A TANGLED WEB.

A STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR.

By General CHARLES KING.

CHAPTER III.

THE news of the fall of Sumter-the affront to the flag-came to the men of the North like a slap in the face. New York City blazed with instant patriotism. Every staff, spire, tower and public building threw to the breeze the stars and stripes. Bunting within twenty-four hours commanded a fabulous price, and Broadway went mad in a riot of brilliant hues. Men and women-even children-who did not wear in some outward form the badge of loyalty to the nation were not infrequently called on to "show their colors." And those who had dared to wear, almost unrebuked, the miniature flag of secession, dared no longer, for the North was roused at last.

Even at "Southern Headquarters," as they now called Cranston's famous old red-brick hostelry-even in their delirious hour of temporary triumph, men spoke with bated breath and cautious tone. The angering eyes of the throng on the street without boded ill for the peace and security of those within, and there was wisdom in the whispered order that sent a strong detachment of detectives in plain clothes to hover about the obnoxious building, while in doubled numbers the Metropolitan police kept the crowds moving and broke up incipient mobs. Given half a chance-and a leader-there is little doubt that the hotel would have been rendered untenable as Sumter and in far less time. On the almost summerlike Sunday preceding the bombardment it was considered safe, as it was saucy, for men and women both to sport the "stars and bars." There had been something fine, daring and defiant about it to the mind of the unthinking, but, in the twinkling of an eye, all this was changed. There were women, of course, who, relying upon the immunity of the sex and the chivalry of American manhood, did not scruple to appear at certain social functions still wearing their cherished badge and talking bravely of the wrongs and the determination of the South. But Southern

sympathizers who read the signs aright stood astounded, if not dismayed, at such overwhelming evidence of loyalty to the old flag. This was not what leaders of the Northern Democracy had promised. The masses as well as the elect were filled with sudden craze for action, when but the week gone by they seemed passive and inert. So far from submitting to the will of the South, the people had risen in a passion of protest, and all too late the leaders of secession found that, cold, dull, undemonstrative as it had appeared, the Northland loved the Union with a devotion all the deeper for its silence, and that it would fight for, what it loved, relentless and to the bitter end. At the New York Club the situation had been epitomized in two sen

tences:

"Nothing short of a miracle will make the average Yankee fight," said Wallis, the very day that brought the news.

"And nothing short of annihilation will make him quit," was the spirited reply.

On Saturday, the 13th of April, the flag was lowered on the battered walls of Sumter. On Monday, the 15th, it was hoisted by tens of thousands all over the North, and the President called for seventy-five thousand volunteers to defend it. Seventy-five thousand! when by hundreds of thousands, untaught, untried, but firm and resolute the men of the North sprang to arms and almost fought for the privilege to be first in the fight for the flag. On Tuesday the loyal States were wiring their pledges of fealty and their promises of troops. On Wednesday the drum beat was heard in every armory in the Northern cities, and the regiments of New England and the Middle States were mustering for battle. In their quaint, high, oldfashioned shakos and long blue overcoats, the thronging ranks of the Sixth and Eighth Massachusetts marched through New York, cheered and fêted by countless multitudes. Through dense masses of humanity, women weeping, men hoarsely shouting, New York's magnificent Seventh, first offering of the Empire State, strode down Broadway to the Cortlandt Ferry, and were lost in the darkness of the Jersey shore. In all its history Gotham had never known such a day. The flower of its young manhood, the best blood, the oldest names, the first families were represented on the rolls. The night that followed was not one for merrymaking. Even in the homes. of well-known Southern sympathizers-even in the mansion of a family but recently removed from the Gulf coast and introduced to society through the medium of Brown's list and a big ball-lights were turned low, curtains were drawn. There was that in the air that prompted caution, and invitations to even quiet home gatherings had been recalled. A Columbia senior who had strutted the length of

Fifth Avenue the week before, thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and the badge of Georgia on his breast, stood close mouthed and as close buttoned in his snug-fitting sack coat at the corner of Fourteenth street, the device of the "Delta Sigs" upon his lapel, but indecision in his breast. It was the night for their regular meeting, but even fraternal relations had seemed strained since the firing on the Star of the West, and now stood threatened with open rupture. Fifth Avenue was still alive with people, moving restlessly hither and yon, and as the young student gazed uneasily about him, half stunned by the outpouring that boded ill for "the States in rebellion," he could count within the radius of a single block no less than a dozen homes within whose portals he had been a welcome visitor but the month before, from within whose portals there had gone that day sons and brothers in the uniform of the Seventh. How could they welcome him to-night?-he who, Northern born and bred, had lost his heart in the Sunny South, and for the sake of the girl who won it, had apparently lost his head!

Halted there, nervous, troubled, irresolute, he started when a hand was passed within his arm-a slender little hand, daintily glovedand whirling about, he pulled off his Amidon cap, the college headgear of the day, and bowed with ill-concealed agitation. There stood Ethel Rutherford, leaning on the arm of the blue-eyed officer he had met at the Leroys, and Ethel's fair face was full of sadness.

"I so hoped you'd come this evening, Jimmy," said she, in low, gentle tone. "You and poor Gerald were such friends. You know Mr. Hoyt, I think," whereat the cavalryman gravely touched his hat, but sent the hand no further. "Mother, too, would be so glad if you could come in and comfort him."

