by Charles King
VIII.
Throwing over his shoulders the cape of his army overcoat, Major Abbothastens from his room in the direction of the little gallery or verandaat the side of the house. Evening is just approaching, and the lightsare beginning to twinkle on the broad avenue below. He has not yet hadtime to determine upon his course of conduct. If, as he begins tosuspect, it is Bessie Warren who received all those guileful letters,his will be a most difficult part to play. He longs to speak with her aswell as to see her, but at this moment he knows not what may be expectedof him, and, rather than have to inflict mortification or pain upon sosweet a girl, he is almost ready to wish that it had been his privilegeto write to her. The fact that her father was so overcome at his denial,the fact that she fainted at sight of him, the fact that her first wordson reviving were to the effect that her father had told her Paul Abbotwas dead--all seemed to point to the conclusion that she had receivedlove-letters, and that she had become deeply interested in her unseencorrespondent. It would be no difficult matter to act the lover, andendorse anything these letters might have said to such a girl, thinksAbbot, as he hastens along the carpeted corridor, but then there is hisletter to Viva; there is the fact that he has virtually declined torelease her. It is this thought that suddenly "gives him pause," and, atthe very moment that he comes to the doorway leading to the veranda,causes him to stop short and reflect.
There is a little sitting-room opening off this hallway. One or twocouples are chatting and gossiping therein, but Abbot steps past them tothe window and gazes out. As he expected, there is a view of one end ofthe veranda, and there she stands, looking far out into the gatheringnight.
A sweeter, lovelier face one seldom sees; so delicate and refined inevery feature, so gentle and trusting in its expression. Her deepmourning seems only to enhance her fragile beauty, and to render moreobservable the grace of her slender form. She leans against the irontrellis-work, and one slim white hand sweeps back the sunny hair thatis playing about her temple. Her thoughts are not so very far away. Heis standing in the shadow of a curtained niche in a room whose lightcomes mainly from the flickering coal-fire in the grate, for the Octoberevening is chill. She stands where the light from the big lamps at thecorner is sufficient to plainly show her every look and gesture. Abbotmarks that twice or thrice, as footsteps are heard in the hall, sheglances quickly towards the doorway; then that a shade of disappointmentgathers on her brow as no one comes. Then, once or twice, timidly andfurtively, she casts shy, quick glances aloft and towards the front ofthe building. It requires little calculation to tell Major Abbot thatthose glances are towards the window of his room. Then can it be thatshe is there, waiting him, impatient of his coming?
Whether or no, this is no place for him. He has no business here spyingupon her. He has had his look; has seen again the sweet face that sofascinated him. Now, though he could gaze indefinitely, he feels that heshould either go forth and meet her openly or, perhaps better, retireand avoid her entirely. Before he can summon courage to go he turns forone last look, and his course is decided for him.
A footstep, somewhat slow, either from a disposition to saunter on thepart of the promenader or possible languor and weakness, is coming alongthe hallway. She hears it, too, and he sees how her white hands claspthe rail of the balcony, and how she turns her bonnie head to listen.Nearer it comes; he cannot see who approaches, because that wouldinvolve his stepping back and losing sight of her; and as it nears thedoorway he marks her eager, tremulous pose, and can almost see thebeating of her heart. She has not turned fully towards the hall--justpartially, as though a sidelong glance were all she dared give even inher joyous eagerness. Then a form suddenly darkens the portal, and justas suddenly a shadow of keen disappointment clouds her face. She turnsabruptly, and once more gazes wistfully down the street.
The next thing Abbot sees is that the man is at her side; that he hasaccosted her; that she is startled and annoyed; and that although intotally different garb, her caller is no less a person than thesecret-service official who visited him that morning. What on earth canthat mean?
Whatever the conversation, it is very brief. Obedient to some suggestionor request, though not without one more quick glance at his window,Abbot sees her turn and enter the house. Quickly she passes the doorwayand speeds along the hall. Regardless of the opinions and probableremarks of the gossipers in the sitting-room, Major Abbot hastens to theentrance and gazes after her until the graceful form is out of sight.Then he turns and confronts the sauntering detective--
"I did not know you knew Miss Warren," he says.
