Secret Service
“And has the surgeon seen him this evening?”
“Not to-night.”
“Why not!” exclaimed Miss Kittridge in great surprise. “Surely his condition is sufficiently critical to demand more than one brief visit in the morning.”
“I can’t ask him to come twice with so many waiting for him,” said Mrs. Varney.
“But they would not refuse you, Mrs. Varney,” said Miss Kittridge quickly. “There’s that man going back to the hospital, he’s in the dining-room yet. I’ll call him and send word that – ”
She started impulsively toward the door, but Mrs. Varney caught her by the arm.
“No,” she said firmly; “I can’t let you.”
“Not for your own son?”
“I am thinking of the sons of other mothers. The surgeon has done all that he can for him. And think how many other sons would have to be neglected if he visited mine twice. He will come again to-morrow.”
The second woman stood looking at her in mingled sympathy and amazement, and there was a touch of pride in her glance, too. She was proud of her sex, and she had a right to be there in Richmond that spring, if ever.
“I understand,” said Miss Kittridge at last. “I suppose you are right.”
They stared at each other, white-faced, a moment, when there entered to them youth and beauty incarnate. There was enough resemblance between the pale, white-haired mother and the girlish figure in the doorway to proclaim their relationship. The girl’s cheek had lost some of its bloom and some of its roundness. There was too much that was appalling and fearful in and about Richmond then not to leave its mark even upon the most youthful and the most buoyant, yet things did not come home to the young as they did to those older. She was still a lovely picture, especially in the soft radiance of the candles. She carried her hat in her hand. The flowers upon it were assuredly those of yester-year, it would not have passed muster as the mode anywhere except in besieged Richmond; and her dress, although it fitted her perfectly, was worn and faded and had been turned and patched and altered until it was quite beyond further change, yet she wore it as airily as if it had been tissue of silver or cloth of gold.
The mother’s face brightened.
“Edith dear,” she exclaimed, “how late you are! It is after eight o’clock. You must be tired out.”
“I am not tired at all,” answered the girl cheerily. “I have not been at the hospital all afternoon; this is my day off. How is Howard?”
“I wish I could say just the same, but he seems a little worse.”
The girl’s face went suddenly grave. She stepped over to her mother, took her hand and patted it softly.
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“My dear,” said her mother, “Howard – we – are all in God’s hands.”
She drew a long breath and lifted her head bravely.
“Miss Kittridge,” said the girl, “I have something very important to tell mother, and – ”
Miss Kittridge smiled back at her.
“I am going right away, honey. There is lots of work for us to do and – ”
“You don’t mind, I hope,” said Edith Varney, calling after her as she went into the hall.
“No, indeed,” was the reply.
Mrs. Varney sat down wearily by the table, and Edith pulled up a low stool and sat at her feet.
“Well, my dear?”
“Mamma – what do you think? What do you think?”
“I think a great many things,” said Mrs. Varney, “but – ”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t ever think of this.”
“Certainly I shall not, unless you tell me.”
“Well, I have been to see the President.”
“The President – Mr. Davis!”
“Yes.”
“And what did you go to see the President for?”
“I asked him for an appointment for Captain Thorne.”
“For Captain Thorne! My dear – ”
“Yes, mother, for the War Department Telegraph Service. And he gave it to me, a special commission. He gave it to me for father’s sake and for Captain Thorne’s sake, – he has met him and likes him, – and for my own.”
“What sort of an appointment?”
“Appointing him to duty here in Richmond, a very important position. He won’t be sent to the front, and he will be doing his duty just the same.”
“But, Edith, you don’t – you can’t – ”
“Yes, it will, mother. The President, – I just love him, – told me they needed a man who understood telegraphing and who was of high enough rank to take charge of the service. As you know, most of the telegraph operators are privates, and Captain Thorne is an expert. Since he’s been here in Richmond he’s helped them in the telegraph office often. Lieutenant Foray told me so.”
Mrs. Varney rose and moved away. Edith followed her.
“Now, mamma!” she exclaimed; “I feel you are going to scold me, and you must not, because it’s all fixed and the commission will be sent over here in a few minutes – just as soon as it can be made out – and when it comes I am going to give it to him myself.”
Mrs. Varney moved over toward the table and lifted a piece of paper, evidently a note.