"I didn't know-or rather I supposed-of course he'd-"

"Gone with his regiment?-Gerald?-Why, Jimmy! Hadn't you heard?" and Miss Rutherford's pretty lips were twitching piteously. "He's almost heartbroken," she went on, presently, striving to control herself. "Mother swooned when he told her the Seventh were ordered off, and that meant him, too, and then- Oh, I can't talk of it here! but Dr. Tracy solemnly declared it would kill her if he went, and he's locked himself in his own room. Can't you go to him?" "I'd go, Miss Rutherford, if—if— But he'll no more see me than -anybody!" answered Granger, in deep embarrassment; then, plunging further into the mire, haplessly added, "Can't Barclay- Oh, I beg pardon!"

Even in the dim light they saw the swift color mantle her cheek. "Mr. Barclay has gone with the Seventh. That's what is even harder perhaps," said she.

"Why, I didn't know he belonged to the Seventh!" began Granger, grateful for anything to turn the talk to less trying topics.

"He didn't. He went in Gerald's place-almost in his shoes," she answered, with an attempt at gaiety. "At least he wore Gerald's overcoat. He couldn't begin to button his gray jacket around him. You will come, won't you. Listen, I'm going for Lorna now. Mother's almost crying to see her."

Up to this moment Lieutenant Hoyt had been standing in civil, patient silence, yet the light cane he carried was switching nervously. Now he suddenly spoke. "Pardon me, Miss Rutherford, if I suggest that now you might accomplish both ends in one. Why not let Mr. Granger bear your mother's message, and be Miss Brenham's escort ?"

"Oh, would you, Jimmy?" asked Miss Rutherford, impulsively, eagerly, and Granger's sombre eyes looked up in quick suspicion. "It is only to 16th street, but, of course, you know-and really I ought to hasten back to mother," was her hurried explanation.

"I'll bear the message and offer my services with pleasure," said Granger, trying hard not to show with how much pleasure, "butwill you? do you think Gerald will care to see me?"

"Come in-anyway," was the answer, as they parted, and Granger, hurrying on his mission, came face to face at the very next corner with Captain Wallis, whom, in his haste and eagerness, he would gladly have avoided. Wallis was dressed with even more than the usual care, and wore at his buttonhole a little knot of ribbon in the national colors. Granger would have passed him by with only a nod, but the elder and brainier man willed it otherwise, and barred his path.

"What, what, what?" he asked, in feigned displeasure. "A Granger-and undecorated with the red, white and blue! Whither away. lad? and why this haste?-and why no colors? Have we not all to show the symbol of our serfdom to Uncle Sam ?"

"I don't believe in wearing my heart upon my sleeve, nor in being compelled to show my colors, Captain Wallis," answered Granger, icily. "I am on an errand for Mrs. Rutherford, and must hurry."

"I only stopped you, because if I don't a dozen will, James, my lad. Follow my advice-and example. Swing your colors on the outer wall! What's the odds, my boy?-they're the same for both sides!" and then Granger realized that the captain had been dining lavishly for he swayed slightly and his eyes were clouded. "For Mrs. Rutherford, said you, James, and do you return thither?"

"Presently-possibly, at least, Captain Wallis, and now if you'll excuse me-"

"Not now so easily as I will a bit later, James, if you happen to be there when I am announced. You needn't mention it, of course, but just then, Jimmy, you emulate your bi-biblical namesake and be one James the less. Pardon the bluntness of the soldier, Jimmy. Au revoir."

But in anger now young Granger had brushed by and disappeared among the moving groups along the avenue. Wallis looked after him a moment, an almost scornful smile on his handsome, highbred face; then glanced at his watch and went sauntering southward. He was in civilian dress, for even in those days one rarely saw Harold Wallis in the garb of his profession except on parade or officerof-the-day duty at the Island. Ever since the return of the Star of the West from her luckless attempt to reinforce Major Anderson in Charleston Harbor an unusual number of officers and men had been camped or quartered about Fort Columbus and Castle William. Duty had been light, and the officers had spent much time in town. They came by twos or threes as a rule, the exception being in the case of Wallis. He preferred to cruise alone. A fluent talker, a man of travel, information, some reading and ready wit, gifted with a fine presence and admirable self poise and possession, above all, with that quality which tells in social as it does in business life, and which we call push, Harold Wallis, despite his cynicism, his apparent disdain of his profession, his brother officers and especially his superiors, was more sought after in society, bidden to more dinners and dances, than any man of his cloth in that day and generation; this, too, after men at the Union Club had begun to "cold shoulder" him, and others to look askance. He was a favorite among the women, especially the younger matrons, and that established him. "A squire of dames" they called him in the Seventh. Earnest amateurs were they at the old armory over Tompkins Market, and liked not his lofty contempt or gay disdain for all the details of the military art, the more so because even his enemies in the Army, and they were many, were fain to admit that he was a master. Wallis was a brilliant officer, a rare commander on the drill ground when he once drew sword, a graceful, admirable horseman, a keen shot with the old dueling pistols he cherished among his possessions, an agile swordsman, a rather friendly and considerate fellow among the young officers, but a veritable thorn in the flesh to all his seniors.

Even in the week of gloom that preceded the fall of the flag at Sumter, Gotham was laughing over the story told of Wallis and an irate, if only temporary, post commander. The colonel, whom even Wallis held in respect, had been summoned to Washington, and his mantle had fallen for the time, at least, on the shoulders of a testy,