A War-Time Wooing: A Story

by Charles King

  X.

  Major Abbot's stay in Boston is but brief. He had a hurried conferencewith the police late at night, after his painful interview with MissWinthrop, and there is lively effort on part of those officials to rundown the bulky stranger to whom she had intrusted that packet. There hasbeen a family conference, too, between the elders of the households ofAbbot and Winthrop, and the engagement is at an end. Coming in suddenlyfrom his club, Mr. Winthrop entered the parlor immediately after thereceipt of the telegram, and he is overwhelmed with consternation at thecondition of affairs. He has insisted on a full statement from Viva'slips, and to her mother the story has been told. She withholds no pointthat is at all material, for her pride has been humbled to the dust inthe revelation that has come to her. She is not the first woman, nor isshe at all liable to be the last, to undertake the task of championing aman against the verdict of his associates, and the story is simpleenough. With his sad, subdued manner, his air of patient suffering, andhis unobtrusive but unerring attentions, Mr. Hollins had succeeded inmaking a deep impression while they were abroad. Not that her heart wasinvolved; she protests against that; but her sympathy, her pity, wasaroused. He had never inflicted his confidences upon her, but had deftlymanaged to rouse her curiosity, and make her question. By the time theyreturned to America she believed him to be a sensitive gentleman, poor,talented, struggling, and yet burdened with the support of helplessrelatives, too distant of kin for her father's notice. She had come backall aflame with patriotic fervor, too; and his glowing words andsoldierly longings had inspired her with the belief that here was a manwho only needed a start and fair treatment to enable him to rise todistinction in his country's service. Through her father's influence hewas commissioned in the--th, then being organized, and in her friendshipshe had sought to make his path easy for him. But he was certainly deepin her confidence even then, and shrewd enough to take advantage of it.He had frequently written before, and it was not unnatural he shouldwrite after the regiment left for the front--letters which intimatedthat he was far from content among his associates, which hinted atdistress of mind because he daily saw and heard of things which wouldcause bitter sorrow to those who had the right to command his mostfaithful services. He had shown deep emotion when informed of herengagement to Mr. Abbot, and it was hard to confess this. It soon becameapparent to her that he desired her to understand that he deeply lovedher, and was deterred only by his poverty from seeking her hand. Thencame letters that were constructed with a skill that would have excitedthe envy of an Iago, hinting at other correspondences on part of Mr.Abbot and of neglects and infidelities that made her proud heart sore.Still there were no direct accusations; but, taken in connection withthe long periods of apparent silence on his part and the unloverliketone of his letters when they reached her, the hints went far toconvince her that she had promised her hand to a careless andindifferent wooer. This palliated in her mind the disloyalty of whichshe was guilty towards him, and at last, in the summer just gone, shehad actually written to Mr. Hollins for proofs of his assertions. For along time--for weeks--he seemed to hold back, but at last there camethree letters, written in a pretty, girlish hand. She shrank fromopening them, but Mr. Hollins, in his accompanying lines, simply badeher have no such compunction. They had been read by half a dozen men incamp already, and the girl was some village belle who possibly knew nobetter. She did read, just ten lines, of one of them, and was shamed ather act as she was incensed at her false _fiance_. The ten lines weresweet, pure, maidenly words of trust and gratitude for his praise of herheroic brother; and in them and through them it was easy for the womannature to read the budding love of a warm-hearted and innocent girl.

  This roused her wrath, and would have led to denunciation of him but forthe news of his wounds and danger. Then came other letters from Hollins,hinting at troubles in which he was involved; and then, right afterAntietam, he seemed to cease to write for a fortnight, and his nextletter spoke of total change in all his prospects--resignation from theservice, serious illness, possibly permanently impaired health, and thenof suffering and want. A foul accusation had been trumped up againsthim by enemies in the regiment; he was alleged to have stolen lettersbelonging to officers. In part it was true. He had bribed a servant toget those three letters which he sent her, that she might be saved fromthe fate that he dreaded for her. It was for her sake he had sinned; andnow he implored her to keep his secret, and to return to him all hisletters on that subject, as well as those he had sent as proofs. He darenot trust them to the mails, but a faithful friend, though a poor manlike himself, would come with a note from him, and he would be a trustybearer. The friend had come but the morning of Abbot's arrival. Hehumbly rang at the basement door; sent up a note; and, recognizingHollins's writing, she had gone down and questioned him. He sadly toldher that the quartermaster was in great trouble. "His enemies hadconspired against him;" his money accounts were involved, and there laythe great difficulty. Mr. Hollins would never forgive him, said the man,if he knew he was hinting at such a thing, but what he needed to helphim out of his trouble was money. It made her suspicious, but she rereadthe note. "He is devoted to me, and perfectly reliable. I have caredfor him and his sister from childhood. Do not fear to trust the letters,or anything you may write, to him."

