He was in no mood for feminine society after the difficult interview in which he had just participated.
"I think it is Miss Glen, sir. She says she must see you and—"
"Ah!" interrupted the general, hastily, as he recollected the scene on the wharf the night before, when Fanny Glen had fainted at the news that the boat was gone and that Lacy had gone with it. "Show her in here at once, orderly."
He had intended to seek her in her house in the course of the morning and break the melancholy news to her that the torpedo boat was lost in all probability with all on board, for from her agitation on the wharf he inferred that her affections were bestowed upon Lacy. He was very sorry for her, of course; but knowing Lacy as he had, and estimating Fanny Glen as he did, there was a certain sense of relief that she would not be condemned to a lifetime of misery which such a marriage would inevitably have entailed. Still he pitied her profoundly, and he pitied her more when she came into the private office in the wake of the orderly and threw back her veil. Her beautiful face showed the sorrow under which she labored. Suffering had thrown a blight upon it. The freshness and youth seemed to have departed from it. She was a piteous little spectacle indeed.
The general received her with the utmost cordiality and consideration. He handed her to a chair, and bade the orderly see that they were not disturbed on any account.
"Miss Fanny," he began gently—the war had brought the general and the brave girl very close together—"I was coming over to see you in a little while. You have shown yourself a brave little woman many times. You need all your courage now."
"Yes, General," said the girl, faintly, "I know."
"You have sustained a terrible loss."
"Is—is—Mr. Sempland—?"
"He is well enough at present. I refer to your friend, Major Lacy."