Major Abbot's stay in Boston is but brief. He had a hurried conference
with the police late at night, after his painful interview with Miss
Winthrop, and there is lively effort on part of those officials to run
down the bulky stranger to whom she had intrusted that packet. There has
been a family conference, too, between the elders of the households of
Abbot and Winthrop, and the engagement is at an end. Coming in suddenly
from his club, Mr. Winthrop entered the parlor immediately after the
receipt of the telegram, and he is overwhelmed with consternation at the
condition of affairs. He has insisted on a full statement from Viva's
lips, and to her mother the story has been told. She withholds no point
that is at all material, for her pride has been humbled to the dust in
the revelation that has come to her. She is not the first woman, nor is
she at all liable to be the last, to undertake the task of championing a
man against the verdict of his associates, and the story is simple
enough. With his sad, subdued manner, his air of patient suffering, and
his unobtrusive but unerring attentions, Mr. Hollins had succeeded in
making a deep impression while they were abroad. Not that her heart was
involved; she protests against that; but her sympathy, her pity, was
aroused. He had never inflicted his confidences upon her, but had deftly
managed to rouse her curiosity, and make her question. By the time they
returned to America she believed him to be a sensitive gentleman, poor,
talented, struggling, and yet burdened with the support of helpless
relatives, too distant of kin for her father's notice. She had come back
all aflame with patriotic fervor, too; and his glowing words and
soldierly longings had inspired her with the belief that here was a man
who only needed a start and fair treatment to enable him to rise to
distinction in his country's service. Through her father's influence he
was commissioned in the--th, then being organized, and in her friendship
she had sought to make his path easy for him. But he was certainly deep
in her confidence even then, and shrewd enough to take advantage of it.
He had frequently written before, and it was not unnatural he should
write after the regiment left for the front--letters which intimated
that he was far from content among his associates, which hinted at
distress of mind because he daily saw and heard of things which would
cause bitter sorrow to those who had the right to command his most
faithful services. He had shown deep emotion when informed of her
engagement to Mr. Abbot, and it was hard to confess this. It soon became
apparent to her that he desired her to understand that he deeply loved
her, and was deterred only by his poverty from seeking her hand. Then
came letters that were constructed with a skill that would have excited
the envy of an Iago, hinting at other correspondences on part of Mr.
Abbot and of neglects and infidelities that made her proud heart sore.
Still there were no direct accusations; but, taken in connection with
the long periods of apparent silence on his part and the unloverlike
tone of his letters when they reached her, the hints went far to
convince her that she had promised her hand to a careless and
indifferent wooer. This palliated in her mind the disloyalty of which
she was guilty towards him, and at last, in the summer just gone, she
had actually written to Mr. Hollins for proofs of his assertions. For a
long time--for weeks--he seemed to hold back, but at last there came
three letters, written in a pretty, girlish hand. She shrank from
opening them, but Mr. Hollins, in his accompanying lines, simply bade
her have no such compunction. They had been read by half a dozen men in
camp already, and the girl was some village belle who possibly knew no
better. She did read, just ten lines, of one of them, and was shamed at
her act as she was incensed at her false _fiance_. The ten lines were
sweet, pure, maidenly words of trust and gratitude for his praise of her
heroic brother; and in them and through them it was easy for the woman
nature to read the budding love of a warm-hearted and innocent girl.
This roused her wrath, and would have led to denunciation of him but for
the news of his wounds and danger. Then came other letters from Hollins,
hinting at troubles in which he was involved; and then, right after
Antietam, he seemed to cease to write for a fortnight, and his next
letter spoke of total change in all his prospects--resignation from the
service, serious illness, possibly permanently impaired health, and then
of suffering and want. A foul accusation had been trumped up against
him by enemies in the regiment; he was alleged to have stolen letters
belonging to officers. In part it was true. He had bribed a servant to
get those three letters which he sent her, that she might be saved from
the fate that he dreaded for her. It was for her sake he had sinned; and
now he implored her to keep his secret, and to return to him all his
letters on that subject, as well as those he had sent as proofs. He dare
not trust them to the mails, but a faithful friend, though a poor man
like himself, would come with a note from him, and he would be a trusty
bearer. The friend had come but the morning of Abbot's arrival. He
humbly rang at the basement door; sent up a note; and, recognizing
Hollins's writing, she had gone down and questioned him. He sadly told
her that the quartermaster was in great trouble. "His enemies had
conspired against him;" his money accounts were involved, and there lay
the great difficulty. Mr. Hollins would never forgive him, said the man,
if he knew he was hinting at such a thing, but what he needed to help
him out of his trouble was money. It made her suspicious, but she reread
the note. "He is devoted to me, and perfectly reliable. I have cared
for him and his sister from childhood. Do not fear to trust the letters,
or anything you may write, to him."