  Mr. Hollins was too proud ever to ask for money and could notcontemplate the possibility of its being asked in his behalf, sheargued. But if anything she might write was to be trusted to themessenger, surely she could trust his statements, and so she questionedeagerly. The bearer thought a thousand dollars might be enough tostraighten everything, and she bade him be at the front of the housethat night by half after ten, to bring her a little packet he spoke ofas having received from Hollins--her own letters to him--and the moneywould be ready. There was something about the man's face and carriagethat was familiar. She could not tell where she had seen him, but feltsure that she had, and it seemed to her that it was in uniform. But hedenied having ever been in service, and seemed to shrink into shadow asthough alarmed at the idea. During the day she got the money from thebank and gave it, as Abbot saw, and then when the telegram came it allflashed across her--the messenger was indeed Rix. Rix was a deserterbeyond all peradventure. Then, doubtless, she was all wrong and Abbotall right as to the real status of Mr. Hollins. No wonder she wasoverwhelmed.

  But in all her self-abasement and distress of mind Viva Winthrop wasclear-headed on the question of the dissolution of that engagement. "Hedoes not love me and I do not deserve that he should," was her epitomeof the situation. "It will cause him no sorrow now, and it must beended." And it was. He called and asked to see her, if she felt wellenough to receive him; he acquiesced in her decision, but he wanted topart as friends. She begged to be excused, explaining that she had notleft her rooms since the night of his arrival, which was true. And now,with a heart that beats more joyously despite the major's proper andconscientious effort to believe that he is not happier in his freedom,he is hastening back to the front, for his orders have come.

  Two things remain to be attended to before reporting for duty. He makesevery effort to find Hollins's hiding-place, but without avail. MissWinthrop tells him that beyond the postmark, Baltimore, there is not aclew in any of the letters, and that they have ceased coming entirely.Rix made no mention beyond saying that he was in Baltimore among peoplewho would guard him, and Rix himself has gone--no man can say whither.

  The other matter is one to which he hastens with eager heart. Twice hehas written to Doctor Warren since their parting at Washington, and hehas asked permission to call upon them at Hastings before returning. Hisorders come before any reply. He therefore writes to Hastings the daybefore he leaves home, begging that a telegram be sent to meet him atthe Metropolitan, the war-time rendezvous of army men when in New Yorkon leave, and his face is blank with disappointment when the clerk tellshim that no telegram has been received. He has a day at his disposal,and he loses no time, but goes up the river by an afternoon train, andreturns by the evening "ac
commodation" with uneasy heart. Doctor Warrenand Miss Bessie had not yet come back was the news that met him at thepretty little homestead. The doctor had been ill in Washington, and whenhe was well enough to start the young lady was suddenly taken down.Abbot is vaguely worried. He anxiously questions the kindly oldhousekeeper, and draws from her all that she knows. She is looking forletters any moment; but the last one was from Willard's, four dayssince, saying they would have to stay. Miss Bessie was suddenly takenill. Won't the gentleman come in? and she will get the letter. He takesoff his cloak and forage cap, and steps reverently into the littlesitting-room, wherein every object is bathed in the sunshine of lateafternoon, and everywhere he sees traces of her handiwork. There on thewall is Guthrie's picture; there hangs his honored sword and the sash hewore when he led the charge at Seven Pines. With the soldier-spirit inhis heart, with the thrill of sympathy and comradeship that makes allbrave men kin, Abbot stands before that silent presentment of the man heknew at college, and slowly stretches forth his hand and reverentlytouches the sword-hilt of the buried officer. He is not unworthy; he,too, has led in daring charge, and borne his country's flag through ahell of carnage. They are brothers in arms, though one be gatheredalready into the innumerable host beyond the grave. They are comrades inspirit, though since college days no word has ever passed between them,and Abbot's eyes fill with emotion he cannot repress as he thinks howbitter a loss this son and brother has been to the stricken old fatherand fragile sister. Ah! could he but have known, that day on theMonocacy; could he but have read the truth in the old man's eyes, andaccepted as a fact his share of that mysterious correspondence ratherthan have unwillingly dealt so cruel a blow! His lips move in a short,silent prayer, that seems to well up from his very heart; and then thehousekeeper is at his side, and here is the doctor's letter. It is toomeagre of detail for his anxiety. He reads it twice, but it is all toobrief and bare. He is recalled to himself again. The housekeeper begspardon, but she is sure this must be Mr. Abbot, whose letters were soeagerly watched for all the time before they went away. She had heard inthe village he was killed, and she is all a-quiver now, as he can see,with excitement and suppressed feeling at his resurrection. Yes, this isMr. Abbot, he tells her, and he is going straight to Washington that hemay find them. And she shows him pictures of Bessie in her girlhood,Bessie at school, Bessie in the bonnie dress she wore at the Soldiers'Fair. Yes, he remembers having seen that very group before, at Edwards'sFerry, before Ball's Bluff. She prattles about Bessie, and of Bessie'sgoing for his letters, and how she cried over them. He is all sympathy,and bids her say on as he moves about the room, touching littleodds-and-ends that he knows must be hers; and he is loath to go, buteager too, since it is to carry him back to her. He writes a few lineson a card to tell them of his visit and his orders, should they fail tomeet; he begs the doctor to write, and warns him that he must expectfrequent letters; and then, with one long look about the sunlit,love-haunted room, with one appeal for brotherly sympathy in his partinggaze at Guthrie Warren's picture, he strides back to the station, and bysunrise of another day is hurrying to Washington. In his breast-pockethe carries the compact little wad of letters, all addressed to himself,all written in her own delicate and dainty hand, yet sealed from hiseyes as securely as though locked in casket of steel. Though he longsinexpressibly to read their pages and to better know the gentle soulthat has so suddenly come into his life, they are not his to open. Whatwould he not give for one moment face to face with the man who had luredand tricked her--and with his name!

