A War-Time Wooing: A Story

by Charles King

  VI.

  Sitting by the open window and looking out over the bustling streetMajor Abbot later in the evening is trying to collect his senses andconvince himself that he really is himself. "It never rains but itpours," and events have been pouring upon him with confusing rapidity.Early in the summer he had noted an odd constraint in the tone of thefew letters that came from Miss Winthrop. That they were few and farbetween was not in itself a matter to give him much discomfort. Fromboyhood he had been accustomed to the household cry that at some time inthe future--the distant future--Viva Winthrop was to be his wife. He hadknown her quite as long as he had been conscious of his own existence,and the relations between the families were such as to render thealliance desirable. Excellent friends were the young people as they grewto years of discretion, and, in the eyes of parents and intimateacquaintances, no formal betrothal was ever necessary, simply because"it was such an understood thing." For more than a year previous to theoutbreak of the war, however, Miss Winthrop was in Europe, and much ofthe time, it was said, she had been studying. So had Mr. Hollins, whowithdrew from Harvard in his second year and read law assiduously in theoffice of Winthrop & Lawrence, and then went abroad for his health. Theyreturned on the Cunarder in the early part of April, and Mrs. Winthropwas ill from the time she set foot on the saloon deck until they sightedthe State House looming through the fog, and nothing could have beenmore fortunate than that Mr. Hollins was with them--he was so attentive,so very thoughtful. When he wasn't doing something for her he waspromenading with Viva on deck or bundling that young lady in warm wrapsand hedging her in a sunny corner. Pity that Mr. Hollins was so poor andrather obscure in his family--his immediate family--connections. Hismother was Mr. Winthrop's first cousin, and she had been very fond ofMr. Winthrop when she was a child, and he had befriended her son when afriend was needed. She died years ago, and no one knew just when herhusband followed her. He was a person no one ever met, said Mrs.Winthrop, a man who had a singular career, was an erratic genius, andvery dissipated. But he was a very fascinating person, she understood,in his younger days, and his son was most talented and deserving, butentirely out of the question as an intimate or associate. Viva would notbe apt to see anything of him after their return; but the question neverseemed to occur to her, how much had the daughter been influenced bytheir frequent companionship abroad? It really mattered nothing. Vivawas to marry Revere Abbot, as Mrs. Winthrop preferred to call him, andsuch was distinctly the family understanding. Miss Winthrop had beenhome but a few weeks when all the North was thrilled by the stirringcall for volunteers, and the old Bay State responded, as was to beexpected of her. In the --th Massachusetts were a score of officers, ashas been said, whose names were as old as the colony and whose familyconnections made them thoroughly well known to each other at theearliest organization of the command. That Paul Abbot should be amongthe first to seek a commission as a junior lieutenant was naturallyexpected. Then with all possible hesitancy and delicacy, after afeminine council in the family, his mother asked him if he did not thinkthere ought to be some distinct understanding about Viva Winthrop beforehe went away to the front. The matter was something that he had thoughtof before she went to Europe, but believed then that it could wait, Nowthat she had returned, improved both physically and intellectually, Mr.Abbot had once or twice thought that it would not be long before hewould be asked some such question as his mother now propounded, butagain decided that it was a matter that could be deferred. They had metwith much hearty cordiality, and called each other Paul and Viva, asthey had from babyhood, and then she had a round of social duties and hebecame absorbed in drills, day and night, and they saw very little ofeach other--much less than was entirely satisfactory to the parentalcouncils, and these were frequent. While the masters of the householdsof Abbot and Winthrop seldom interchanged a word on the subject, theyhad their personal views none the less; and, as to the mothers, theirhearts had long been set upon the match. Miss Winthrop had abundantwealth in her own right. Paul Abbot's blood was blue as the doctrinesof the Puritans. Without being a beauty in face or form, Miss Winthropwas unquestionably distinguished-looking, and her reputation for acertain acerbity of temper and the faculty of saying cutting things didnot materially lower her value in the matrimonial market. There was,however, that constantly recurring statement, "Oh, she's engaged to PaulAbbot," and that, presumably, accounted for the lack of those attentionsin society which are so intangible when assailed, and yet leave such avoid when omitted. Mrs. Abbot put it very plainly to Paul when she said:

  "Everybody considers her as virtually engaged to you and expects you tolook after her. That is why I say it is due to her that you shouldarrive at some understanding before your orders come."

  Paul had come up from camp that day--a Saturday afternoon--and he stoodthere in the old family gathering room, a very handsome young soldier.He had listened in silence and respect while his mother spoke, butwithout much sign of responsive feeling. When she had finished he lookedher full in the face and quietly said:

  "And is there any other reason, mother?"