Mr. Hollins was too proud ever to ask for money and could not
contemplate the possibility of its being asked in his behalf, she
argued. But if anything she might write was to be trusted to the
messenger, surely she could trust his statements, and so she questioned
eagerly. The bearer thought a thousand dollars might be enough to
straighten everything, and she bade him be at the front of the house
that night by half after ten, to bring her a little packet he spoke of
as having received from Hollins--her own letters to him--and the money
would be ready. There was something about the man's face and carriage
that was familiar. She could not tell where she had seen him, but felt
sure that she had, and it seemed to her that it was in uniform. But he
denied having ever been in service, and seemed to shrink into shadow as
though alarmed at the idea. During the day she got the money from the
bank and gave it, as Abbot saw, and then when the telegram came it all
flashed across her--the messenger was indeed Rix. Rix was a deserter
beyond all peradventure. Then, doubtless, she was all wrong and Abbot
all right as to the real status of Mr. Hollins. No wonder she was
overwhelmed.
But in all her self-abasement and distress of mind Viva Winthrop was
clear-headed on the question of the dissolution of that engagement. "He
does not love me and I do not deserve that he should," was her epitome
of the situation. "It will cause him no sorrow now, and it must be
ended." And it was. He called and asked to see her, if she felt well
enough to receive him; he acquiesced in her decision, but he wanted to
part as friends. She begged to be excused, explaining that she had not
left her rooms since the night of his arrival, which was true. And now,
with a heart that beats more joyously despite the major's proper and
conscientious effort to believe that he is not happier in his freedom,
he is hastening back to the front, for his orders have come.
Two things remain to be attended to before reporting for duty. He makes
every effort to find Hollins's hiding-place, but without avail. Miss
Winthrop tells him that beyond the postmark, Baltimore, there is not a
clew in any of the letters, and that they have ceased coming entirely.
Rix made no mention beyond saying that he was in Baltimore among people
who would guard him, and Rix himself has gone--no man can say whither.
The other matter is one to which he hastens with eager heart. Twice he
has written to Doctor Warren since their parting at Washington, and he
has asked permission to call upon them at Hastings before returning. His
orders come before any reply. He therefore writes to Hastings the day
before he leaves home, begging that a telegram be sent to meet him at
the Metropolitan, the war-time rendezvous of army men when in New York
on leave, and his face is blank with disappointment when the clerk tells
him that no telegram has been received. He has a day at his disposal,
and he loses no time, but goes up the river by an afternoon train, and
returns by the evening "accommodation" with uneasy heart. Doctor Warren
and Miss Bessie had not yet come back was the news that met him at the
pretty little homestead. The doctor had been ill in Washington, and when
he was well enough to start the young lady was suddenly taken down.
Abbot is vaguely worried. He anxiously questions the kindly old
housekeeper, and draws from her all that she knows. She is looking for
letters any moment; but the last one was from Willard's, four days
since, saying they would have to stay. Miss Bessie was suddenly taken
ill. Won't the gentleman come in? and she will get the letter. He takes
off his cloak and forage cap, and steps reverently into the little
sitting-room, wherein every object is bathed in the sunshine of late
afternoon, and everywhere he sees traces of her handiwork. There on the
wall is Guthrie's picture; there hangs his honored sword and the sash he
wore when he led the charge at Seven Pines. With the soldier-spirit in
his heart, with the thrill of sympathy and comradeship that makes all
brave men kin, Abbot stands before that silent presentment of the man he
knew at college, and slowly stretches forth his hand and reverently
touches the sword-hilt of the buried officer. He is not unworthy; he,
too, has led in daring charge, and borne his country's flag through a
hell of carnage. They are brothers in arms, though one be gathered
already into the innumerable host beyond the grave. They are comrades in
spirit, though since college days no word has ever passed between them,
and Abbot's eyes fill with emotion he cannot repress as he thinks how
bitter a loss this son and brother has been to the stricken old father
and fragile sister. Ah! could he but have known, that day on the
Monocacy; could he but have read the truth in the old man's eyes, and
accepted as a fact his share of that mysterious correspondence rather
than have unwillingly dealt so cruel a blow! His lips move in a short,
silent prayer, that seems to well up from his very heart; and then the
housekeeper is at his side, and here is the doctor's letter. It is too
meagre of detail for his anxiety. He reads it twice, but it is all too