“He is coming this evening,” she said.
“How do you know?” asked her daughter.
“Well, for one thing,” said her mother, “I can remember very few evenings when he hasn’t been here since he was able to walk out of the hospital.”
“Mamma!”
“And for another thing, this note came about half an hour ago.”
“Is it for me?”
“For me, my dear, else I shouldn’t have opened it. You can read it, if you like.”
“Has it been here all this time?” exclaimed Edith jealously.
“All this time. You will see what he says. This will be his last call; he has his orders to leave.”
“Why, it’s too ridiculous!” said the girl; “just as if the commission from the President wouldn’t supersede everything else. It puts him at the head of the Telegraph Service. He will be in command of the Department. He says it is a good-bye call, does he?” She looked at the note again and laughed, “All the better, it will be that much more of a surprise. Now, mamma, don’t you breathe a word about it, I want to tell him myself.”
“But, Edith dear – I am sorry to criticise you – but I don’t at all approve of your going to the President about this. It doesn’t seem quite the proper thing for a young lady to interest herself so far – ”
“But listen, mamma,” and as she spoke the light went out of Miss Edith’s face at her mother’s grave and somewhat reproving aspect. “I couldn’t go to the War Department people. Mr. Arrelsford is there in one of the offices, and ever since I – I refused him, you know how he has treated me! If I had applied for anything there, it would have been refused at once, and he would have got them to order Captain Thorne away right off. I know he would – why, that is where his orders came from!”
“But, my dear – ”
“That is where they came from. Isn’t it lucky I got that commission to-day. There’s the bell; I wonder who it can be?” She stopped and listened while the door opened and Jonas, the butler, entered. “Is it Captain Thorne?” asked Edith eagerly.
“No, ma’am.”
“Oh!”
“It’s another offisuh, ma’am. He says he’s fum de President an’ he’s got to see Miss Edith pussonally.”
Jonas extended a card which, as he spoke, Edith took and glanced at indifferently.
“Lieutenant Maxwell,” she read.
“Ask the gentleman in, Jonas,” said Mrs. Varney.
“It’s come,” whispered Edith to her mother.
“Do you know who he is?”
“No – but he’s from the President – it must be that commission.”
At this moment old Jonas ushered into the drawing-room a very dashing young officer, handsome in face, gallant in bearing, and dressed in a showy and perfectly fitting uniform, which was quite a contrast to the worn habiliments of the men at the front. Mrs. Varney stepped forward a little, and Lieutenant Maxwell bowed low before her.
“Good-evening, ma’am. Have I the honour of addressing Miss Varney?”
“I am Mrs. Varney, sir.”
“Madam,” said the Lieutenant, “I am very much afraid this looks like an intrusion on my part, but I come from the President, and he desires me to see Miss Varney personally.”
“Any one from the President could not be otherwise than welcome, sir. This is my daughter. Edith, let me present Lieutenant Maxwell.”
The young Lieutenant, greatly impressed, bowed profoundly before her, and taking a large brown envelope from his belt, handed it to her.
“Miss Varney,” he said, “the President directed me to deliver this into your hands, with his compliments. He is glad to be able to do this, he says, not only at your request, but because of your father and for the merits of the gentleman in question.”
“Oh, thank you,” cried the girl, taking the envelope.
“Won’t you be seated, Lieutenant Maxwell?” said Mrs. Varney.
“Yes, do,” urged the girl, holding the envelope pressed very tightly to her side.
“Nothing would please me so much, ladies,” answered the Lieutenant, “but I must go back to the President’s house right away. I’m on duty this evening. Would you mind writing me off a line or two, Miss Varney, just to say you have received the communication?”
“Why, certainly, you want a receipt. I’ll go upstairs to my desk; it won’t take a moment. And could I put in how much I thank him for his kindness?”
“I am sure he would be more than, pleased,” smiled Lieutenant Maxwell, as Edith left the room and hastened up the stairs.
“We haven’t heard so much cannonading to-day, Lieutenant,” said Mrs. Varney. “Do you know what it means?”
“I don’t think they are quite positive, ma’am, but they can’t help looking for a violent attack to follow.”
“I don’t see why it should quiet down before an assault.”
“Well, there is always a calm before a storm,” said the Lieutenant. “It might be some signal, or it might be they are moving their batteries to open on some special point of attack. They are trying every way to break through our defences, you know.”
