There is an air of unusual excitement about the War Department this
bright October day. It is only a month since the whole army seemed
tramping through the streets on its way to the field of the Antietam;
only three weeks since the news was received that Lee was beaten back
across the Potomac, and every one expected that McClellan would be hot
on his trail, eager to pursue and punish before the daring Southerners
could receive accessions. But though two corps managed to reoccupy
Harper's Ferry and there go into camp, the bulk of the army has remained
where Lee left it when he slipped from its grasp, and McClellan's cry is
for reinforcements. Three weeks of precious time slip by, and then--back
come those daredevils of Stuart's, riding with laugh and taunt and jeer
all around the Union forces; and there is the mischief to pay here in
Washington, for if he should take a notion to pay the capital a visit on
his homeward trip, what would the consequences be? Of course there
are troops--lots of them--all around in the fortifications. The trouble
is, that we have so few cavalry, and, after all, the greatest trouble is
the old one--those fellows, Stuart and Jackson, have such a consummate
faculty of making a very little go a great way. All that is known of
Stuart's present move is, that he is somewhere up the Cumberland Valley;
that telegraphic communication beyond McClellan's headquarters is
broken, and that it is more than likely he will come hitherwards when he
chooses to make his next start.
[Illustration: "_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 busy
to see him, "unless it be something urgent," says the subaltern, who
seems to be an aide-de-camp of some kind.
"I have come to show him a despatch received last night--late--from
Point of Rocks."
"You are Major Abbot, formerly--th Massachusetts, I believe, and your
despatch 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 if
you 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, and
properly accounted for himself?"
"Why--You put it in a way that never occurred to me before," says the
major, in bewilderment. "Do you mean that there was anything wrong about
him?"
"Strictly _entre nous_, major--something damnably wrong. He was all
mixed up on meeting you, we are told. He claimed to have known and been
in correspondence with you, did he not?"
"Yes; he did. But--"
"That is only one of several trips he made. There are extraordinary
rumors coming in about spies around Frederick, and there seems to be an
organized gang. It is this very matter the general is overhauling now,
and he gave orders that he should be uninterrupted until he had finished
the correspondence. Will you wait?"
"Thank you, no. I believed it my duty to show him this despatch, but he
knows as much as, or more than, I do. May I ask if you have any inkling
of Hollins's whereabouts."
"Not even a suspicion. He simply dropped out of sight, and no man in the
army appears to have set eyes on him since the night before Antietam.
Colonel Putnam is investigating his accounts at Point of Hocks, and is
most eager to get him."
Major Abbot turns away with a heavy weight at heart. All of a sudden
there has burst upon him a complication of injustice and mystery, of
annoyance and perplexity that is hard to bear. In some way he feels that
the disappearance of the quartermaster is a connecting link in the chain
of circumstance. He associates him, vaguely, with each and every one of
the incidents which have puzzled him within the month past--with Rix,
with Doctor Warren's coming, with that cold and bitter letter from Miss
Winthrop, and finally with the shock and faintness that overcame this
fair young girl at sight of him.
To his father he has shown Miss Winthrop's letter, and briefly sketched
the visit of Doctor Warren, and the sudden meeting with his daughter the
evening previous. Mr. Abbot is in a whirl of indignation over the
letter, which he considers an insult, but is all aflame with curiosity
about the doctor and the young lady. He has been preparing to return to
Boston this very week, but is now determined to wait until he can see
these 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 write
to Miss Winthrop, and overwhelm her with reproaches. That letter must be
answered only by the man to whom it was written, says Abbot, and it is
evident that he does not mean to be precipitate. He has much to think
of, 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 an
official of the secret service, who has a host of singular questions to
ask about Hollins. Some of them have a tendency to make the young major
wonder if he really has been the possessor of eyes and ears, or powers
of discernment, during the past winter. Then come some inquiries about
Rix. Abbot is forced to confess that he knows nothing of his
antecedents, and that he was made quartermaster-sergeant at Hollins's
request, at a time when nobody had a very adequate idea of what his
duties might be.
"Who had charge of the distribution of the regimental mail all winter
and spring?" asks the secret-service man, after looking over some
memoranda.
"The quartermaster, ordinarily. The mail-bag was carried to and from the
railway about thrice a week, while we were at Edward's Ferry in the
fall. Rix looked after it then, and when we came down in front of
Washington the matter still remained in his hands. There was never any
complaint, that I can remember."
"Did any of your officers besides Mr. Hollins have civilian dress or
disguise 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 gambled
and drank a good deal then, we thought, perhaps, it was a rule in the
regiment that officers must not wear their uniforms when on a lark of
any kind; but he was always alone, and seemed to have no associates
among 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 to
camp with him. If he has deserted, he is probably masquerading in that
rig now. I tell you this knowing you will say nothing of it, Major
Abbot, and because I feel that you have had no idea of the real
character of this man, and it is time you had."
Abbot bows silently. If the detective only knew what was going on at
home, how much the more would he deem the missing quartermaster a
suspicious character.
Then there comes a knock at the door, and, opening it, Major Abbot finds
himself face to face with the nurse whom he had seen the previous
afternoon in Doctor Warren's room. She looks up into his face with a
smile that betokens a new and lively interest.
"The doctor left us but a few minutes ago," she says, "and he tells me
my patient is on the mend. Of course, we have said nothing to him as yet
about Miss Bessie's fainting yesterday, but--I thought you might be
anxious to know how they are."
"I am indeed," says Abbot, cordially, "and thank you for coming. How is
Miss 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 forbidden
my telling the doctor--her father, I mean. But he will be sitting up
to-morrow, probably, and--I thought you might like to see them. He is
sleeping 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 parlor
this 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 seen
that photograph Abbot cannot tell. That she has had the feminine
keenness of vision in sighting a possible romance is beyond question.