brief and bare. He is recalled to himself again. The housekeeper begs
pardon, but she is sure this must be Mr. Abbot, whose letters were so
eagerly watched for all the time before they went away. She had heard in
the village he was killed, and she is all a-quiver now, as he can see,
with excitement and suppressed feeling at his resurrection. Yes, this is
Mr. Abbot, he tells her, and he is going straight to Washington that he
may find them. And she shows him pictures of Bessie in her girlhood,
Bessie at school, Bessie in the bonnie dress she wore at the Soldiers'
Fair. Yes, he remembers having seen that very group before, at Edwards's
Ferry, before Ball's Bluff. She prattles about Bessie, and of Bessie's
going for his letters, and how she cried over them. He is all sympathy,
and bids her say on as he moves about the room, touching little
odds-and-ends that he knows must be hers; and he is loath to go, but
eager too, since it is to carry him back to her. He writes a few lines
on a card to tell them of his visit and his orders, should they fail to
meet; he begs the doctor to write, and warns him that he must expect
frequent letters; and then, with one long look about the sunlit,
love-haunted room, with one appeal for brotherly sympathy in his parting
gaze at Guthrie Warren's picture, he strides back to the station, and by
sunrise of another day is hurrying to Washington. In his breast-pocket
he carries the compact little wad of letters, all addressed to himself,
all written in her own delicate and dainty hand, yet sealed from his
eyes as securely as though locked in casket of steel. Though he longs
inexpressibly to read their pages and to better know the gentle soul
that has so suddenly come into his life, they are not his to open. What
would he not give for one moment face to face with the man who had lured
and tricked her--and with his name!
They are not at Willard's, says the clerk, when Major Abbot arrives and
makes his inquiries. The doctor paid his bill that morning and they were
driven away, but he does not think they left town. Yes, telegrams and
letters both had come for the doctor, and the young lady had been
confined to her room a few days, and was hardly well enough to be
journeying now. Abbot's orders require him to report at the War
Department on the following day, and he cannot go to rest until he has
found their hiding-place. Something tells him that she has at last
discovered the fraud of which she has been made the victim, and he longs
to find her--longs to tell her that if the real Paul Abbot can only be
accepted in lieu of the imaginary there need be no break in that strange
correspondence; he is ready to endorse anything his fraudulent double
may have written provided it be only love and loyalty to her.
It is late at night before he has succeeded in finding the hack driver
who took them away, and by him is driven to the house wherein they have
sought refuge. All distressed as he is at thought of their fleeing from
him, Paul Abbot finds it sweet to sit in the carriage which less than
twelve hours ago bore her over these self-same dusty streets. He bids
the hackman rein up when he gets to the corner, and wait for him. Then
he pushes forward to reconnoitre. Lights are burning in many rooms, but
the neighborhood is very silent. Far down an intersecting avenue the
band of some regiment is serenading a distinguished senator or
representative from the state from which they hail, and Abbot can hear
the cheers with which the great man is greeted as he comes forth to
tender his acknowledgments, and invite the officers and such of his
fellow-citizens as may honor him, to step in and "have something." It is
a windy night in late October. The leaves are whirling in dusty spirals
and shutters bang with unmelodious emphasis, and all the world seems
dreary; yet, to him, with love lighting the way, with the knowledge that
the girl he has learned to worship is here within these dull brick
walls, there is a thrill and vigor in every nerve. No light burns in the
hallway; none in the lower floor of the number to which he has been
directed. He well knows it is too late to call, even to inquire for
them, but the army has moved, and at last is pushing southward again,
feeling its way along the Blue Ridge, and he so well knows that the
morrow must send him forward to resume his duties. If he cannot see
_her_, it will be comfort, at least, to see her father. He is half
disposed to ring and ask for him when a figure comes around a
neighboring corner and bears slowly down upon him. The night lamps are
dull and flickering and the stranger is a mere shadow. Where Major Abbot
stands enveloped in the cloak-cape of his army overcoat there is no
light at all. Whoever may be the approaching party he has the
disadvantage of being partially visible to a watcher whose presence he
cannot be aware of until close at hand. When he has come some yards
farther Abbot is in no doubt as to his identity, and steps forward to
greet him.
"Doctor Warren, I am so glad to have found you, for I must hurry after
the army to-morrow, and only reached Washington this evening. Tell me,
how is Miss Bessie?"
