by Charles King
VII.
There is an air of unusual excitement about the War Department thisbright October day. It is only a month since the whole army seemedtramping through the streets on its way to the field of the Antietam;only three weeks since the news was received that Lee was beaten backacross the Potomac, and every one expected that McClellan would be hoton his trail, eager to pursue and punish before the daring Southernerscould receive accessions. But though two corps managed to reoccupyHarper's Ferry and there go into camp, the bulk of the army has remainedwhere Lee left it when he slipped from its grasp, and McClellan's cry isfor reinforcements. Three weeks of precious time slip by, and then--backcome those daredevils of Stuart's, riding with laugh and taunt and jeerall around the Union forces; and there is the mischief to pay here inWashington, for if he should take a notion to pay the capital a visit onhis homeward trip, what would the consequences be? Of course thereare troops--lots of them--all around in the fortifications. The troubleis, that we have so few cavalry, and, after all, the greatest trouble isthe old one--those fellows, Stuart and Jackson, have such a consummatefaculty of making a very little go a great way. All that is known ofStuart's present move is, that he is somewhere up the Cumberland Valley;that telegraphic communication beyond McClellan's headquarters isbroken, and that it is more than likely he will come hitherwards when hechooses to make his next start.
"_Back come those daredevils of Stuart's._"]
Going to the War Department to make inquiries for the provost-marshal,and show him Putnam's telegram, Major Abbot finds that official too busyto see him, "unless it be something urgent," says the subaltern, whoseems to be an aide-de-camp of some kind.
"I have come to show him a despatch received last night--late--fromPoint of Rocks."
"You are Major Abbot, formerly--th Massachusetts, I believe, and yourdespatch is about the missing quartermaster, is it not?"
"Yes," replies Abbot, in surprise.
"We have the duplicate of the despatch here," says the young officer,smiling. "You would know Hollins at once, would you not?"
"Yes, anywhere, I think."
"One of the secret-service men will come in to see you this morning ifyou will kindly remain at your room until eleven or twelve o'clock.Pardon me, major, you saw this Doctor Warren at Frederick, did you not?"
"Yes. The evening he came out to the field hospital."
"Did he impress you as a man who told a perfectly straight story, andproperly accounted for himself?"
"Why--You put it in a way that never occurred to me before," says themajor, in bewilderment. "Do you mean that there was anything wrong abouthim?"
"Strictly _entre nous_, major--something damnably wrong. He was allmixed up on meeting you, we are told. He claimed to have known and beenin correspondence with you, did he not?"
"Yes; he did. But--"
"That is only one of several trips he made. There are extraordinaryrumors coming in about spies around Frederick, and there seems to be anorganized gang. It is this very matter the general is overhauling now,and he gave orders that he should be uninterrupted until he had finishedthe correspondence. Will you wait?"
"Thank you, no. I believed it my duty to show him this despatch, but heknows as much as, or more than, I do. May I ask if you have any inklingof Hollins's whereabouts."
"Not even a suspicion. He simply dropped out of sight, and no man in thearmy appears to have set eyes on him since the night before Antietam.Colonel Putnam is investigating his accounts at Point of Hocks, and ismost eager to get him."
Major Abbot turns away with a heavy weight at heart. All of a suddenthere has burst upon him a complication of injustice and mystery, ofannoyance and perplexity that is hard to bear. In some way he feels thatthe disappearance of the quartermaster is a connecting link in the chainof circumstance. He associates him, vaguely, with each and every one ofthe incidents which have puzzled him within the month past--with Rix,with Doctor Warren's coming, with that cold and bitter letter from MissWinthrop, and finally with the shock and faintness that overcame thisfair young girl at sight of him.
To his father he has shown Miss Winthrop's letter, and briefly sketchedthe visit of Doctor Warren, and the sudden meeting with his daughter theevening previous. Mr. Abbot is in a whirl of indignation over theletter, which he considers an insult, but is all aflame with curiosityabout the doctor and the young lady. He has been preparing to return toBoston this very week, but is now determined to wait until he can seethese mysterious people, who are so oddly mixed up in his son's affairs.It is with some difficulty that the major prevails upon him not to writeto Miss Winthrop, and overwhelm her with reproaches. That letter must beanswered only by the man to whom it was written, says Abbot, and it isevident that he does not mean to be precipitate. He has much to thinkof, and so drives back to Willard's and betakes himself to his room,where his father awaits him, and where they are speedily joined by anofficial of the secret service, who has a host of singular questions toask about Hollins. Some of them have a tendency to make the young majorwonder if he really has been the possessor of eyes and ears, or powersof discernment, during the past winter. Then come some inquiries aboutRix. Abbot is forced to confess that he knows nothing of hisantecedents, and that he was made quartermaster-sergeant at Hollins'srequest, at a time when nobody had a very adequate idea of what hisduties might be.
"Who had charge of the distribution of the regimental mail all winterand spring?" asks the secret-service man, after looking over somememoranda.