  They are not at Willard's, says the clerk, when Major Abbot arrives andmakes his inquiries. The doctor paid his bill that morning and they weredriven away, but he does not think they left town. Yes, telegrams andletters both had come for the doctor, and the young lady had beenconfined to her room a few days, and was hardly well enough to bejourneying now. Abbot's orders require him to report at the WarDepartment on the following day, and he cannot go to rest until he hasfound their hiding-place. Something tells him that she has at lastdiscovered the fraud of which she has been made the victim, and he longsto find her--longs to tell her that if the real Paul Abbot can only beaccepted in lieu of the imaginary there need be no break in that strangecorrespondence; he is ready to endorse anything his fraudulent doublemay have written provided it be only love and loyalty to her.

  It is late at night before he has succeeded in finding the hack driverwho took them away, and by him is driven to the house wherein they havesought refuge. All distressed as he is at thought of their fleeing fromhim, Paul Abbot finds it sweet to sit in the carriage which less thantwelve hours ago bore her over these self-same dusty streets. He bidsthe hackman rein up when he gets to the corner, and wait for him. Thenhe pushes forward to reconnoitre. Lights are burning in many rooms, butthe neighborhood is very silent. Far down an intersecting avenue theband of some regiment is serenading a distinguished senator orrepresentative from the state from which they hail, and Abbot can hearthe cheers with which the great man is greeted as he comes forth totender his acknowledgments, and invite the officers and such of hisfellow-citizens as may honor him, to step in and "have something." It isa windy night in late October. The leaves are whirling in dusty spiralsand shutters bang with unmelodious emphasis, and all the world seemsdreary; yet, to him, with love lighting the way, with the knowledge thatthe girl he has learned to worship is here within these dull brickwalls, there is a thrill and vigor in every nerve. No light burns in thehallway; none in the lower floor of the number to which he has beendirected. He well knows it is too late to call, even to inquire forthem, but the army has moved, and at last is pushing southward again,feeling its way along the Blue Ridge, and he so well knows that themorrow must send him forward to resume his duties. If he cannot see_her_, it will be comfort, at least, to see her father. He is halfdisposed to ring and ask for him when a figure comes around aneighboring corner and bears slowly down upon him. The night lamps aredull and flickering and the stranger is a mere shadow. Where Major Abbotstands enveloped in the cloak-cape of his army overcoat there is nolight at all. Whoever may be the approaching party he has thedisadvantage of being partially visible to a watcher whose presence hecannot be aware of until close at hand. When he has come some yardsfarther Abbot is in no doubt as to his identity, and steps forward togreet him.

  "Doctor Warren, I am so glad to have found you, for I must hurry afterthe army to-morrow, and only reached Washington this evening. Tell me,how is Miss Bessie?"

