by Charles King
V.
To say that Paul Abbot was made very happy over his most unexpectedpromotion would be putting it mildly. He hates to leave the oldregiment, but he has done hard fighting, borne several hard knocks, isstill weak and shaky from recent wounds; and to be summoned toWashington, there to meet his proud father, and to receive hisappointment as assistant adjutant-general from the hands of the mostdistinguished representative "in Congress assembled" of hisdistinguished state, is something to put new life into a young soldier'sheart. Duties for him there are none at the moment: he is to get strongand well before again taking the field, and, for the time being, he isoccupying a room at Willard's adjoining that of his father. His arm isstill in a sling; his walk is still slow and somewhat painful; he hasordered his new uniform, and meantime has procured the staffshoulder-straps and buttons, and put them on his sack-coat; he has hadmany letters to write, and much pleasant congratulation and complimentto acknowledge; and so the three or four days succeeding his arrivalpass rapidly by. One afternoon he returns from a drive with his father;they have been out to visit friends in camp, and talk over home news,and now he comes somewhat slowly up the stairs of the crowded hotel tothe quiet of the upper corridors. He smiles to himself at the increasingease with which he mounts the brass-bound steps, and is thankful for thehealth and elasticity returning to him. He has just had the obnoxiousbeard removed, too; and freshly shaved, except where his blond mustacheshades the short upper lip, with returning color and very bright, cleareyes, the young major of staff is a most presentable-looking youth as hestops a moment to rest at the top of the third flight. His undressuniform is decidedly becoming, and all the more interesting because ofthe sling that carries his wounded arm. And now, after a moment'sbreathing-spell, he walks slowly along the carpeted corridor, and turnsinto the hallway leading to his own room. Along this he goes some twentypaces or more, when there comes quickly into view from a side gallerythe figure of a tall, slight, and graceful girl. She has descended somelittle flight of stairs, for he could hear the patter of her slipperedfeet, and the swish of her skirts before she appeared. Now, with rapidstep she is coming straight towards him, carrying some little glassphials in her hand. The glare of the afternoon sun is blazing in thestreet, and at the window behind her. Against this glare she is revealedonly _en silhouette_. Of her features the young soldier can see nothing.On the contrary, as he is facing the light, Major Abbot realizes thatevery line of his countenance is open to her gaze. Before he has time tocongratulate himself that recent shaving and the new straps have madehim more presentable, he is astonished to see the darkly-outlined figurehalt short: he sees the slender hands fly up to her face in sudden panicor shock; crash go the phials in fragments on the floor, and the younglady, staggering against the wall, is going too--some stifledexclamation on her lips.
Abbot is quick, even when crippled. He springs to her side just in timeto save. He throws his left arm around her, and has to hug her close toprevent her slipping through his clasp--a dead weight--to the floor. Shehas fainted away, he sees at a glance, and, looking about him, he findsa little alcove close at hand; he knows it well, for there on the sofahe has spent several restful hours since his arrival. Thither hepromptly bears her; gently lays her down; quickly opens the window togive her air; then steps across the hall for aid. Not a soul is insight. His own room is but a few paces away, and thither he hastens;returns speedily with a goblet of ice-water in his hand, and a slenderflask of cologne tucked under his arm. Kneeling by the sofa, he gentlyturns her face to the light, and sprinkles it with water; then bathes,with cologne, the white temples and soft, rippling, sunny hair. Howsweet a face it is that lies there, all unconscious, so close to hisbeating heart! Though colorless and marble-like, there is beauty inevery feature, and signs of suffering and pain in the dark circles aboutthe eyes and in the lines at the corners of the exquisite mouth. Even ashe clumsily but most assiduously mops with his one available hand andlooks vaguely around for feminine assistance, Major Abbot is consciousof a feeling of proprietorship and confidence that is as unwarranted,probably, as it is new. 'Tis only a faint, he is certain. She will cometo in a moment, so why be worried? But then, of course, 'twill beembarrassing and painful to her not to find some sympathetic female faceat hand when she does revive; and he looks about him for a bell-rope:none nearer than the room, and he hates to leave her. At last comes alittle shivering sigh, a long gasp. Then he holds the goblet to her lipsand begs her to sip a little water, and, somehow, she does, and withanother moment a pair of lovely eyes has opened, and she is gazingwildly into his.