“It’s very discouraging. We can’t seem to drive them back this time.”
“We’re holding them where they are, though,” said Maxwell proudly. “They’ll never get in unless they do it by some scurvy trick; that’s where the danger lies. We are always looking out for it, and – ”
At this moment Edith Varney reëntered the room. She had left her hat upstairs with the official-looking envelope, and had taken time to glance at a mirror and then to thrust a red rose in her dark hair. The impressionable young Lieutenant thought she looked prettier than ever.
“Lieutenant Maxwell,” she said, extending a folded paper, “here is your receipt – ”
The butler’s words to some one in the hall interrupted her further speech.
“Will you jes’ kin’ly step dis way, suh!” she heard Jonas say, and as Edith turned she found herself face to face with Captain Thorne!
CHAPTER III
ORDERS TO CAPTAIN THORNE
On the sleeves of Captain Thorne’s coat the insignia of a Captain of Confederate Artillery were displayed; his uniform was worn, soiled, and ill-fitting, giving honourable evidence of hard service; his face was pale and thin and showed signs of recent illness, from which he had scarcely recovered. In every particular he was a marked contrast to Lieutenant Maxwell.
“Miss Varney,” he said, bowing low.
“We were expecting you,” answered Edith, giving her hand to Thorne. “Here’s Captain Thorne, mamma!”
Mrs. Varney shook hands with him graciously while her daughter turned once more to the other man, with the acknowledgment of the order, which she handed to him.
“I wasn’t so very long writing it, was I, Lieutenant Maxwell?” she asked.
“I’ve never seen a quicker piece of work, Miss Varney,” returned that young man, putting the note in his belt and smiling as he did so. “When you want a clerkship over at the Government offices, you must surely let me know.”
“You would better not commit yourself,” said Edith jestingly; “I might take you at your word.”
“Nothing would please me more,” was the prompt answer. “All you have got to do is just apply, and refer to me, of course.”
“Lots of the other girls are doing it,” continued Edith half-seriously. “They have to live. Aren’t there a good many where you are?”
“Well, we don’t have so many as they do over at the Treasury. I believe there are more ladies over there than men. And now I must go.”
“A moment,” said Mrs. Varney, coming forward with Thorne. “Do you gentlemen know each other?”
Captain Thorne shook his head and stepped forward, looking intently at the other.
“Let me have the pleasure of making you acquainted, then. Captain Thorne – Lieutenant Maxwell.”
Thorne slowly inclined his head. Maxwell also bowed.
“I have not had the pleasure of meeting Captain Thorne before, although I have heard of him a great many times,” he said courteously.
“Yes?” answered the other, who seemed to be a man of few words.
“In fact, Captain, there is a gentleman in one of our offices who seems mighty anxious to pick a fight with you.”
“Really!” exclaimed Captain Thorne, smiling somewhat sarcastically; “pick a fight with me! To what office do you refer, sir?”
“The War Office, sir,” said Lieutenant Maxwell, rather annoyed, he could not exactly say why.
“Dear, dear!” continued Thorne urbanely; “I didn’t suppose there was anybody in the War Office who wanted to fight!”
“And why not, sir?” asked Lieutenant Maxwell haughtily, while Edith barely stifled a laugh, and her mother even smiled.
“Well, if he wanted to fight, he’d hardly be in an office at a time like this, would he?”
Captain Thorne’s sarcasm seemed to perturb the youngster, but his good breeding got the better of his annoyance.
“I’d better not tell him that, Captain,” he said with a great effort at lightness; “he would certainly insist upon having you out.”
“That would be too bad,” said the Captain. “It might interfere with his office hours and – ”
“He doesn’t believe it, Miss Varney,” said Maxwell, turning to the younger woman, “but it is certainly true. I dare say you know the gentleman – ”
“Please don’t, Lieutenant,” interrupted Edith quickly. “I would rather not talk about it, if you please.”
“Of course,” said Maxwell, “I didn’t know there was anything – ”
“Yes,” said Edith. “Let’s talk about something else. You know there is always the weather to fall back on – ”
“I should say so,” laughed the Lieutenant, “and mighty bad weather for us, too.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
They turned away, talking and laughing somewhat constrainedly, while Mrs. Varney picked up the note that was still lying on the table.