  The doctor is startled, as a matter of course, but there is something inthe young soldier's directness that pleases him. Perhaps he is pleased,too, to know that his own views are correct, and that the moment PaulAbbot reached Washington he has come in search of them. He takes theproffered hand and holds it--or, rather, finds his firmly held.

  "Bessie has been ill, but is better, major; and how did you leave themall at home? I have just been taking a walk of two or three blocksbefore turning in. Fresh air is something I cannot do without. How didyou find us?"

  "By hunting up your hackman. I was grievously disappointed at notfinding you at Hastings, where I went first, or here at Willard's. Didyou not get my letters and telegrams?"

  "They were forwarded, and came last night."

  "Then you moved this morning to avoid me, doctor. Does it mean that I amto be punished for another man's crime? Guthrie's picture had no suchunfriendly welcome for me, and I do not believe you want to hide herfrom me. Tell me what it is that makes Bessie avoid me of her ownaccord. Has she heard the truth about the old letters?"

  Doctor Warren is silent a moment, looking up into the young soldier'sface. Then he more firmly grasps his hand.

  "I do _not want_ to avoid you, Abbot, but it is only natural that nowshe should find it hard to meet you. Three days after you left shecaught me fairly, and finding that the letter in my hand was yours, shenoted instantly the difference between the writing and that of theletters that came to her at home. Something else had roused hersuspicions, and I had to tell her that there
had been trickery, and shewould have no half-way explanation. She probed and questioned with a witas keen as any lawyer's. She made me confess that that was why I toldher Paul Abbot was dead when I got back to her at Frederick. He was deadto us. And so, little by little, it all came out, and she was simplystunned for a while. It made her too ill to admit of our travelling, andshe made me tell her when you were expected back, and bring her here. Ina day or two we will start homeward."

  "And meantime I shall have had to start for the front. Doctor Warren,give her this little package--her own letters. Tell her that I have readno line of one of these, but that, until I can win for myself letters inher dear hand there will be no peace or happiness for me. These are theletters that were sent to you at Frederick, with a few remorseful lines,from the scoundrel who wrought all the trouble. His original motive wassimply to injure me, in the hope that he might profit by it. He soughtto break an engagement of marriage that existed between me and MissWinthrop, of Boston. Before he succeeded in making this breach it is mybelief that he had become so touched and charmed by the letters shewrote that even his craven heart was turned to see its own baseness. Hehad every opportunity of tampering with our mail. He felt, when I wasleft wounded at the Monocacy, that that would end the play; and then, inhis despair and remorse, he deserted. He was around Frederick a day ortwo in disguise, and sought to see you and her. Failing in that, he sentyou by the landlady the packet that was afterwards taken from yourovercoat by the secret-service men; and the next thing he came within anace of being captured by his own colonel. Escaping, he was believed tobe a rebel spy, and so implicated you. It was to search for him I wassent to Boston. There Miss Winthrop formally broke our engagement, and Iwould be a free man to-day, doctor, but for your daughter; and now it isnot freedom I seek, but a tie that only death can break. You came toPaul Abbot when you thought him sorely wounded, and she came with you.Now that he is sore stricken he comes to you. If it will pain her I willask no meeting now, but don't you think I owe her a good many letters,doctor? Won't you let me pay that debt?"

  It is a long speech for Abbot, but his heart is full. The oldgentleman's sad face seems to thaw and beam under the influence of hisfrank avowal and that winning plea. Abbot has held forth his other hand,and there the two men stand, both trembling a little, under theinfluence of a deep and holy emotion, clasping each other's hands andlooking into each other's face. They are at the very door-step of theold-fashioned boarding-house which was so characteristic a feature ofthe capital in the war-days. The door itself is but a few arms'-lengthsaway, and all of a sudden it softly opens, and, with a light mantlethrown over her shoulders, a tall, slender, graceful girl comes forthupon the narrow porch.

  "Is that you, papa? I heard your step, and wondered why you remainedoutside. Was the door locked?"

  There is an instant of silence. Then a young soldier, in his staffuniform, takes three quick, springing steps, and is at her side. Thedoctor seems bent on further search for fresh air, for he turns awaywith a murmured word to his trembling companion, and Bessie Warrenfinds it impossible to retreat. Major Abbot has seized her hand, and issaying--she hardly hears, she hardly knows, what. But it is all sosudden; it is all so sweet.

  "_Then a young soldier in his staff uniform takes threespringing steps, and is at her side._"]