"Lie still one minute," he murmurs. "You have been faint; I will bringyour friends."
But a little hand feebly closes on his wrist. She is trying to speak;her lips are moving, and he bends his handsome head close to hers;perhaps she can tell him whom to summon.
But he starts back, amazed, when the broken, half-intelligible, almostinaudible words reach his ears,
"Paul! Papa--said--you were killed. Oh! he will be so glad!"
And then comes a burst of tears.
"_Then bathes, with cologne, the white temples and soft,rippling, sunny hair._"]
Abbot rises to his feet and hurries into the hall. He is bewildered byher words. He feels that it must be some case of mistaken identity,but--how strange a coincidence! Close by the fragments of the phials hefinds a door key and the presumable number of her room. Only ten stepsaway from the little flight of stairs he finds a corresponding door,and, next, an open room. Looking therein, he sees a gentle, matronlywoman seated by a bedside, slowly fanning some recumbent invalid. Sheputs her fingers on her lips, warningly, as she sees the uniform at herdoor.
"Do not wake him, it is the first sound sleep he has had for days," shesays. "Is this the army doctor?"
"No," he whispers, "a young lady has just fainted down in the nextcorridor. Her room adjoins this. Do you know her?"
"Oh, Heaven! I might have known it. Poor child, she is utterly worn out.This is her father. Will you stay here just a few moments? His son was asoldier, too, and was killed--and so was her lover--and it has nearlykilled the poor old gentleman. I'll go at once."
Still puzzling over his strange adventure, and thinking only of thesweet face of the fainting girl, Abbot mechanically takes the fan thenurse has resigned and slowly sweeps the circling flies away. Theinvalid lies on his right side with his face to the wall; but the soft,curling gray hair ripples under the waves of air stirred by the languidmovement of the fan. The features have not yet attracted his attention.He is listening intently for sounds from the corridor. His thoughts arewith the girl who has so strangely moved him; so strangely called hisname and looked up into his eyes with a sweet light of recognition inhers--with a wild thrill of delight and hope in them, unless all signsdeceive him. The color, too, that was rushing into her face, the suddenstorm of emotion that bursts in tears; what meant all this--all this ina girl whom never before had he seen in all his life? Verily, strangeexperiences were these he was going through. Only a week or so beforehad not that gray-haired old doctor shown almost as deep an emotion onmeeting him at Frederick? And was he not prostrated when assured of hismistake, and was it not hard to convince him that the letters to whichhe persistently referred were forgeries? Some scoundrel who claimed toknow his son was striving to bleed him for money, probably, and using,of all others, the name of Paul Abbot. And this poor old gentleman herehad also lost a son, and the sweet, fragile-looking girl a lover! Howpeacefully the old man sleeps, thinks Abbot, as he glances a momentaround the room. There are flowers on the table near the open window;books, too, which, perhaps, she had tried to read aloud. The windowopens out over Pennsylvania Avenue, and the hum and bustle of thronginglife comes floating up from below; a roar of drums is growing louderevery minute, and presently bursts upon the ear as though, just issuingfrom a neighboring street, the drummers were marching forth upon theavenue. Abbot glances at his patient, fearful lest the noise should wakehim, but he sleeps the sleep of exhausted nature, and t
he soldier in histemporary nurse prompts him to steal to the window and look down uponthe troops. They are marching south, along Fourteenth Street--a regimentgoing over to the fortifications beyond the Long Bridge, and, after aglance, Abbot steps quickly back. On the table nearest the window lies adainty writing-case, a woman's, and the flap is down on a half-finishedletter. On the letter, half disclosed, is the photograph of an officer.It is strangely familiar as Abbot steps towards it. Then--the roar ofthe drums seems deafening; the walls of the little room seem turningupside down; his brain is in some strange and sudden whirl; but there inhis hands he holds, beyond all question--his own picture--a photographby Brady, taken when he was in Washington during the previous summer. Hehas not recovered his senses when there is an uneasy movement at thebed. The gray-haired patient turns wearily and throws himself on theother side, and now, though haggard and worn with suffering, there is noforgetting that sorrow-stricken old face. In an instant Major Abbot hasrecognized his visitor of the week before. There before him lies DoctorWarren. Who--_who_ then is _she_?