“From your note, I suppose you are leaving us immediately, Captain Thorne. Your orders have come?”
“Yes, Mrs. Varney,” said the Captain. “I am afraid this must be the last of my pleasant calls.”
“Isn’t it rather sudden? Are you quite well? It seems to me they ought to give you a little more time to recover.”
“I have no doubt that I am, or feel, much better than I look,” said the Captain, “and we have to be ready for anything, you know. I have been idle too long already.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Mrs. Varney. “Well, it has been a great pleasure to have you call upon us. When you are away, we shall greatly miss your visits.”
“Thank you; I shall never forget what they have been to me.”
“Lieutenant Maxwell is going, mamma,” said Edith.
“So soon! Please excuse me a moment, Captain. I am very sorry you have to hurry away, Lieutenant; we shall hope for the pleasure of seeing you again, if your duties permit.”
“I shall certainly avail myself of your invitation, if you will allow me.” He saluted Captain Thorne. “Good-evening, sir.”
Thorne, of course, returned the courteous salute of his junior.
“Lieutenant Maxwell,” he said pleasantly, as Mrs. Varney followed Lieutenant Maxwell into the hall.
“Now remember, you are to come some time when duty doesn’t call you away so soon,” she said, as he bowed himself out.
“Trust me not to forget that, Mrs. Varney,” said the Lieutenant, as he disappeared on the porch.
Captain Thorne and Edith were left alone. The girl stepped over to a small table on which stood a vase of roses, and, with somewhat nervous hands, she busied herself arranging them. The young officer watched her in silence for a little while, the moments tense with emotion.
“Shall I see Mrs. Varney again?” he began at last.
“Oh, I suppose so, but not now. I heard her go upstairs to Howard.”
“How is he?”
“Desperately ill.”
“I am sorry.”
“Yes,” said the girl.
“I have a very little time to stay and – ”
“Oh – not long?” asked Edith.
“No, I am sorry to say.”
“Well, do you know,” she looked at him archly, “I believe you will have more time than you really think you have. It would be odd if it came out that way, wouldn’t it?” she continued, as she played with the flower in her hand.
“Yes, but it won’t come out that way,” said Thorne, as he stepped closer to her.
“You don’t know,” she faltered, as Thorne drew the flower from her and took her hand in his. They stood there quiet a moment, and she did not draw her hand away. “Well, it makes no difference how soon you are going away; you can sit down in the meantime if you want to.”
“It is hardly worth while,” he said; “my time is so short.”
“You would better,” interrupted the girl; “I have a great many things to say to you.”
“Have you?” he asked, sitting down on the little sofa by her side in compliance with her invitation.
“Yes.”
“But I have only one thing to say to you – Miss Varney and – that is” – Thorne took her other hand in both of his – “good-bye.”
Very different words had trembled on his lips, as he knew and as the girl knew.
“But I don’t really think you will have to say that, Captain Thorne,” said Edith slowly.
“I know I will.”
“Then,” said Edith more softly, “it will be because you want to say it.”
“No,” said Thorne, resolutely and of his own motion releasing her hands, which she had allowed him to hold without remonstrance; “it will be because I must.”
He rose to his feet and took up his hat from the table as if, the thing being settled, he had only to go. But the girl observed with secret joy that he made no other effort at departure.
“Oh, you think you must, do you, Captain Thorne?” said Edith, looking up at him mischievously. “You are a very wise person, but you don’t know all that I know.”
“I think that is more than likely, Miss Varney, but won’t you tell me some of the things that you know that I don’t, so that I can approach your knowledge in that respect?”
“I wouldn’t mind telling you one thing, and that is that it is very wrong for you to think of leaving Richmond now.”
“Oh, but you don’t know.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, what do you know?” asked Thorne curiously.
“Whatever you were going to say. Most likely it was that there’s something or other I don’t know about, but I do know this. You were sent here to recover, and you haven’t nearly had enough time for it yet.”
“I do look as if a high wind would blow me away, don’t I?” he laughed.
“No matter how you look, you ought not to go. You are just making fun of it, as you always do of everything. No matter, you can have all the fun you like, but the whole thing is settled; you are not going away at all, you are going to stay here,” she concluded with most decided but winning emphasis.
