When, in October, the missionary ship sailed from the United States disunion was not dreamed of, except by a few leading politicians. But after the election of Mr. Lincoln, in November, and before any overt act of secession took place, it is now well known that secret meetings were held in Washington, Richmond, Annapolis, and all the principal cities in the border States, to take measures to prepare the people of those States to act promptly and in concert when the opportunity for seceding should present itself. But the foremost object of this conspiracy was to muster into Maryland and Virginia a secret military force strong enough to seize and occupy Washington, and prevent the President-elect from taking his seat there.
Among the most active, secretive, and persevering of these conspirators was the accomplished scholar, soldier, and statesman whom I have introduced to you, my readers, under the name of Colonel Eastworth.
You know already that during the greater part of the summer of that year he was in Washington, ostensibly on a visit to his father’s friend and his own old tutor, the retired Lutheran minister. In September he left the city to return to his home in the South. In October he reappeared in Washington, and took rooms in one of the best hotels most frequented by Southern gentlemen. But while he made Washington his headquarters, he went on frequent journeys to Charleston, Richmond, Annapolis, and other cities. And not even to his betrothed did he ever mention the object of these sudden journeys.
Such was his manner of life until the first of December, when, as usual at the meeting of Congress, the city became crowded with visitors. All the boarding-houses and hotels were full of people, and very full of discomfort.
Colonel Eastworth, a constitutional sybarite and epicurean, escaped as often as he could from the crowded rooms and scuffling meals of his “best hotel” to the quiet fireside and dainty table of the Lutheran minister’s home. Colonel Eastworth was certainly no petulant fault-finder; yet in his close intimacy with the family of his betrothed, he sometimes let fall half-laughing expressions that betrayed how ludicrously uncomfortable he was when in his quarters at the “best hotel.”
Dr. Rosenthal, in his earnest German nature, considered betrothal almost as sacred as marriage, and looked upon the betrothed lover of his daughter as already his own son. And so, one day, when they chanced to meet in the Capitol library, and the colonel was unusually sarcastic on the subject of hotel living, the minister said:
“Now, see here, Eastworth. We have a very large house, with four rooms on a floor, and sixteen rooms in all, counting basement and attics, and only myself and my daughter and our two servants to occupy them. Now, as you are to pass the whole winter in Washington, what should hinder you from coming and stopping with us?”
“Thanks! Really, you are very kind; but—circumstantial evidence to the contrary notwithstanding—I did not mean to angle for and draw out this invitation,” laughed the colonel.
“Don’t I know that you didn’t? But you will come?”
“It would be too great a trespass on your kindness.”