Prescott was a staff officer and a captain, bearing a report from the Commander of the Army of Northern Virginia to the President of the Confederacy; but having been told in advance that it was perfunctory in its nature, and that no haste was necessary in its delivery, he waited until the next morning before seeking the White House, as the residence of the President was familiarly called at Richmond, in imitation of Washington. This following of old fashions and old ways often struck Prescott as a peculiar fact in a country that was rebelling against them.

“If we succeed in establishing a new republic,” he said to himself, “it will be exactly like the one that we quit.”

He was told at the White House that the President was then in conference with the Secretary of War, but Mr. Sefton would see him. He had heard often of Mr. Sefton, whose place in the Government was not clearly defined, but of whose influence there was no doubt. He was usually known as the Secretary. “The Secretary of what?” “The Secretary of everything,” was the reply.

Mr. Sefton received Prescott in a large dark room that looked like a workshop. Papers covered the tables and others were lying on the floor, indicating the office of a man who worked. The Secretary himself was standing in the darkest corner a thin, dark, rather small man of about forty, one who seemed to be of a nervous temperament ruled by a strong will.

Prescott remembered afterward that throughout the interview the Secretary remained in the shadow and he was never once able to gain a clear view of his face. He found soon that Mr. Sefton, a remarkable man in all respects, habitually wore a mask, of which the mere shadow in a room was the least part.

Prescott gave his report, and the Secretary, after reading it attentively, said in a singularly soft voice:

“I have heard of you, Captain Prescott. I believe that you distinguished yourself in the great charge at Gettysburg?”

“Not more than five thousand others.”

“At least you came out of the charge alive, and certainly five thousand did not do that.”

Prescott looked at him suspiciously. Did he mean to cast some slur upon his conduct? He was sorry he could not see the Secretary’s face more clearly, and he was anxious also to be gone. But the great man seemed to have another object in view.

“I hear that there is much discontent among the soldiers,” said Mr. Sefton in a gentle, sympathetic voice. “They complain that we should send them supplies and reinforcements, do they not?”

“I believe I have heard such things said,” reluctantly admitted Prescott.

“Then I have not been misinformed. This illustrates, Captain, the lack of serious reflection among the soldiers. A soldier feels hungry. He wants a beefsteak, soft bread and a pot of coffee. He does not see them and at once he is angry. He waves his hand and says: ’Why are they not here for me?’ The Government does not own the secret of Arabian magic. We cannot create something where nothing is.”

Prescott felt the Secretary gazing at him as if he alone were to blame for this state of affairs. Then the door opened suddenly and several men entered. One, tall, thin and severe of countenance, the typical Southern gentleman of the old school, Prescott recognized at once as the President of the Confederacy. The others he inferred were members of his Cabinet, and he rose respectfully, imitating the example of Mr. Sefton, but he did not fail to notice that the men seemed to be disturbed.

“A messenger from General Lee, Mr. President,” said Mr. Sefton, in his smooth voice. “He repeats his request for reinforcements.”

The worried look of the President increased. He ran his hand across his brow.

“I cannot furnish them,” he said. “It is no use to send any more such requests to me. Even the conscription will not fill up our armies unless we take the little boys from their marbles and the grandfathers from their chimney-corners. I doubt whether it would do so then.”

Mr. Sefton bowed respectfully, but added nothing to his statement.

“The price of gold has gone up another hundred points, Mr. Sefton,” said the President. “Our credit in Europe has fallen in an equal ratio and our Secretary of State has found no way to convince foreign governments that they are undervaluing us.”

Prescott looked curiously at the Secretary of State it was the first time that he had ever seen him a middle-aged man with broad features of an Oriental cast. He it was to whom many applied the words “the brains of the Confederacy.” Now he was not disturbed by the President’s evident annoyance.

“Why blame me, Mr. President?” he said. “How long has it been since we won a great victory? Our credit is not maintained here in Richmond nor by our agents in Europe, but on the battlefield.”

Mr. Sefton looked at Prescott as if to say: “Just as I told you.” Prescott thought it strange that they should speak so plainly before him, a mere subordinate, but policy might be in it, he concluded on second thought. They might desire their plain opinion to get back informally to General Lee. There was some further talk, all of which they seemed willing for him to hear, and then they returned to the inner room, taking Mr. Sefton, who bade Prescott wait.

The Secretary returned in a half-hour, and taking Prescott’s arm with an appearance of great familiarity and friendliness, said:

“I shall walk part of the way with you, if you will let me, Captain Prescott. The President asks me to say to you that you are a gallant soldier and he appreciates your services. Therefore, he hopes that you will greatly enjoy your leave of absence in Richmond.”

