “Give me the revolver!”