"The quartermaster, ordinarily. The mail-bag was carried to and from therailway about thrice a week, while we were at Edward's Ferry in thefall. Rix looked after it then, and when we came down in front ofWashington the matter still remained in his hands. There was never anycomplaint, that I can remember."
"Did any of your officers besides Mr. Hollins have civilian dress ordisguise of any kind?"
"I did not know that he did--much less any of the others."
"He wore his uniform coming to the city, but would soon turn out in'cits,' and in that way avoided all question from patrols. As he gambledand drank a good deal then, we thought, perhaps, it was a rule in theregiment that officers must not wear their uniforms when on a lark ofany kind; but he was always alone, and seemed to have no associatesamong the officers. What use could he have had for false beard and wig?"
"None whatever that I know of."
"He bought them here, as we know, and, presumably, took them down tocamp with him. If he has deserted, he is probably masquerading in thatrig now. I tell you this knowing you will say nothing of it, MajorAbbot, and because I feel that you have had no idea of the realcharacter of this man, and it is time you had."
Abbot bows silently. If the detective only knew what was going on athome, how much the more would he deem the missing quartermaster asuspicious character.
Then there comes a knock at the door, and, opening it, Major Abbot findshimself face to face with the nurse whom he had seen the previousafternoon in Doctor Warren's room. She looks up into his face with asmile that betokens a new and lively interest.
"The doctor left us but a few minutes ago," she says, "and he tells memy patient is on the mend. Of course, we have said nothing to him as yetabout Miss Bessie's fainting yesterday, but--I thought you might beanxious to know how they are."
"I am indeed," says Abbot, cordially, "and thank you for coming. How isMiss Warren to-day?"
"She keeps her room, as is natural after one has been so agitated, and,of course, she does not like to speak of the matter, and has forbiddenmy telling the doctor--her father, I mean. But he will be sitting upto-morrow, probably, and--I thought you might like to see them. He issleeping quietly now."
"Yes, I want very much to see him, as soon as he is well enough to talk,and, if the young lady should be well enough to come out into the parlorthis afternoon or take the air on the piazza, will you let me know?"
The nurse's smiles of assent are beaming. Whether she, too, has seenthat photograph Abbot cannot tell. That s
he has had the femininekeenness of vision in sighting a possible romance is beyond question.The secret-service official is at Abbot's side as he turns back from thedoor.
"I shall see you again, perhaps to-morrow," he says; "meantime there isa good deal for us to do," and before the nurse has reached the sickman's door, she is politely accosted by the same urbane young man, andis by no means sorry to stop and talk with somebody about her sad-facedold patient and his wonderfully pretty daughter.
It was Abbot's purpose to devote a little time that afternoon toanswering the letter received but yesterday from Miss Winthrop. It needsno telling--the fact that there had never been a love-affair in theirengagement; and no one can greatly blame a woman who is dissatisfiedwith a loveless match. Viva Winthrop was not so unattractive as to bedestitute of all possibility of winning adorers. Indeed, there wasstrong ground for believing that she fully realized the bliss of havingat least one man's entire devotion. Whatsoever evil traits may havecropped out in Mr. Hollins's army career, _she_ had seen nothing ofthem, and knew only his thoughtful and lover-like attentions while theywere abroad, and his assiduous wooing on his return. Paul Abbot hadnever asked for her love--indeed, he had hardly mentioned the word asincidental to their engagement. Nevertheless, yielding to what she hadlong been taught to consider her fate, she had accepted the familyarrangement--and him--and was the subject of incessant and enthusiasticcongratulation. Abbot's gallant service and distinguished character asan officer had won the hearty admiration of all the circle in which shelived and moved and had her being, and she was thought an enviable girlto have won the love of so brave and so promising a man. A little morereserved and cold than ever had Miss Winthrop become, and the smile withwhich she thanked these many well-wishers was something wintry and wearyin the last degree. If he had only loved her, there might have bloomedin her heart an answering passion that would have filled her nature, andmade her proudly happy in her choice. But that he had never had for heranything more than a brother-and-sister, boy-and-girl sort ofaffection--a kind, careless, yet courteous tenderness--was something shehad to tell herself time and again, and to hear as well from the lettersof a man whose letters she should have forbidden.