Prescott flushed with pleasure. He liked a compliment and did not deem it ignoble to show his pleasure. He was gratified, too, at the confidence that the Secretary, a man whose influence he knew was not exaggerated, seemed to put in him, and he thanked him sincerely.

So they walked arm in arm into the street, and those who met them raised their hats to the powerful Secretary, and incidentally to Prescott also, because he was with Mr. Sefton.

“If we win,” said Mr. Sefton, “Richmond will become a great city one of the world’s capitals.”

“Yes if we win,” replied Prescott involuntarily.

“Why, you don’t think that we shall lose, do you?” asked the Secretary quickly.

Prescott was confused and hesitated. He regretted that he had spoken any part of his thoughts, and felt that the admission had been drawn from him, but now thought it better to be frank than evasive.

“Napoleon said that Providence was on the side of the heaviest battalions,” he replied, “and therefore I hope ours will increase in weight soon.”

The Secretary did not seem to be offended, leaning rather to the other side as he commended the frankness of the young Captain’s speech. Then he began to talk to him at great length about the army, its condition, its prospects and the spirit of the soldiers. He revealed a knowledge of the camp that surprised Prescott and aroused in him admiration mingled with a lingering distrust.

Mr. Sefton seemed to him different, indeed, from the average Southerner. Very few Southern men at that time sought to conceal their feelings. Whatever their faults they were open, but Mr. Sefton wore his mask always. Prescott’s mind went back unconsciously to the stories he had read of the agile Italian politicians of the Middle Ages, and for a moment paused at the doctrine of reincarnation. Then he was ashamed of himself. He was wronging Mr. Sefton, an able man devoted to the Southern cause as everybody said.

They stopped just in front of Mrs. Prescott’s house.

“You live here?” said the Secretary. “I know your mother. I cannot go in, but I thank you. And Miss Harley lives in the next house. I know her, too a spirited and beautiful woman. Good-day, Captain Prescott; I shall see you again before you return to the army.”

He left Prescott and walked back toward the White House. The young captain entered his own home, thinking of what he had seen and heard, and the impression remained that he had given the Secretary full information about the army.

Prescott received a call the next morning from his new friend Talbot.

“You are invited to a meeting of the Mosaic Club to-night at the house of Mrs. Markham,” he said.

“And what is the Mosaic Club?” asked Prescott.

“The Mosaic is a club without organization, by-laws or members!” replied Talbot. “It’s just the choice and congenial spirits of Richmond who have got into the habit of meeting at one another’s houses. They’re worth knowing, particularly Mrs. Markham, the hostess to-night. She heard of you and told me to invite you. Didn’t write you a note stationery’s too high.”

Prescott looked doubtfully at his mother.

“Why, of course you’ll go,” she said. “You did not come home to sit here all the time. I would not have you do that.”

Talbot called for him shortly after dusk and the two strolled together toward the street where the Markham residence stood.

“Richmond is to be a great capital some day,” said Talbot as they walked on, “but, if I may use the simile, it’s a little ragged and out-at-elbows now.”

This criticism was drawn from him by a misstep into the mud, but he quickly regained the ill-paved sidewalk and continued his course with unbroken cheerfulness. The night was dark, the few and widely scattered street lamps burned dimly, and the city loomed through the dusk, misshapen and obscure.

“Do you know,” said Talbot, “I begin to believe that Richmond wouldn’t amount to much of a town in the North?”

“It would not,” replied Prescott; “but we of the South are agricultural people. Our pride is in the country rather than the towns.”

A cheerful light shone from the windows of the Markham house as they approached it. When they knocked at the door it was opened by a coloured servant, and they passed into a large room, already full of people who were talking and laughing as if they had known one another all their lives. Prescott’s first glimpse was of Helen Harley in a flowered silk dress, and he felt a thrill of gladness. Then he was presented to his hostess, Mrs. Markham, a small woman, very blonde, bright in attire and wearing fine jewels. She was handsome, with keen features and brilliant eyes.

“You are from General Lee’s camp,” she said, “and it is a Yankee bullet that has enabled you to come here. If it were not for those Yankee bullets we should never see our brave young officers; so it’s an ill ball that brings nobody good.”

She smiled into his eyes, and her expression was one of such great friendliness and candour that Prescott liked her at once. She held him and Talbot a few moments longer with light talk, and then he passed on.

It was a large room, of much width and greater length, containing heavy mahogany furniture, while the floor was carpeted in dark colours. The whole effect would have been somber without the presence of so many people, mostly young, and the cheerful fire in the grate glowing redly across the shades of the carpet.

