A War-Time Wooing: A Story

by Charles King

  IX.

  It is late that evening when Major Abbot returns to Willard's. He hasfound time to write a brief note to the doctor, which it was hisintention to send by the orderly who bears the official order releasingthe Warrens from surveillance. It suddenly occurs to him, however, thatshe may see the note. If so, what will be her sensations on finding thatthe handwriting is utterly unlike that in which all her letters had cometo her. Abbot tears it into shreds, and contents himself with a message,saying that he is compelled to see the adjutant-general on immediatebusiness, but will soon be with them.

  It is true that the adjutant-general has business with Major Abbot, butit is some time before audience is obtained. There is still a whirl ofexcitement over Stuart's movements, and it is ten o'clock before theyoung officer is able to see his chief. The general is courteous, but atrifle formal and cold. Staff officers, he says, are now urgentlyneeded, and he desires to know how soon the major will feel able toresume duty.

  "At once, sir," is the answer.

  "But you are still far from strong, and--I do not mean office duty here;we have abundance of material for that sort of work."

  "Neither do I, sir. I mean duty at the front. I can sit aroundheadquarters in the field as comfortably as I can anywhere, and, to thebest of my observation, the duty performed by the adjutant-general atcorps or division headquarters is not such as involves much physicalexertion."

  The general smiles benignantly upon the younger officer, and with theair of a man who would say, "How little you know of the importance andresponsibilities of the labors to which we are assigned; but you willsoon understand."

  "But can you ride yet?" he asks.

  "I can; if a forward movement is in contemplation; and every day willbring me strength," answers Abbot. "In brief, general, if you have apost for me at the front I can go at once."

  "One other thing. Have you any idea of the whereabouts of Mr. Hollins ofyour old regiment, or can you give us any idea as to where he would belikely to go? He has forwarded his resignation, dated Keedysville,Maryland, September 18. It was post-marked Baltimore, October 8, andcame direct. Of course it cannot be accepted. What is needed is someclew as to his movements. Could he or would he have gone back to Boston?Had he anything to draw him thither?"

  Abbot reflects a moment. "I can form no idea where he has gone," heanswers.

  "It was proposed to send an officer of your regiment back to confer withthe police authorities, Major Abbot, and there are reasons why I preferyou should go. A few days' visit at your old home may not beunacceptable, and you can probably render valuable service. I have beentold that there is reason to believe that Lieutenant Hollins is lurkingsomewhere around Boston at this very minute, and that is the first dutyon which you are needed. Your instructions can be written later. Now canyou go in the morning?"

  There is a moment's silence. This is not the duty which Major Abbotexpected, nor is it at all what he desires. He wonders if his father hasnot been in collusion with the senator, and, between the two, if somepretext has not been devised to get him home for a few days. It looksvastly that way.

  "I confess that my hopes were in the opposite direction, general. I hadvisions of immediate employment at the front, when you spoke."

  The bureau official is evidently pleased. He likes the timber theyounger soldier is made of, and his grim, care-worn face relaxes.

  "Major Abbot, you shall have your wish, and, depend upon me, the momentthere is prospect of a forward move you shall join a division at thefront. Your old colonel will have one this very week if it can bemanaged here, and he will be glad of your services; but I tell you,between ourselves, that I do not believe McClellan can be made to budgean inch from where he stands until positive orders are given from here.You go--not on leave, but on duty--for a week, and then we'll have workfor you in the field. I have promised it."

  Then the bewildered young major is notified that his father is waitingfor him at the senator's, and thither he drives, half determined toupbraid them both; but the delight in the old gentleman's face is toomuch for him. It is nearly eleven when they reach Willard's, and,before he will consent to pack his soldier kit, Paul Abbot goes at onceto the Warrens' room, and his father follows.

  The secret-service man has gone. The physician is there and the nurse,both conversing with their patient, when the two gentlemen appear. MajorAbbot presents his father and looks around the room somewhatdisappointedly. Despite his excitement of the day, and possibly becauseof it, Doctor Warren seems in higher spirits and better condition thanAbbot has imagined it possible for him to be. The two old gentlemenshake hands, and Mr. Abbot speedily seats himself by the side of theinvalid, and frees himself of his impressions as to the extraordinarycharges that had been preferred, and his satisfaction at their speedyrefutation. The local physician, in low tones, is assuring Major Abbotthat a day or two will restore their patient to strength sufficient tojourney homewards, and that he believes the "set back" of the earlyevening will be of no avail if he can get him to sleep by midnight.Abbot hastily explains that he leaves at daybreak for Boston, and hadonly come in fulfilment of a promise. Then he accosts his father.

