The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, December 27, 1903, Page 3

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. THE CONFESSION THAT CLEARED “General Beauregard,” she whispered at last, “I am the traitor. He was de- tained by mé.” “That doesn’t excuse him,” said the general severely. “Any man who fails in his duty because he succumbs to a wiles, even though that wo- man loves him, has no plea to urge in justification. He is a soldier. His duty to obey orders is first of all.” “But— -you don’t understand. I kept him there by force, sir. Ma- Lacy told me of the expedition—he Mr. Sempland had called upon me afternoon. They—they had each asked me—in—marriage. We— arreled. Mr. Sempland left me in Major Lacy divined that I—I— d for Mr. Sempland. He came back in the evening and told me Mr. npland was going to blow up the and he begged me to see Mr. Sempland again and bid him good-by. two thoughts—that it meant father and possibly What sacrificed 1 had only ther, sir—" She stopped and looked at him in pit- iful entreaty on,” said the general inflexibly. “I had Mr. Sempland ushered into strong room of the house—the old Rennie house, you know, sir?” The general nodded. “The door was locked on him after he entered. My three negro boys kept watch outside, There was no escape for 1. He beat and hammered on the or until his hands bled He begged and implored to be released. It was agonizing to hear. I did not real- that he was teiling the truth when said was being dishonored. I no time to consider anything. I ¥ thought of my father—helpless on that great ship—the sudden rush of that awful little boat.” You were a traitor to the South!™ neral Beauregard coldly. Y God pity me, I see it now,” an- swered the girl. “How did he get away? Did you re- him?” continued the general. e swore that he would kill him- 1 did not open the door.” it? he Did Then did he burst through you and men?" ¥ the and would not have y were armed him. He could » his escape that wav. He begged to speak to him alone for a mo- ment. 1 went into the room and shut the r. He seized me in his arm put his pistol to my head, threat- to kill me if I did not order the opened.” u obeved?” used. Then to oven he called out at once or he , their mistress.” ned then?” ed them not to open the door, let me die. But they did as he said. made them leave the hall. The him e of my protests. he threw me aside and ran to the wharf. I followed after. The rest you knc It was after all. I thought no one would go if he did not. I thought if I could detain him a night get some delay—I would come here in the r 1l you the truth and ia spl Ther useless rning and tell rou t are my father.” Miss G said the little ouid not spare general, own father it that he be sacri- my demanded a womar I lov on earth father, ars of war I am sorry g0 with the South, but r me to judge him. I could condemned to death and to save him. And I ate that I—I—cared for I drove him from me "ontempt—I taunted him. that detail to prove his not let him go to cer- If he did it would be my would have murdered him. 1 am only a woman. Try to it two ed of my 1 have 1 death TR | young man hae proven his courage “T kn T know! terrupted keeping silent this morning. by facing certain death upon charges that worse than the punishment to a lier, in that they blast his fame.” Thank God for that kindness ow I never doubted to “And he did all this for you.” “He loves me, as I Jove him.” 3ut your loveshas disgraced him, his s vrotected you.” The girl shrank before” the words of the soldier. “Yes,” she said faintly, “it is as you say. 1 alone am to blame. Let mine alone be the punishment. I will tell all to the court. He must be cleared!” “It is just,” said Beauregard. “You have committed an act of treason against the South. There is, however, some excuse for your action, and your previous record in the hospital service has been such as to entitle you to every consideration. I am disposed to be lenient, but the offense is one I cannot condone. I will have to put you under guard until I can consider what is best to be done.” “I make no protest,” said Fanny Glen. “You will, of course, release Mr. Semp- land from arrest and see that his repu- tation takes no hurt?” “I will attend to that.” He struck a bell again and sum- moned the assistant adjutant general once more. Fanny Glen dropped her veil so that her face was concealed from the officer. He did not perceive what she had suffered and was suffer- ing. Yet her heart was full of relief— her father was safe, her lover would be free—and, best of all, she had such testimony as few women have received to the depth and power of his passion. stern He loved her, indeed. There was a joy in that thought that set her heart’beat- ing. The general drew his subordinate into a corrner of the room, where they conversed earnestly for a few moments. Then they came back to the young girl. “Adjutant General Wylie,” said the commander-in-chief, “you will