“Oh, I’m not going? Well, that is quite a change for me,” said Thorne composedly. He laid his hat back on the table and came closer to Edith. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what I am going to do.”
“I don’t mind at all, and it is this. You see, I have been to see – I am almost afraid to tell you.”
“Don’t tell me,” said the man with sudden seriousness, laying aside all his pleasantry, “because it can’t be true. I have my orders, and I am leaving to-night.”
“Where – to Petersburg – to the front?”
“We can’t always tell where orders will take us,” he said evasively, again sitting down beside her on the lounge.
He could scarcely tear himself away from her, from the delicious yet painful emotion aroused by her presence. He ought to have gone long since, yet he was with her, as he supposed, for the last time. Surely he might indulge himself a little. He loved her so desperately, so hopelessly.
“But listen,” said the girl; “supposing there were other orders, orders from a higher authority, appointing you to duty here?”
“It would not make any difference.”
“You don’t mean you would go in spite of them!” cried the girl in sudden alarm.
Thorne looked at her gravely and nodded his head.
“But if it were proved that your first orders were a mistake – ”
She stretched out her hand toward him, which Thorne clasped closely again.
“But it wasn’t a mistake, and I must go,” he said slowly, rising to his feet once more, but still holding her hand.
“Is it something dangerous?” asked the girl apprehensively.
“Oh, well, enough to make it interesting.”
But Edith did not respond to his well simulated humour. She drew her hand away, and Thorne fancied with a leap of his heart that she did it with reluctance. She began softly:
“Don’t be angry with me if I ask you again about your orders. I must know.”
“But why?” asked Thorne curiously.
“No matter, tell me.”
“I can’t do that. I wish I could,” he answered with a slight sigh.
“You needn’t,” said the girl triumphantly; “I do know.”
The Captain started and, in spite of his control, a look of dismay and apprehension flitted across his face as the girl went on:
“They’re sending you on some mission where death is almost certain. They will sacrifice your life, because they know you are fearless and will do anything. There is a chance for you to stay here, and be just as much use, and I am going to ask you to take it. It isn’t your life alone – there are – others to think of and – that’s why I ask you. It may not sound well, perhaps I ought not – you won’t understand, but you – ”
As she spoke she rose to her feet, confronting him, while she impulsively thrust out her hand toward him again. Once more he took that beloved hand in his own, holding it close against him. Burning avowals sprang to his lips, and the colour flamed into her face as she stood motionless and expectant, looking at him. She had gone as far as a modest woman might. Now the initiative was his. She could only wait.
“No,” said the man at last, by the exercise of the most iron self-control and repression, “you shall not have this against me, too.”
Edith drew closer to him, leaving her hand in his as she placed her other on his shoulder. She thought she knew what he would have said. And love gave her courage. The frankness of war was in the air. If this man left her now, she might never see him again. She was a woman, but she could not let him go without an effort.
“Against you! What against you? What do you mean?” she asked softly.
The witchery of the hour was upon him, too, and the sweetness of her presence. He knew he had but to speak to receive his answer, to summon the fortress and receive the surrender. Her eyes dropped before his passionately searching look, her colour came and went, her bosom rose and fell. She thought he must certainly hear the wild beating of her heart. He pressed her hands closely to his breast for a moment, but quickly pulled himself together again.
“I must go,” he said hoarsely; “my business is – elsewhere. I ought never to have seen you or spoken to you, but I had to come to this house and you were here, and how could I help it? Oh – I couldn’t for my whole – it’s only you in this – ” He stopped and thrust her hands away from him blindly and turned away. As there was a God above him he would not do it. “Your mother – I would like to say good-bye to her.”
“No, you are not going,” cried the girl desperately, playing her last card. “Listen, they need you in Richmond: the President told me so himself – your orders are to stay here. You are to be given a special commission on the War Department Telegraph Service, and you – ”
“No, no, I won’t take it – I can’t take it, Miss Varney.”
“Can’t you do that much for – me?” said the girl with winning sweetness, and again she put out her hands to him.
“It is for you that I will do nothing of the kind,” he answered quickly; “if you ever think of me again after – well, when I am gone, remember that I refused.”
“But you can’t refuse; it is the President’s desire, it is his order, you have got to obey. Wait a moment, I left it upstairs. I will fetch it for you and you will see.”