The secret-service official is at Abbot's side as he turns back from the
door.
"I shall see you again, perhaps to-morrow," he says; "meantime there is
a good deal for us to do," and before the nurse has reached the sick
man's door, she is politely accosted by the same urbane young man, and
is by no means sorry to stop and talk with somebody about her sad-faced
old patient and his wonderfully pretty daughter.
It was Abbot's purpose to devote a little time that afternoon to
answering the letter received but yesterday from Miss Winthrop. It needs
no telling--the fact that there had never been a love-affair in their
engagement; and no one can greatly blame a woman who is dissatisfied
with a loveless match. Viva Winthrop was not so unattractive as to be
destitute of all possibility of winning adorers. Indeed, there was
strong ground for believing that she fully realized the bliss of having
at least one man's entire devotion. Whatsoever evil traits may have
cropped out in Mr. Hollins's army career, _she_ had seen nothing of
them, and knew only his thoughtful and lover-like attentions while they
were abroad, and his assiduous wooing on his return. Paul Abbot had
never asked for her love--indeed, he had hardly mentioned the word as
incidental to their engagement. Nevertheless, yielding to what she had
long been taught to consider her fate, she had accepted the family
arrangement--and him--and was the subject of incessant and enthusiastic
congratulation. Abbot's gallant service and distinguished character as
an officer had won the hearty admiration of all the circle in which she
lived and moved and had her being, and she was thought an enviable girl
to have won the love of so brave and so promising a man. A little more
reserved and cold than ever had Miss Winthrop become, and the smile with
which she thanked these many well-wishers was something wintry and weary
in the last degree. If he had only loved her, there might have bloomed
in her heart an answering passion that would have filled her nature, and
made her proudly happy in her choice. But that he had never had for her
anything more than a brother-and-sister, boy-and-girl sort of
affection--a kind, careless, yet courteous tenderness--was something she
had to tell herself time and again, and to hear as well from the letters
of a man whose letters she should have forbidden.
Even in his astonishment at the charge brought against him, and in his
indignation at the accusation of deceit, Paul Abbot cannot but feel that
allowances must be made for Viva Winthrop. He meant to marry her, to be
a loyal and affectionate husband; but he had not loved her as women
love to be loved, and she was conscious of the lacking chord. That she
had been deceived and swindled, too, by some shameless scoundrel, and
made to believe in her _fiance's_ guilt, was another thing that was
plain to him. She had probably been told some very strong story of his
interest in this other girl. Very probably, too, Hollins was the
informer and, presumably, the designer of the plot. Who can tell how
deep and damnable it was, since it had been carried so far as to induce
the Warrens to believe that he was the writer of scores of letters from
the front? Then again, ever since he had raised that fainting girl in
his arms, especially ever since the moment when her lovely eyes were
lifted to his face and her sweet lips murmured his name, Paul Abbot has
been conscious of a longing to see her again. Not an instant has he been
able to forget her face, her beauty, her soft touch; the wave of color
that rushed to her brow as he met her at her father's door when the
nurse brought her, still trembling, back to the old man's bedside. He
had murmured some hardly articulate words, some promise of coming to
inquire for her on the morrow, and bowed his adieu. But now--now, he
feels that not only Genevieve, but that Bessie Warren, too, has been
made a victim of this scoundrel's plottings, and, though longing to see
her and hear her speak again, he knows not what to say. It was hard
enough to have to deny himself to the poor old doctor when he came out
to the Monocacy. _Could_ he look in her face and tell her it was all a
fraud; that some one had stolen and sent her his picture? some one had
stolen and used his name, and, whatsoever were the letters, all were
forgeries? No! He must wait and see Doctor Warren, and let her think him
come back to life--let her think they _were_ his letters--rather than
face 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 letter
unquestionably frees him, and does it with a brusqueness that might
excuse a man for accepting the situation without a word. If the
engagement has ever been irksome to him it is now at an end, and he is
in no wise responsible. Giving him no opportunity for denial, she has
accused him of breach of faith and cast him off. Wounded pride, did he
love her deeply, might now impel him to be silent. A sense of indignity
and wrong might drive many a man to turn away at such a juncture, and
leave to the future the unravelling of the plot. There are moments, it
must be confessed, when Major Abbot is so stung by the letter that he is
half disposed to take it as final, and let her bear the consequences of
discovery of the fraud; but they are quickly followed by others in which
he 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 woman
who has been reared in every luxury only to be denied the one luxury a
woman holds most precious of all. He has not been a devoted lover any
more than he has been disloyal; and now that trouble has come to her,
and she is deceived, perhaps endangered, Major Abbot quietly decides
that the only obvious course for a gentleman to follow is to crush his
pride under foot and to act and think for her. And this, after several
attempts, 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 that
makes it sound cold and utterly unimpassioned. Beyond doubt she would be
far happier with a fury of reproaches, cutting sarcasm, and page after
page of indignant denial. He also wants to be tender when he thinks of
what he has not had to lavish on her in the past, and that prompts him
to the little touch of sentiment at the close--a touch that is perhaps
unwarranted by the facts in the case. There is a third matter, one that
he does not want to mention at all, a name he hates to put on any page
addressed to her; but he knows that it is due her she should be told the
truth, 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 or
two.
"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 who
has 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 latter
quickly scans the last page, then folds and encloses it. Paul smiles
into his father's eyes as he hands it, and the letter-bearer goes
briskly away.
His footsteps have hardly become inaudible when there is a tap at the
door, and behold! the nurse.
"You told me you would like to know when Miss Warren came out, major.
She is on the veranda now."