take charge of Miss Glen. You will fol- low him, Miss Glen. I will communi- cate my further plans within an hour.” There was something intensely pa- but I, thetic in the droop of the little figure, in spite of the comforting thoughts that had come to her, when the giri rose and followed the)soldier from the room. The general was almost persuaded to call after her a reassuring word or two, but restrained himself and said nothing. CHAPTER X. THIS TIME THE WOMAN PLEADS. Lieutenant Rhett Sempland, under arrest, in confinement, awaiting trial, alone and unvisited by any one (which meant Fanny Glen), felt that morning as it he had indeed lost everything. He had been certain at first that Fan- ny Glen had returned his swift, im- pulsive caress in the strong room even in the peculiar circumstances under which he had bestowed it upon her, and he had therefore naturally inferred that she loved him. Indeed, when he thought of the look in her eyes when he strained her to his breast, although-he had the pistol pointed at her forehead, the conviction was strong FANNY ‘Well, there was no use in worrying or speculating any longer. I ould all be over scon now. He was sufficiently ex- perienced as a soldier to know what would happen to him. There was only one possible verdict, only one punish- ment for the crimes with which he was charged. When he was sentenced to death his friends would un- doubtedly move heaven and earth to get President Davis to mitigate or com- mute his punishment; but he was re- GLEN, ARE YOU W ARRTLNG FTE 70 SAFE FOUL LIFE 2 within him. TYet, again and again this proposition presented itself to him, crushing his hope and breaking his heart: How could a woman who loved a man, and a woman especially who had become sufficiently conversant with military affairs through her hospital service and other experiences in this war to understand what she was doing, have placed her lover in so dreadful a position? And most damnably crushing thought of all, why had she not had the com- mon decency after all to come and see him this morning? He was in trouble, and he suffered for her sake. She must know that, she must realize it. Why did she give no sign of it? His loneli- ness and his craving to see her were terrible. His desire to see her grew with every passing moment, he was consumed by it: yet, he thought bitter- ly, to what purpose after all? \ solved in his own mind firmly to dis- courage such ¢fforts. He took a gloomy view of life and-of love and of wemen— do they not always go together in the heart of youth? There was nothing now, therefore, for which he cared to live. Yet if he could only see Fanny Glen again! Why did she not send some one to inquire as to his whereabouts? At least to ask after his welfare? She must know he was under arrest. Why could she nct come herself? He was sacrificing himself for her, to preserve her freedom, ay, her honor and reputa- tion. She might not love him, but-at least she might have manifested a de- cent interest in his fate. The barest politeness ought to make a woman take some thought for a man who was about to be shot for her sake, he thought bitterly. ‘Well, he swore to himself, If she should come at the last moment, she would find him as cold as ice, as in- different as a Laodicean! He would show her that he appreciated at its true value not only her heinous con- duct, but her criminal neglect as weil. He would make her understand that it was not love for her that kept him silent. Oh, no! Simply the obligation of a gentleman, a man of honor, albeit a Quixotic one, Oh, noble resolution! He would go to his grave silent, load- ing upon her the weight of an obliga- tion, from which she should never es- cape. When the war was over she might marry that man on the Wabash whom she had been so anxious to save that she had pretended love for him— Sempland! Yes, he would be under ob- ligation, too, this Union sailor, for to Sempland weculd be due his possession of Fanny Glen. The imprisoned officer ground his teeth In rage at that thought and turned suddenly. from the barred win- dow where he had been standing list- lessly looking down the bay toward old Fort Sumter, knocked to pieces by flerce bombardment, yet still flying the Stars and Bars in brave deflance of the ironclads far away, and, with clenched hands, firm set lips and troubled brow, began pacing up and down the long apartment. The moments dragged mis- erably. He wished they would assem- ble that court-martial and have it over with. He would not care what they \ 1 dld, he thought savagely. He was sick and tired of the whole business—the war, the South, General Beauregard, Fanny Glen, everything, everybody! Suddenly he heard footsteps, the clank- ing of a sword, a word or two ex- changed between the sentry and a new- comer in the corridor. Some one turned the handle of the door. It was opened. Sempland instantly stood at attention, then folded his arms with great dignity, expecting, of course, to confromt