Even in his astonishment at the charge brought against him, and in hisindignation at the accusation of deceit, Paul Abbot cannot but feel thatallowances must be made for Viva Winthrop. He meant to marry her, to bea loyal and affectionate husband; but he had not loved her as womenlove to be loved, and she was conscious of the lacking chord. That shehad been deceived and swindled, too, by some shameless scoundrel, andmade to believe in her _fiance's_ guilt, was another thing that wasplain to him. She had probably been told some very strong story of hisinterest in this other girl. Very probably, too, Hollins was theinformer and, presumably, the designer of the plot. Who can tell howdeep and damnable it was, since it had been carried so far as to inducethe Warrens to believe that he was the writer of scores of letters fromthe front? Then again, ever since he had raised that fainting girl inhis arms, especially ever since the moment when her lovely eyes werelifted to his face and her sweet lips murmured his name, Paul Abbot hasbeen conscious of a longing to see her again. Not an instant has he beenable to forget her face, her beauty, her soft touch; the wave of colorthat rushed to her brow as he met her at her father's door when thenurse brought her, still trembling, back to the old man's bedside. Hehad murmured some hardly articulate words, some promise of coming toinquire for her on the morrow, and bowed his adieu. But now--now, hefeels that not only Genevieve, but that Bessie Warren, too, has beenmade a victim of this scoundrel's plottings, and, though longing to seeher and hear her speak again, he knows not what to say. It was hardenough to have to deny himself to the poor old doctor when he came outto the Monocacy. _Could_ he look in her face and tell her it was all afraud; that some one had stolen and sent her his picture? some one hadstolen and used his name, and, whatsoever were the letters, all wereforgeries? No! He must wait and see Doctor Warren, and let her think himcome back to life--let her think they _were_ his letters--rather thanface her, and say it was all a lie. Yet he longs to see her once again.
But to Viva he must write without further delay. Her letterunquestionably frees him, and does it with a brusqueness that mightexcuse a man for accepting the situation without a word. If theengagement has ever been irksome to him it is now at an end, and he isin no wise responsible. Giving him no opportunity for denial, she hasaccused him of breach of faith and cast him off. Wounded pride, did helove her deeply, might now impel him to be silent. A sense of indignityand wrong might drive many a man to turn away at such a juncture, andleave to the future the unravelling of the plot. There are moments, itmust be confessed, when Major Abbot is so stung by the letter that he ishalf disposed to take it as final, and let her bear the consequences ofdiscovery of the fraud; but they are quickly followed by others in whichhe is heartily ashamed of himself for such a thought. Right or wrong,Viva Winthrop is a woman who has given her life into his hands; a womanwho has been reared in every luxury only to be denied the one luxury awoman holds most precious of all. He has not been a devoted lover anymore than he has been disloyal; and now that trouble has come to her,and she is deceived, perhaps endangered, Major Abbot quietly decidesthat the only obvious course for a gentleman to follow is to crush hispride under foot and to act and think for her. And this, after severalattempts, is what he finally writes her:
"Your letter came last night, dear Viva, and I have thought long over it before answering. It is all my fault that this constraint has hung over your letters. I have seen it for months, and yet made no effort until lately to have it explained. Long ago, had I done so, you would probably have given me the reason, and I could have assured you of the error into which you were led. Now it seems that you and I are not the only ones involved.
"Neither to Miss Warren nor any other girl have I written since our engagement; but her father has been to see me, and tell me that many letters purporting to come from me have been received, and I have hardly time to recover from that surprise when your indignant charge is added. Taken together, the two point very strongly to a piece of villainy. You could never have believed this of me, Viva, without proofs; and I feel sure that letters must have been sent to you. Now that we are pushing every effort to detect and punish the villain who has wrought this, and I fear other wrongs, such letters will be most important evidence, and I conjure you to send them to me by express at once. Father would come for them, but I need him here. I do not seek to inquire into your personal correspondence, Viva, but letters that bear upon this matter are of vital weight.
"As to my dismissal, may I not ask you to reconsider your words, and, in the light of my assurance that I am innocent of the sin with which you have charged me, permit me to sign myself, as ever, lovingly and faithfully yours? PAUL."
It is no easy letter to write. He wants to be calm and just, and thatmakes it sound cold and utterly unimpassioned. Beyond doubt she would befar happier with a fury of reproaches, cutting sarcasm, and page afterpage of indignant denial. He also wants to be tender when he thinks ofwhat he has not had to lavish on her in the past, and that prompts himto the little touch of sentiment at the close--a touch that is perhapsunwarranted by the facts in the case. There is a third matter, one thathe does not want to mention at all, a name he hates to put on any pageaddressed to her; but he knows that it is due her she should be told thetruth, and at last, just as sunset is coming, he adds a postscript:
"I feel that I must tell you that Mr. Hollins has been missing ever since Antietam, under circumstances that cloud his name with grave suspicion. It is no longer concealed that his conduct and character have left him practically friendless in the regiment, and that he could not long have retained his position. He is not worthy the friendship you felt for him, Viva; of that I am certain."
He is still pondering over this when his father comes in for a
word ortwo.
"I am going over to call at Doctor Warren's room and ask how he is.Possibly he may be able to see me. Have you written to--"
And he stops. He does not feel like saying "Viva" to or of the girl whohas so misjudged his boy.
Abbot holds up the letter and its addressed envelope.
"Yes, and it must go at once or miss the mail."
"I'll post it for you, then, as I have to go to the office a moment,"is the answer, and the elder stands looking at his son, while the latterquickly scans the last page, then folds and encloses it. Paul smilesinto his father's eyes as he hands it, and the letter-bearer goesbriskly away.
His footsteps have hardly become inaudible when there is a tap at thedoor, and behold! the nurse.
"You told me you would like to know when Miss Warren came out, major.She is on the veranda now."