There were a half-dozen men, some in uniform and some in civilian garb, around Helen Harley, and she showed all a young girl’s keen and natural delight in admiration and in the easy flow of talk. Both Raymond and Winthrop were in the circle, and so was Redfield, wearing a black frock coat of unusual length and with rings on his fingers. Prescott wondered why such a man should be a member of this group, but at that moment some one dropped a hand upon his shoulder and, turning, he beheld the tall figure of Colonel Harley, Helen’s brother.

“I, too, have leave of absence, Prescott,” he said, “and what better could a man do than spend it in Richmond?”

Harley was a large, fair man, undeniably handsome, but with a slight expression of weakness about the mouth. He had earned his military reputation and he visibly enjoyed it.

“Where could one find a more brilliant scene than this?” continued the Colonel. “Ah, my boy, our Southern women stand supreme for beauty and wit!”

Prescott had been present before the war, both in his own country and in others, at occasions far larger and far more splendid; but none impressed him like the present, with the never-failing contrast of camp and battlefield from which he had come. There was in it, too, a singular pathos that appealed to his inmost heart. Some of the women wore dresses that had belonged to their mothers in their youth, the attire of the men was often strange and variegated, and nearly half the officers present had empty sleeves or bandaged shoulders. But no one seemed to notice these peculiarities by eye or speech, nor was their gaiety assumed; it was with some the gradual contempt of hardship brought about by use and with others the temporary rebound from long depression.

“Come,” said Talbot to his friend, “you must meet the celebrities. Here’s George Bagby, our choicest humourist; Trav. Daniel, artist, poet and musician; Jim Pegram, Innes Randolph, and a lot more.”

Prescott was introduced in turn to Richmond’s most noted men of wit and manners, the cream of the old South, and gradually all drew together in one great group. They talked of many things, of almost everything except the war, of the news from Europe, of the books that they had read Scott and Dickens, Thackeray and Hugo and of the music that they had heard, particularly the favourite arias of Italian opera.

Mrs. Markham and Miss Harley were twin stars in this group, and Prescott could not tell which had the greater popularity. Mrs. Markham was the more worldly and perhaps the more accomplished; but the girl was all youthful freshness, and there was about her an air of simplicity that the older woman lacked.

It gradually developed into a contest between them, heightened, so it seemed to Prescott, by the fact that Colonel Harley was always by the side of Mrs. Markham, and apparently made no effort to hide his admiration, while his sister was seeking without avail to draw him away. Prescott stood aside for a few moments to watch and then Raymond put his hand on his shoulder.

“You see in Mrs. Markham a very remarkable woman the married belle,” said the editor. “The married belle, I understand, is an established feature of life abroad, but she is as yet comparatively unknown in the South. Here we put a woman on the shelf at twenty or at eighteen if she marries then, as she often does.”

Coffee and waffles were served at ten o’clock. Two coloured women brought in the coffee and the cups on a tray, but the ladies themselves served it.

“I apologize for the coffee,” said Mrs. Markham. “I have a suspicion that it is more or less bean, but the Yankee blockading fleet is very active and I dare any of you to complain.”

“Served by your hand, the common or field bean becomes the finest mocha,” said Mr. Pegram, with the ornate courtesy of the old South.

“And if any one dare to intimate that it is not mocha I shall challenge him immediately,” said Winthrop.

“You will have to use a worse threat than that,” said Mrs. Markham. “I understand that at your last duel you hit a negro plowing in a cornfield fifty yards from your antagonist.”

“And scared the negro’s mule half to death,” added Raymond.

“But in your cause, Mrs. Markham, I couldn’t miss,” replied the gallant Winthrop, not at all daunted.

The waffles were brought in hot from the kitchen and eaten with the coffee. After the refreshments the company began to play “forfeit essay.” Two hats were handed around, all drawing a question from one hat and a word from the other. It became the duty of every one to connect question and word by a poem, essay, song or tale in time to be recited at the next meeting. Then they heard the results of the last meeting.

“That’s Innes Randolph standing up there in the corner and getting ready to recite,” said Talbot to Prescott. “He’s one of the cleverest men in the South and we ought to have something good. He’s just drawn from one hat the words ‘Daddy Longlegs’ and from the other ’What sort of shoe was made on the last of the Mohicans?’ He says he doesn’t ask to wait until the next meeting, but he’ll connect them extempore. Now we’ll see what he has made out of them.”

Randolph bowed to the company with mock humility, folded his hands across his breast and recited:

“Old Daddy Longlegs was a sinner hoary,
And punished for his wickedness according to the story;
Between him and the Indian shoes the likeness doth come in,
One made a mock o’ virtue and one a moccasin.”