  Mrs. Abbot flushed. There was another reason, and one that after muchmental dodging both she and Mrs. Winthrop had been compelled to admit toeach other within a very few days. Mr. Hollins was constantly findingmeans to come over to the city and see Miss Winthrop, and the ladiescould not grapple with the intricacies of a military problem whichpermitted one officer to be in town three or four days a week and keptthe others incessantly drilling at camp. Mrs. Abbot, motherlike, hadmore than once suggested to her son that he ought to be able to visittown more frequently, and on his replying that it was simply impossible,and that none of the officers could leave their duties, had triumphantlypointed to Mr. Hollins.

  "But he is quartermaster," said Paul, "and has to come on business."

  "He manages to combine a good deal of pleasure with his business," wasthe tentative response, and Abbot knew that he was expected to ask thenature of Mr. Hollins's pleasures. He was silent, however, much to hismother's disappointment, for he had heard from other sources of thefrequency with which Mr. Hollins and Miss Winthrop were seen together.Finding that he would not ask, Mrs. Abbot was compelled to suppress theinclination she felt to have her suspicions dragged to light. She wishedhe had more curiosity, or jealousy, or something; but in its absence shecould only say,

  "Well, I wish you were quartermaster, that's all."

  And now that he _had_ asked her if there were no other reason, there wassomething in his placid tone she did not like. A month agone she wantedhim to know of Mr. Hollins's evident attentions to Genevieve because itwould probably, or possibly, spur him into some exertion on his ownaccount. Now that she felt sure he had heard of it, and it had notspurred him, she was as anxious to conceal the fact that, both to Mrs.Winthrop and herself, these attentions were becoming alarming. If he did_not_ care for Viva, the chances were that so soon as he found thatpublic attention had been drawn to her acceptance of such devotions,Paul would drop the matter entirely, and that would be a calamity.Knowing perfectly well, therefore, what was in his mind when he askedthe question, Mrs. Abbot parried the thrust. Though she flushed, andher voice quivered a little, she looked him straight in the face.

  "There is, Paul. I--think she has a right to expect it of you;that--that she does expect it."

  Abbot looked with undisguised perplexity into his mother's face.

  "You surprise me very much, mother; I cannot, see how Viva would betraysuch an idea, even if she had it; it is not like her."

  "Women see these things where men cannot," was the somewhat sententiousreply. "Besides, Paul--"

  "Well, mother, besides--?"

  "Mrs. Winthrop has told me as much."

  That evening, before returning to camp, Lieutenant Abbot went round thesquare--or what is the Bostonian equivalent therefor--and surprised MissWinthrop with a call. He told her what he had not told his mother, thatColonel Raymond that morning received a telegram from Washington sayingthat on the following Tuesd
ay they must be in readiness to start.

  "We have been good friends always, Viva," he said; "but you have beensomething more to me than that. I did not mean to make so sudden anavowal, but soldiers have no time to call their own just now, and everyhour has been given up to duty with the regiment. Now this sharp summonscomes and I must go. If I return, shall we--" (he had almost said,"shall we fulfil our manifest destiny, and make our parents happy?" buthad sense enough to realize that she was entitled to a far more personalproposition). He broke off nervously.

  "You have always been so dear to me, Viva. Will you be my wife?"

  She was sitting on the sofa, nervously twisting the cords of a fan inand out among her slender white fingers. Her eyes were downcast and hercheeks suffused. For an instant she looked up and a question seemedtrembling on her lips. She was a truthful woman and no coward. There wassomething she was entitled to know, something the heart within hercraved to know, yet she knew not how to ask, or, if she did, was tooproud to frame the words, to plead for that thing of all others which awoman prizes and glories in, yet will never knowingly beg of anyman--his honest and outspoken love. She looked down again, silent.

  His tone softened and his voice quivered a little as he bent over her.

  "Has any one else won away the heart of my little girl-love?" he asked."We were sweethearts so long, Viva; but have you learned to care forsome other?"

  "No. It--it is not that."

  "Then cannot you find a little love for me left over from the childishdays? You were so loyal to me then, Viva--and it would make our homepeople so happy."

  "I suppose it might--them."

  "Then promise me, dear; I go so soon, and--"

  She interrupted him now, impetuously. Looking straight up into his eyes,she spoke in low, vehement tone, rapidly, almost angrily.

  "On this condition, Paul; on this condition. You ask me to be your wifeand--and I suppose it is what is expected of us--what you have expectedall along, and are entitled to an answer now. Promise me this, if everyou have a thought for another woman, if ever you feel in your heartthat perhaps another girl would make you happier, or if--if you feel thefaintest growing fancy for another, that you will tell me."

  He smiled gravely as he encircled her in his arm. She drew back, but heheld her.

  "Why, Viva, I have never had a thought for any other girl. I simplythought you might care for some one more than you did for me. It issettled, then--I promise," and he bent and softly kissed her.