some one sent to fetch him to the opening session of the court. General Beaure- gard was remarkable for his promptness and celerity, and he had declared that the young man should be tried imme- diately. He had wondered already at the unnecessary delay. But no stern featured, dignified officlal presented himself, instead of which Sempland's astonished gaze fell upon the small fig- ure of a woman! The dqor was instantly closed and locked behind her without a word of explanation from those outside, and the two were alone in a Jocked room for the second time in twenty-four hours. There was a diiference in the situation that morning, although the man did not know it. On this occasion Far Glen was a prisoner as well as he. He could not see her face, as her veil till remained down, yet there was no mistaking ner form. Indeed he feit that had it been midnight he would have recognized her presence. His heart leaped within his breast at the ¢ight of her. He thought it beat so she might almost have heard it in the per- fect silence that had fallen between them. His first impuise was to run to- ward her and take her in his arms once more. Above all his troubled conclu- sions of the night befere the recollec- tion of that instant when he had hgld her so closely still remained dominant. In her presence he almost forgot every- thing but that. Yet he looked at her impassively for a moment, bowed slightly, then turned and walked de- liberately to the other end of the room, resuming his station at the window looking out to s She had an excellent view of his back. ‘The beating of his heart did not mani- fest itself outwardly after all. gaze he appeared as impa. t, as motionl as if he ha cut out of ifon like the grated bars. It was most unsatisfactory beginning to wh must prove an important interview. They played at cross purposes indes He had sacrif she had and here they were both pri s ap- parently and things were as unsettled as ever! Poor Fanny Glen was infinitely more surprised at the sight of her lover thun he had been at the sight of her. Not until she had fairly entered the room and the door had been closed behind her had she realized that she was not alone—that he was there. She stood rooted to the spot, waiting to see what he would do. Had he followed his first impulse. which would have been to sweep her to his breast, he would have found her un- resisting, submissive, acquiescent. The kiss which had been given her iast night still trembled upon her lips. It was for the taking, she was his for the asking. There was something very tive, after all, in her possible marty dom which gave her not a little com- fort. She was surprised that Semplard had not been immediately summoned to the general's presence when she had been put under guard. She supposed, however, that the delay was due to some military technicality, and imagined that the next moment would see him cailed from the room in her presence. And she would be lef: alone, most miserably, forlorniy alone to face her fate. Being a martyr is certainly a fine thing, but the position loses half its charm unless people know it. To complete her melancholy satisfaction, he—and he considered himself the martyr, not she—must recognize it. It he would only turn and speak to her. This silence, this immobility, on his part, was unbearable . She coughed gently and took a step or two across the floor toward mjn. He gave no sign that he heard her. How cruel he was' So despotie, so determined, so masterful! She abom- inated a masterful man! She coughed again, and this time a little more em- Pphatically. Still no attention. It was discouraging. There was a small mirror upon the wall of the room. Her eye, ‘n accord- ance with an instinct feminine, fell swiftly upon it. She lifted her veil to see how far the experiences she had gone through had affected her most potent talisman. ‘“Heavens!” she thought, fright!™ To take off her hat was the work of a moment. Her swift, subtle fingers busied themselves with her rebellious curis. Another glance reassured her a little. She felt more confildent. She coughed again, but as before, he did not move. “Mr. Sempland,” she said softly at last In sheer desperation. He turned on his heel as suddenly as it he had been moved by a spring and faced her. He had been longing for a chance to recede from his position. “Miss Glen,” he answered with de- pressing coldness. “You—you—don't—seem very glad— to see me, sir?” The moment was one of great im- portance to both of them; their future, the life and happiness of one, the honor and good name of the other, depended upon it—so they thought at least. The conversation accordingly began, as con- versations under such circumstances usually begin, in trivialities. “I am not,” he answered shortly and mendaciously as well. “I suppose not. I noticed that you— your welcome—wasn't very cordial, I am sure.” 1 didn’t mean it to be.” “Why didn’t you order me out of your To her as quie attrac- “what a