He was interrupted by the entrance of a quiet little man, modestly clad in a civilian’s suit of dark cloth.

“Mr. Sefton,” said some one, and immediately there was a halt in the talk, followed by a hush of expectation. Prescott noticed with interest that the company looked uncomfortable. The effect that Mr. Sefton produced upon all was precisely the same as that which he had experienced when with the Secretary.

Mr. Sefton was not abashed. He hurried up to the hostess and said:

“I hope I am not intrusive, Mrs. Markham, but I owed you a call, and I did not know that your little club was in session. I shall go in a few minutes.”

Mrs. Markham pressed him to stay and become one of them for the evening, and her manner had every appearance of warmth.

“She believes he came to spy upon us,” said Raymond, “and I am not sure myself that he didn’t. He knew well enough the club was meeting here to-night.”

But the Secretary quickly lulled the feelings of doubt that existed in the minds of the members of the Mosaic Club. He yielded readily to the invitation of Mrs. Markham and then exerted himself to please, showing a facile grace in manner and speech that soon made him a welcome guest. He quickly drifted to the side of Miss Harley, and talked so well from the rich store of his experience and knowledge that her ear was more for him than for any other.

“Is Mr. Sefton a bachelor?” asked Prescott of Winthrop.

Winthrop looked at the young Captain and laughed.

“Are you, too, hit?” Winthrop asked. “You need not flush, man; I have proposed to her myself three times and I’ve been rejected as often. I expect to repeat the unhappy experience, as I am growing somewhat used to it now and can stand it.”

“But you have not answered my question: is the Secretary married?”

“Unfortunately, he is not.”

There was an adjoining room to which the men were permitted to retire for a smoke if the spirit moved them, and when Prescott entered it for the first time he found it already filled, General Markham himself presiding. The General was a middle-aged man, heavy and slow of speech, who usually found the talk of the Mosaic Club too nimble for his wits and began his devotions to tobacco at an early hour.

“Have a cigar, Prescott,” he said, holding up a box.

“That looks like a Havana label on the box,” replied Prescott. “Are they genuine?”

“They ought to be genuine Havanas,” replied the General. “They cost me five dollars apiece.”

“Confederate money,” added a colonel, Stormont; “and you’ll be lucky if you get ’em next year for ten dollars apiece.”

Colonel Stormont’s eyes followed Prescott’s round the room and he laughed.

“Yes, Captain Prescott,” he said, “we are a somewhat peculiar company. There are now fourteen men in this room, but we can muster among us only twenty-one arms and twenty-four legs. It’s a sort of general assembly, and I suppose we ought to send out a sergeant-at-arms for the missing members.”

The Colonel touched his own empty left sleeve and added: “But, thank God, I’ve got my right arm yet, and it’s still at the service of the Confederacy.”

The Member of Congress, Redfield, came into the room at this moment and lighted a pipe, remarking:

“There will be no Confederacy, Colonel, unless Lee moves out and attacks the enemy.”

He said this in a belligerent manner, his eyes half closed and his chin thrust forward as he puffed at his pipe.

An indignant flush swept over the veteran’s face.

“Is this just a case of thumbs up and thumbs down?” he asked. “Is the Government to have a victory whenever it asks for it, merely because it does ask for it?”

Redfield still puffed slowly and deliberately at his pipe, and did not lower his chin a fraction from its aggravating height.

“General Lee overestimates the enemy,” he said, “and has communicated the same tendency to all his men. It’s a fatal mistake in war; it’s a fatal mistake, I tell you, sir. The Yankees fight poorly.”

The flush on the face of the Confederate colonel deepened. He tapped his empty sleeve and looked around at what he called the “missing members.”

“You are in Congress, Mr. Redfield,” he said, “and you have not seen the Yankees in battle. Only those who have not met them on the field say they cannot fight.”

“I warn you that I am going to speak in Congress on the inaction of Lee and the general sloth of the military arm!” exclaimed Redfield.

“But, Mr. Redfield,” said Prescott, seeking to soothe the Colonel and to still the troubled waters, “we are outnumbered by the enemy in our front at least two to one, we are half starved, and in addition our arms and equipment are much inferior to those of the Yankees.”

Here Redfield burst into a passion. He thought it a monstrous shame, he said, that any subaltern should talk at will about the Southern Government, whether its military or civil arm.

Prescott flushed deeply, but he hesitated for an answer. His was not a hot Southern temper, nor did he wish to have a quarrel in a club at which he was only a guest. While he sought the right words, Winthrop spoke for him.

