His loneliness and his craving to see her was terrible. His desire to see her grew with every passing moment, he was consumed by it; yet, he thought bitterly, to what purpose, after all?
Some of this had come to him last night; but the more he thought of it, the more uncertain, miserable, and deserted he felt. So it is not strange that it was not so much his own impending fate as it was the hopeless endeavor to discover the real reason for Fanny Glen's conduct which engrossed his attention that fateful morning.
He had failed miserably, officially and personally. He decided, against heart and hope, at last, that he had made no progress in his love affair. The woman he adored had given him convincing proof, so he argued, rebellious against the conclusion to the last, that his professional future was a matter of indifference to her; nay, that his very life was a thing she would jeopard or even forfeit lightly. Lacy, as usual, had stepped in the breach and earned immortal fame, even if he had to die to secure it. Sempland envied him his rest, with his brave companions in arms in the desperate sea venture, beneath the cool, green waters of the ocean that laved their beloved shore.
Well, there was no use in worrying or speculating any longer. It would all be over soon now. He was sufficiently experienced as a soldier to know what would happen to him. There was only one possible verdict, only one punishment for the crimes with which he was charged.
When he was sentenced to death, his friends would undoubtedly move heaven and earth to get President Davis to mitigate or commute his punishment; but he was resolved in his own mind firmly to discourage such efforts. He took a gloomy view of life and of love and of women—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? Surely she might ask after his welfare. She must know he was under arrest. Why could she not come herself? He was sacrificing himself for her, to preserve her freedom, ay, her honor and reputation. She might not love him, but at least she might have manifested a decent 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 indifferent as a Laodicean! He would show her that he appreciated at its true value not only her heinous conduct, but her criminal neglect as well. 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, loading upon her the weight of an obligation, from which she should never escape. 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 obligation, too, this Union sailor, for to Sempland would be due his possession of Fanny Glen.
The imprisoned officer ground his teeth in rage at that thought and turned suddenly from the barred window where he had been standing listlessly looking down the bay toward old Fort Sumter, almost knocked to pieces by fierce bombardments, yet still flying the Stars and Bars in brave defiance 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 miserably. He wished they would assemble that court-martial and have it over with. He would not care what they did, 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 clanking of a sword, a word or two exchanged between the sentry and a newcomer, in the corridor. Some one turned the handle of the door. It was opened.