  "I know we have both a great deal to say to Doctor Warren, father, butit is a pleasure only to be deferred. We must say good-night, so that hecan sleep, and will meet in New York next week."

  Doctor Warren looks up inquiringly. He is far from willing to let themgo, but the physician interposes. They say their adieux and still Abbothesitates; his eyes wander to the door which communicates with Bessie'sroom, and, as though in answer, it opens and she softly enters.

  "I am so glad you have come," he says, in low, eager tone. "Let mepresent my father," and the old gentleman bows with courtly grace andcomes forward to take her hand. She is a lovely picture to look at, withthe sweet, shy consciousness in her face. The very gaze in Abbot's eyeshas sent the color to her brows, and he holds her hand until he has totransfer it to his father's out-stretched palm.

  "The doctor tells us we must not stay, Miss Bessie," he continues, "butI could not go without a word. I am ordered to Boston by first train inthe morning, but shall see you--may I not--in New York?"

  Brave as she is, it comes too suddenly--this news that she must partwith her knight just as he has done her such loyal service, and beforeshe has even thanked him by look or word. All the radiance, all thebright color fades in an instant, and Paul Abbot cannot but see it anddivine, in part at least, the reason. He has in his pocket letters fromher own fair hand, that he knows were written for him, and yet that hehas no right to see. He reads in her lovely eyes a trust in him, a painat this sudden parting, that he thrills in realizing, yet should steelhis heart against or be no loyal man. But he cannot go without a wordfrom her, and it is a moment before she can speak:

  "Is--is it not very sudden? I shall never thank you enough for what youhave done for father--for _us,_ this evening. What would we have donewithout you?"

  "That is nothing. There is no time now--but next week--New York--I maysee you there, may I not?"

  May he not? What man can look in her eyes and ask less? He holds herhand in close pressure one instant and hastens from the room.

  * * * * *

  Forty-eight hours later he is in the presence of the woman who hadpromised to be his wife. The evening has seemed somewhat long. She wasout when he called at an earlier hour, but was to be found at adinner-party in the neighborhood. Major Abbot feels indisposed to meether in presence of "society," and leaves word that he will return at teno'clock. He finds her still absent and has to wait. Mr. Winthrop is athis club; Mrs. Winthrop has begged to be excused--she had retired earlywith a severe headache. She does not want to see me, thinks Abbot, andthat looks as though Viva were obdurate. It is a matter that has servedto lose its potency for ill, and the major is angered at himself becauseof a thrill of hope; because of the thought of another face that _will_intrude. It is nearly eleven o'clock when he hears the rumble ofcarriage wheels at the door. He
steps to the front window and looks outupon the pavement. Yes, there is the old family carriage drawn up infront in the full glare of the gas lamp. The footman is opening its doorand Viva Winthrop steps quickly forth, glances up and down the street asthough expectant of some one's coming, and turns quickly to speak tosome one in the carriage. Abbot recognizes the face at the open windowas that of an old family friend nodding good-night. The footman stillstands, but Viva speaks to him; he touches his hat respectfully, but insome surprise, and then springs to his perch; the two ladies nod andexchange cordial good-nights again, and away goes the carriage, leavingMiss Winthrop standing on the sidewalk, where she is still searchinglylooking up and down and across the street. As though in answer therecomes springing through the dim light the hulking, slouching,round-shouldered figure of a big man. He is across the street and at herside in a few vigorous leaps, and away as quick as he came. No word hasbeen interchanged, no sign on his part. He has handed her a small whiteparcel. She has placed in his hand a dark roll of something that heeagerly seizes and makes off with. It all happens before Abbot has timeto realize what is going on, then she scurries up the stone steps andrings the bell. His first impulse is to go and open the door himself,but that will produce confusion. She will have no time to dispose ofthat packet, and Major Abbot will not take advantage of what he hasinadvertently seen. He hears the old butler shuffling along the marblehallway, and his deferential announcement.

  "Mr. Abbot is in the parlor, Miss Winthrop."

  And then he steps forward under the chandelier to meet her.

  It is a moment before she enters. Evidently his coming is a shock forwhich she is unprepared. She comes in with swiftly changing color andlips that tremble despite the unflinching courage of her eyes.