“I think, Mr. Redfield,” said the editor, “that criticism of the Government is wholly right and proper. Moreover, not enough of it is done.”

“You should be careful, Mr. Winthrop, how far you go,” replied Redfield, “or you may find your printing presses destroyed and yourself in prison.”

“Which would prove that instead of fighting for freedom we are fighting for despotism. But I am not afraid,” rejoined the editor. “Moreover, Mr. Redfield, besides telling you my opinion of you here, I am also perfectly willing to print it in my paper. I shall answer for all that I say or write.”

Raymond was sitting at a table listening, and when Winthrop finished these words, spoken with much fire and heat, he took out a note-book and regarded it gravely.

“Which would make, according to my entry here if Mr. Redfield chooses to challenge your ninth duel for the present season,” he said.

There was an equivocal smile on the face of nearly every one present as they looked at the Member of Congress and awaited his reply. What that would have been they never knew, because just at that moment entered Mr. Sefton, breathing peace and good will. He had heard the last words, but he chose to view them in a humourous light. He pooh-poohed such folly as the rash impulses of young men. He was sure that his friend Redfield had not meant to cast any slur upon the army, and he was equally sure that Winthrop, whose action was right-minded were his point of view correct, was mistaken as to the marrow of Redfield’s speech.

The Secretary had a peculiarly persuasive power which quickly exerted its influence upon Winthrop, Stormont and all the others. Winthrop was good-natured, avowing that he had no cause of quarrel with anybody if nobody had any with him, and Redfield showed clearly his relief. It seemed to Prescott that the Member of Congress had gone further than he intended.

No breath of these stormy airs was allowed to blow from the smoking-room upon the ladies, and when Prescott presently rejoined them he found vivacity and gaiety still prevalent. Prescott’s gaze dwelt longest on Miss Harley, who was talking to the Secretary. He noted again the look of admiration in the eyes of Mr. Sefton, and that feeling of jealousy which he would not have recognized had it not been for Talbot’s half-jesting words returned to him. He would not deny to himself now that Helen Harley attracted him with singular force. There was about her an elusive charm; perhaps it was the slight trace of foreign look and manner that added to her Southern beauty a new and piquant grace.

Mr. Sefton was talking in smooth, liquid tones, and the others had drawn back a little in deference to the all-powerful official, while the girl was pleased, too. She showed it in her slightly parted lips, her vivid eyes and the keen attention with which she listened to all that he said.

Mrs. Markham followed Prescott’s look. An ironical smile trembled for a moment on her lips. Then she said:

“The Secretary, the astute Mr. Sefton, is in love.”

She watched Prescott keenly to notice the effect upon him of what she said, but he commanded his countenance and replied with a pretense of indifference:

“I think so, too, and I give him the credit of showing extremely good taste.”

Mrs. Markham said no more upon the subject, and presently Prescott asked of Miss Harley the privilege of taking her home when the club adjourned, after the universal custom among the young in Southern towns.

“My shoulder is a little lame yet, but I am sure that I shall guard you safely through the streets if you will only let me try,” he added gallantly.

“I shall be pleased to have you go,” she replied.

“I would lend you my carriage and horses,” said Mrs. Markham, who stood by, “but two of my horses were killed in front of an artillery wagon at Antietam, another fell valourously and in like manner at Gettysburg, and the fourth is still in service at the front. I am afraid I have none left, but at any rate you are welcome to the carriage.”

Prescott laughingly thanked her but declined. The Secretary approached at that moment and asked Miss Harley if he might see her home.

“I have just accepted Captain Prescott’s escort, but I thank you for the honour, Mr. Sefton,” she replied.

Mr. Sefton flashed Prescott a single look, a look that the young Captain did not like; but it was gone in a moment like a streak of summer lightning, and the Secretary was as bland and smiling as ever.

“Again do I see that we civilians cannot compete with the military,” he said.

“It was not his shoulder straps; he was quicker than you,” said Mrs. Markham with a soft laugh.

“Then I shall not be a laggard the next time,” replied the Secretary in a meaning tone.

The meeting of the club came to an end a half-hour later, but first there was a little ceremony. The coffee was brought in for the third and last time and all the cups were filled.

“To the cause!” said General Markham, the host. “To the cause that is not lost!”

“To the cause that is right, the cause that is not lost,” all repeated, and they drank solemnly.

Prescott’s feelings as he drank the toast were of a curiously mingled nature. There was a mist in his eyes as he looked upon this gathering of women and one-armed men all turning so brave a face and so bold a heart to bad fortune. And he wished, too, that he could believe as firmly as they in the justice of the cause. The recurring doubts troubled him. But he drank the toast and then prepared for departure.