"I don't," is the answer. "Neither do you, do you?"
"Well, we never met before yesterday, but--"
"You never wrote to her, did you, or to her father?"
"Never, and yet I think there is a matter connected with it all thatwill require explanation."
"So do I. One of the worst points against the old gentleman is that verybad break he made in claiming that you had been a constant correspondentof his and of his daughter's."
"_One_ of the worst! Why, what is he accused of?"
"Being a rebel spy--not to put too fine a point upon it."
Abbot stands aghast a moment.
"Why, man, it's simply impossible! I tell you, you're all wrong."
"Wish you'd tell my chief that," answers the man, impassively. "I don'tlike the thing a particle. They've got points up at the office that Iknow nothing about, and, probably, have more yet, now; for the packageof papers was found upon him just as described from Frederick."
"What papers?"
"Don't know. They've taken them up to the office. That's what makes thecase rather weak in my eyes; no man would carry a packet of implicatingpapers in the pocket of his overcoat all this time. Such a package washanded to him as he left the tavern there by the landlord's wife, andshe got it from the rebel spy who escaped back across the Potomac thenext morning. He's the man your Colonel Putnam so nearly captured.Doctor Warren broke down on the back trip, it seems, and was delirioushere for some days; but even then I should think he would hardly havekept these papers in an overcoat pocket, unless they were totallyforgotten, and _that_ would look vastly like innocence of theircontents, which is what he claimed."
"Do you mean that he knows it? Has he been accused?" asks Abbot.
"Certainly. That's what I came down here for; he wanted his daughter. Heis perfectly rational and on the mend now, and as the physicians said hewould be able to travel in a day or two, it was decided best to nailhim. There are scores of people hereabouts who'll stand watching betterthan this old doctor, to my thinking; but we are like you soldiers, andhave our orders."
"Was my father up there when he was notified of his arrest," asks Abbot.
"No; Mr. Abbot has gone over to Senator Wilson's. He was met by amessenger while standing in the office a while ago."
The major tugs his mustache in nervous perplexity a moment. He needs tosee the doctor. He cannot rest satisfied now until he has called uponhim, assured him of his sympathy, his faith in his innocence, and hisdesire to be of service. More than that, he longs to tell him that hebelieves it in his power to explain the whole complication. More andmore it is dawning upon him that he has had an arch-enemy at work inthis missing Hollins, and that his villainy has involved them all.
"Can I see Dr. Warren?" he suddenly asks.
"I don't know. I am not directly in charge, but I will ask Hallett, whois up at the room now."
"Do; and come to my room and let me know as soon as you can."
In less than five minutes the officer is down at his door.
"I declare I wish you _would_ come up. It seems more than ever to methat there's a blunder somewhere. The old man takes it mighty hard thathe should be looked upon as a spy by the government he has suffered somuch for. He says his only son was killed; captain in a New Yorkregiment."
"Yes, and I believe it. I knew him at college."
"Well, if that don't beat all! And now that pretty girl is all he
hasleft, and she's breaking her heart because she don't know how to comforthim."
"Come on," says Abbot. "I know the way."
And, for a lame man, he manages to make marvellous time through thehallway and up that little flight of stairs. The room door is open asbefore. A man is pacing restlessly up and down the hall. There is asound of sobbing from within, and, never stopping to knock, Paul Abbotthrows off his cloak and enters.
She is bending over the bedside, mingling entreaty and soothing wordswith her tears; striving to induce her raging old father to lay himselfdown and take the medicine that the panic-stricken nurse is vainlyoffering. The doctor seems to have but one thought--wrath andindignation that he, the father of a son who died so gallantly, shouldhave been accused of so vile a crime; he has but one desire, to rise anddress, and confront his accusers. If ever man needed the strong arm of ason to rest on at this moment, it is poor old Warren. If ever womanneeded the aid and presence of a gallant lover, it is this sweet,half-distracted Bessie; and if ever man looked thoroughly fit to fillall requirements, it is the self-same young major of staff who comesstriding in and grasping the situation with a soldier's glance.