  "This is indeed a surprise," she says, as she gives him her hand."Why--when did you come, and how did you come, and how well you look fora man who has had so much suffering--I mean from your wounds," shefinishes, hurriedly. It is all said nervously and with evident purposeof simply talking to gain time and think. "Won't you sit down? You mustbe so fatigued. Take this chair, it's so much more comfortable than thatone you are getting. Have you seen mamma! No? Why? Does she know you arehere? Oh, true; she did speak of a headache before I went out. Mrs.Laight and I have been to dinner at the Farnham's and have justreturned. Why didn't you come round there--they'd have been so delightedto see you? You know you are quite a hero now."

  He lets her run on, sitting in silence himself, and watching her. Shecontinues her rapid, nervous talk a moment more, her color coming andgoing all the time, and then she stops as suddenly. "Of course you cananswer no questions when I keep chattering like a magpie."

  She is seated now on the sofa facing him, as he leans back in one ofthose old-fashioned easy-chairs that used to find their way into someparlors in the _ante-bellum_ days. When silence is fully established,and she is apparently ready to listen, he speaks:

  "I came to-night, Viva, and to see _you_. Did you get my letter?"

  "Your last one, from Washington? Yes. It came yesterday."

  "I have come to see the letters."

  "What letters?"

  "Those which you must have received or been shown in order to make youbelieve me disloyal to you."

  "I have no such letters."

  "Did you send them to me, Viva?"

  "No."

  "What did you do with them?"

  She hesitates, and colors painfully; then seeks to parry.

  "How do you know I ever saw any letters?

  "Because nothing less could explain your action; nor does this justifyit. Still, I am not here to blame you. I want to get at the truth. Whatdid you do with them?"

  "They--went back."

  "When? Before or after you got my letter?"

  No answer for a moment, then:

  "Why do you ask that? What possible difference can it make? They wereshown me in strict confidence. I had long believed you cared more foranother girl than you did for me, and these letters proved it."

  "I do not admit that, Viva," is the grave, almost stern reply. "But doyou mean that, after receiving my letter, you returned those that Iasked for--that I had a right to see?"

  "They were called for; and they were not mine to do as I chose with."

  "Will you tell me how and by whom they were called for?"

  He has risen now, and is standing under the chandelier, drawn to hisfull height.

  "I do not wish to speak of it further. I have told the person that youdenied the truth of them, and that is enough."

  "I am sorry that you mentioned me to the person, or weighed mystatements in any such scale."

  "Paul Abbot!" she breaks in impetuously, rising too. "You say you neverwrote to this girl, and I believe you; but tell me this: have you neverseen her? do you not at this moment care for her infinitely more thanyou do for me?"

  He considers a moment. It is a leading question; one he had notexpected; but he will not stoop to the faintest equivocation. Still, hewants her to understand.

  "Listen, Viva. Up to the time of your letter's coming she was a strangerto me. Now I have met her. She and her father were in the same hotelwith us at Washington; and she, too, has been victimized by forgedletters as you have."

  "Enough, enough! Why not end it where it is? You know well that if youcared for me _that_ would be the first assurance. Granted that we haveboth been cheated, fooled, tricked, why keep up the farce of a lovelessengagement? That, at least, must end _now_."

  "Even if it should, Viva, I am not absolved from a duty I owe you. Itis my conviction that you have been drawn into a correspondence with aman against whom it is my solemn right and duty to warn you at once. Youhave no brother. For Heaven's sake be guided by what I say. Whatever mayhave been his influence in the past, you can never in the futurerecognize Mr. Hollins. If not captured by this time, he is a disgracedexile and deserter."

  "He is nothing of the kind! You, and imperious men like you, denied tohim the companionship of his brother officers, and his sensitive naturecould not stand it. He has resigned and left the service, that is all."

  "You are utterly mistaken, Viva. What I tell you is the solemn truth.For your name's sake I implore you tell me what has been his influencein the past. I well know he can be nothing to you in the future, Viva.You are not in communication with him now, are you?"

  A ring at the bell. The old butler comes sleepily shuffling along thehall again, and appears at the parlor with a telegram. "They sent itafter you, sir," is the explanation. Abbot, with curious foreboding,opens, and hurriedly reads the words,

  "Rix also deserted; is believed to have gone to Boston."

  "Viva!" he exclaims, "the man you gave that packet to was Rix, anotherdeserter. My God! Do you _know_ where Hollins is?"

  But Viva Winthrop has fallen back on the sofa, covering her face withher hands.