  They met again--twice--before the regiment took the cars. It had beensettled that no announcement of the engagement should be made, but thereare some secrets mothers cannot keep, and there were not lacking men andwomen to obtrude premature "congratulations" even on the day she camewith mothers, sisters, cousins, and sweethearts by the score to witnessthe presentation of colors and say adieu. That afternoon the regimentalquartermaster returned from the city after a stay of thirty-six hours,thirty of which were unauthorized, and it was rumored that ColonelRaymond was very angry and had threatened extreme measures. It was thisprospect, possibly, that shrouded Mr. Hollins's face in gloom, but mostpeople were disposed to think that he had taken the engagement very muchto heart. There were many who considered that, despite the fact of hislack of fortune, birth, and "position," Mr. Hollins had been treatedvery shabbily by the heiress. There were a few who said that but for his"lacks" she would have married him. What she herself said was somethingthat caused Mr. Abbot a good deal of wonderment and reflection.

  "Paul, I want you to promise me another thing. Mr. Hollins has very fewfriends in the regiment. He is poor, sensitive, and he feels it keenly.He is our kinsman, though distant, and he placed me under obligationsabroad by his devotion to mother, and his courtesy to me when we neededattention. He thinks you dislike him, as well as many of the others.Remember what he is to us, and how hard a struggle he has had, and bekind to him--for me."

  And though his college remembrances of Mr. Hollins were not tinged withromance, Paul Abbot was too glad and proud in the thought of going tothe front--too happy and prosperous, perhaps, to feel anything but pityfor the quartermaster's isolation. He made the promise, and found itsfulfilment, before they had been away a fortnight, a very irksome thing.Hollins fairly lived at his tent and better men kept away. Graduallythey had drifted apart. Gradually the feeling of coldness and aversionhad become so marked that he could not conceal it; and finally, afterone of the frequent lapses of which the quartermaster was guilty, therehad come rupture of all social relations, and the only associate left toMr. Hollins was the strange character whom he had foisted upon theregiment at its organization--the quondam quartermaster-sergeant, Rix.

  But in all the marching and fighting of the battle summer of '62, thesethings were of less account than they had been during the inaction ofthe winter and early spring, until, at the Monocacy, Mr. Abbot'scuriosity was excited by the singular language used by Rix when orderedunder guard. What could such a man as he have to do with the affairs,personal or professional, of the officers of the regiment? It was rabidnonsense--idle boasting, no doubt; and yet the new-made major found thatmelodramatic threat recurring to his mind time and again.

  Another thing that perplexed him was the fact already alluded to, thatduring the winter Viva's letters, never too frequent or long, had begunto grow longer as to interval and shorter as to contents. He madeoccasional reference to the fact, but was referred to the singularcircumstance that "he began it." Matters were mended for a while, thendrifted into the old channel again. Then came the stirring incidents ofJune; the sharp, hard marches of July and August; the thrilling battlesof Cedar Mountain and Second Bull Run; and he felt that his letters werehardly missed. Then came the dash at Turner's Gap; his wounds, rest,recovery, and promotion. But there was silence at home. He had notmissed _her_ letters before. Now he felt that they ought to come, andhad written more than once to say so.

  And now, alone in his room, he is trying to keep cool and clear-headed;to fathom the mystery of his predicament before going to his father andtelling him that between Genevieve Winthrop and himself there has arisena cloud which at any moment may burst in storm.

  Her letter--the first received since Antietam--he has read over time andagain. It must be confessed that there is a good deal therein to angeran honest man, and Abbot believes he is entitled to that distinction:

  "You demand the reason for my silence, and shall have it. I did not wish to endanger your recovery, and so have kept my trouble to myself, but now I write to tell you that the farce is ended. You have utterly broken your promise; I am absolved from mine. The fact that you could find time to write day after day to Miss Warren, and neglect me for weeks, would in itself be justification for demanding my release from an engagement you have held so lightly. But that you should have sought and won another's love even while your honor was pledged to me, is _more_ than enough. I do not ask release. I break the bond--once and for all.

  "You will have no place to receive your letters at the front. They, with your ring, and certain gifts with which you have honored me from time to time, will be found in a packet which is this day forwarded to your mother.

  "GENEVIEVE WINTHROP."

  Abbot is seated with his head buried in his hands. That name again! thegirl who fainted at sight of him! the old man who was prostrate at hisdenial on the Monocacy! the picture of himself in _her_ desk! and now,this bitter, insulting letter from the woman who was to have been hiswife! Rix's words at the field hospital!--what in Heaven's name can itall mean? What network of crime and mystery is this that is thrownaround him?

  There is a sudden knock at the door--a negro waiter with a telegram:

  "POINT OF ROCKS, MD., _Oct._ --, 1862.

  "Major PAUL R. ABBOT, Willard's Hotel, Washington:

  "Hollins still missing; believed
to have followed you to Washington. Use every effort to secure arrest.

  "PUTNAM."