Heaven! How her eyes light and beam at sight of him! How even throughher tears, the flush of hope and joy springs to her cheek. How eagerly,trustfully, she turns to him, as though knowing all must now be well.
"Oh, papa! here is Mr. Abbot," she exclaims, and says it as though shefelt that nothing more could ever be needed.
He steps between her and the staring eyes of the old gentleman; bendsquickly down over him.
"Yes, doctor. Paul Abbot, whom you thought killed," and he gives him asignificant glance; a glance that warns him to say no word that mightundeceive her. "I have just had news of this extraordinary charge. I'vecome to you, quick as legs can carry me, to tell you that you are to lieperfectly still, and rest this burden with me. Don't stir; don't worry;don't say one word. I'm going straight to the provost-marshal's to tellthem what I know, and explain away this whole thing. A mostextraordinary piece of scoundrelism is at the bottom of it all, but I ambeginning to understand it, fully. Doctor, will you trust me? Will youlet me try and be Guthrie to you to-night; and promise me to lie stillhere until I come back from the provost-marshal's?"
"Do, father!" implores Bessie, bending over him, too.
There is a look of utter bewilderment in the doctor's haggard face, buthe says no word. For a moment he gazes from one to the other, then dropsback upon the pillow, his eyes fixed on Abbot's face.
"I am all unstrung, weak as a child," he murmurs; "I cannot understand;but do as you will."
There are voices in the hall; the clink of spurs and sabre; and acavalry orderly makes his appearance at the door.
"I was to give this to Major Abbot, instantly," he says, saluting andholding forth an envelope. Abbot takes and tears it open. The message isbrief enough, but full of meaning:
"Your presence necessary here at once to explain the papers found onDoctor Warren. Looks like a case of mistaken identity."
It is signed by the young officer whom he met on the occasion of hislast visit.
"_A cavalry orderly makes his appearance at the door_"]
"I thought so, doctor!" he says, triumphantly. "They are shaky already,and send for me to come. Depend upon it I'll bring you glad tidings inless than no time, and have an end to these mysteries. Now try andrest."
Then he turns to her. Can he ever forget the trust, the radiance, therestfulness in the shy, sudden look she gives him? His heart bounds withthe sight; his pulse throbs hard as he holds forth his hand, and, forthe first time, her soft warm palm is clasped in his.
"Don't worry one bit, Miss Bessie; we'll have this matter straightenedout at once."
Then there is a pressure he cannot resist; a shy, momentary answer hecannot mistake; and, with his veins all thrilling, Paul Abbot goes forthupon his mission, leaving her looking after him with eyes that plainlysay, "There walks a demi-god."
At the office he is promptly ushered into the presence of three or fourmen, two of them in uniform.
"Major Abbot, here is a packet of letters in a lady's hand, addressed toyou. They were found on Doctor Warren, in the very pocket where heplaced the package that was given him at Frederick. Have you lost such,or can you account for them?"
"I can account for them readily," answers Abbot, promptly. "They aremine, written by Miss Warren, and were stolen from me, as I believe; wasthere no explanation or address?"
"Nothing but this," is the answer, and the speaker holds forth a wrapperinside which is written these words:
"For your daughter. Ruined though I am, I can never forgive myself forthe fearful wrong I have done her. Tell her it was all a lie. He neverwrote, and she will never know the man who did."
Abbot stands staring at the paper, his hands clinching, his mouthsetting hard. No word is spoken for a moment. Then, in answer to acourteous question, he looks up.
"It is as I thought. His villainy has involved others besides me. DoctorWarren is no more spy than I am. This writing is that d----d scoundrelHollins's, who deserted from our regiment."