Part 15 (1/2)
”That's part of it.”
”What's the rest of it?”
”f.a.n.n.y Glen Vernon.”
”What! Is Admiral Vernon your father?”
”He is.”
”How is that?”
”When the war broke out he stayed with the North, was true to his flag, he said. I had seen little of him since my mother's death, when I was ten years old. I was a Southern woman. It seemed monstrous to me. I begged and implored him, but uselessly, and finally our relations were broken off. So I dropped the name of Vernon, and came here to work for our cause, the rest you know. But I could not let him be blown up unsuspecting, could I? If he were killed in action, it would be terrible enough, but this was a dreadful ending. I thought-I don't know what I thought. I love the South, but-”
”I understand, my dearest,” he said, in no condition to understand anything very clearly, and caring little for the moment for anything except that she loved him.
”And you forgive me?”
”Forgive you? With all my soul. This moment with you in my arms, with your arms around my neck, with your kisses upon my lips, with your words in my ear, with your love in my heart-this makes up for everything! I shall go to my death gladly.”
”To your death!” she exclaimed, drawing away from him in surprise and alarm.
”Yes. Your confession to me makes no difference.”
”But I will tell the general.”
”I forbid it! Darling, you have committed an act of treason to the South, and while your love for your father-and for me-has explained it, you could not make such a plea as that before any court-martial composed of soldiers. You would only harm yourself, and you would not help me, and so I won't allow it.”
”But I must tell the general!” she persisted.
”Dearest, no,” said Sempland, smiling fondly at her. ”We will antic.i.p.ate what might have been. If all had gone well, you would have promised to obey me before the altar. Would you not?”
She nodded with astonis.h.i.+ng docility.
”Well, then-”
”And if I will not?”
”Why, then, I shall have to discredit you, as I threatened, and my own situation will be more serious than before, for I shall brand myself as a coward, as well, and you would not like your lover to have that stigma on him.”
”You will not let me save you, then?”
”No,” answered the man, sighing deeply, ”and life is so different to me now. I didn't care an hour ago what happened, but now-”
There was a tap on the door.
”What is it?” he called out impatiently.
”It's me, Lieutenant Sempland-Sergeant Slattery,” answered the sergeant of the guard, a whilom friend to the prisoner. ”On me own account, sor, I come to tell ye that they'll be afther comin' for ye in a few minutes, an' ye'd better git ready fer 'em. If ye have anythin'-any preparations to make, ye'd better be quick about it, sor.”