The doctor is startled, as a matter of course, but there is something in
the young soldier's directness that pleases him. Perhaps he is pleased,
too, to know that his own views are correct, and that the moment Paul
Abbot reached Washington he has come in search of them. He takes the
proffered hand and holds it--or, rather, finds his firmly held.
"Bessie has been ill, but is better, major; and how did you leave them
all at home? I have just been taking a walk of two or three blocks
before turning in. Fresh air is something I cannot do without. How did
you find us?"
"By hunting up your hackman. I was grievously disappointed at not
finding you at Hastings, where I went first, or here at Willard's. Did
you not get my letters and telegrams?"
"They were forwarded, and came last night."
"Then you moved this morning to avoid me, doctor. Does it mean that I am
to be punished for another man's crime? Guthrie's picture had no such
unfriendly welcome for me, and I do not believe you want to hide her
from me. Tell me what it is that makes Bessie avoid me of her own
accord. Has she heard the truth about the old letters?"
Doctor Warren is silent a moment, looking up into the young soldier's
face. Then he more firmly grasps his hand.
"I do _not want_ to avoid you, Abbot, but it is only natural that now
she should find it hard to meet you. Three days after you left she
caught me fairly, and finding that the letter in my hand was yours, she
noted instantly the difference between the writing and that of the
letters that came to her at home. Something else had roused her
suspicions, and I had to tell her that there had been trickery, and she
would have no half-way explanation. She probed and questioned with a wit
as keen as any lawyer's. She made me confess that that was why I told
her Paul Abbot was dead when I got back to her at Frederick. He was dead
to us. And so, little by little, it all came out, and she was simply
stunned for a while. It made her too ill to admit of our travelling, and
she made me tell her when you were expected back, and bring her here. In
a day or two we will start homeward."
"And meantime I shall have had to start for the front. Doctor Warren,
give her this little package--her own letters. Tell her that I have read
no line of one of these, but that, until I can win for myself letters in
her dear hand there will be no peace or happiness for me. These are the
letters that were sent to you at Frederick, with a few remorseful lines,
from the scoundrel who wrought all the trouble. His original motive was
simply to injure me, in the hope that he might profit by it. He sought
to break an engagement of marriage that existed between me and Miss
Winthrop, of Boston. Before he succeeded in making this breach it is my
belief that he had become so touched and charmed by the letters she
wrote that even his craven heart was turned to see its own baseness. He
had every opportunity of tampering with our mail. He felt, when I was
left wounded at the Monocacy, that that would end the play; and then, in
his despair and remorse, he deserted. He was around Frederick a day or
two in disguise, and sought to see you and her. Failing in that, he sent
you by the landlady the packet that was afterwards taken from your
overcoat by the secret-service men; and the next thing he came within an
ace of being captured by his own colonel. Escaping, he was believed to
be a rebel spy, and so implicated you. It was to search for him I was
sent to Boston. There Miss Winthrop formally broke our engagement, and I
would be a free man to-day, doctor, but for your daughter; and now it is
not freedom I seek, but a tie that only death can break. You came to
Paul Abbot when you thought him sorely wounded, and she came with you.
Now that he is sore stricken he comes to you. If it will pain her I will
ask no meeting now, but don't you think I owe her a good many letters,
doctor? Won't you let me pay that debt?"
It is a long speech for Abbot, but his heart is full. The old
gentleman's sad face seems to thaw and beam under the influence of his
frank avowal and that winning plea. Abbot has held forth his other hand,
and there the two men stand, both trembling a little, under the
influence of a deep and holy emotion, clasping each other's hands and
looking into each other's face. They are at the very door-step of the
old-fashioned boarding-house which was so characteristic a feature of
the capital in the war-days. The door itself is but a few arms'-lengths
away, and all of a sudden it softly opens, and, with a light mantle
thrown over her shoulders, a tall, slender, graceful girl comes forth
upon the narrow porch.
"Is that you, papa? I heard your step, and wondered why you remained
outside. Was the door locked?"
There is an instant of silence. Then a young soldier, in his staff
uniform, takes three quick, springing steps, and is at her side. The
doctor seems bent on further search for fresh air, for he turns away
with a murmured word to his trembling companion, and Bessie Warren
finds it impossible to retreat. Major Abbot has seized her hand, and is
saying--she hardly hears, she hardly knows, what. But it is all so
sudden; it is all so sweet.
[Illustration: "_Then a young soldier in his staff uniform takes three
springing steps, and is at her side._"]