Chapter 10

"Lie still then until I get one. I would bring Doctor Thorn, but he has too much to do with--too much to do just now." He comes near saying "with our own men," but checks himself in time. He cannot "kick the man that is down" with such a speech as that, and it is not long before he reappears, and brings with him a surgeon from one of the arriving regiments. Colonel Putnam, too, comes up the stairs, but merely to take a look at the situation, and place a guard over both the wounded man and his strange, shivering companion, Rix. Some of the soldiers are sent for water, and others start a fire in the little stove in the adjoining room. The doctor makes his examination, and does what he can for his sinking patient, but when he comes out he tells Abbot that Hollins has not many hours to live, "and he wants to see you," he adds. "Did you know him?"

There is a strange scene in the cramped little room of the quaint old house that night. By the light of two or three commissary candles and the flickering glare from the fire one can see the features of the watchers and of the fast-dying man. Abbot sits by the bedside; Colonel Putnam is standing at the foot, and the adjutant of the--th Massachusetts has been reading aloud from his notes the statement he has taken down from the lips of the former quartermaster. One part of it needs verification from authority not now available. Mr. Hollins avers that he is not a deserter to the enemy as appearances would indicate, but a prisoner paroled by them.

The statement, so far as it bears upon his official connection with the regiment, is about as follows:

"I had personal reasons for going back to the Monocacy--reasons that could not be explained to the satisfaction of a commanding officer. I _had_ to see Mr. Abbot to explain a wrong I had done him, and avert, if possible, the consequences. I left without permission, and rode back, but found all the roads picketed, and I was compelled to hide with a farmer near Boonsboro' until Rix reached me. He had been my clerk, and was an expert penman. He fixed the necessary papers for me, and, with the aid of certain disguises I had, it was not so hard to get around. I meant to resign, but feared that, if offered through the regular channels, it would be refused, and I be brought to trial because of the condition of my accounts. Then I found that I was too late to undo the wrong I had done, and it was while trying to make partial amends that I came so near being captured by Colonel Putnam at Frederick. It made me desperate. That night I took the first horse I could find, and rode down the valley, believing all was lost, and that I must get away from that part of the country. Money found me a hiding-place when my papers would no longer serve. Then money bribed a messenger to carry word of my condition to Rix, who had been sent to the regiment at Harper's Ferry. He got away and joined me, and made out some more papers for me, and then started, by night and alone, to get home, where he said he had money. Mine was about gone by that time, and here I lay in hiding until Stuart came sweeping down the Monocacy on his way back to Virginia, and I was glad to be captured and carried along. I gave him my proper name and rank, and when Rix came back the army had left that part of the country, and he followed me into Virginia. He said he would be shot, anyway, if captured; and the next I heard of him--I being then a prisoner in Richmond--was that he had enlisted in a Virginia regiment, and was dying here in Fredericksburg. He had been devoted to me, and needed me. I gave my parole, and was allowed to come here to nurse him. He was recovering and able to be about when the bombardment opened, and I was shot at the river bank, whither I had gone to bid him good-bye, and was carried here. The rest that I have to say is for Major Abbot alone to hear."

Putnam and the adjutant, after a few questions, withdraw; and at last, with even the soldier nurse excluded, the dying man is alone with the one officer of his regiment who had striven to befriend him, and whom he has so basely rewarded.

"There is no time for lamenting or empty talk of forgiveness and remorse. It is time you heard the truth, Abbot. I always envied you at college. I envied every man who had birth or wealth or position. I had some brains, but was poor, burdened with the care of a vagabond brother who was well-nigh a jail-bird, and whose only talent was penmanship. He would have been a forger then if it hadn't been for me. For me he afterwards became one. You know who I mean now--Rix. Mr. Winthrop gave me opportunities, and I worked. I had little money, though, but time and again I was called to his house, saw his daughter, and I was ambitious. When she went abroad I followed; was as discreetly attentive as my wit could make me--and when I failed to make the impression I hoped, and we returned, I learned the reason--she was engaged to you. It made me determine that I would undermine it. You did not love her, nor she you. It was a family match, and not one that would make either of you happy. My life in the regiment was a hell, because they seemed to--seemed to know me for what I was. And you simply tolerated me. It made a devil of me, Abbot, and I vowed that proud girl should love me and turn from you if I had to hang for the means that brought it about. I was quartermaster at Edwards's Ferry, and Rix was the man who fetched and carried the mails. 'Twas easy enough to abstract her letters or yours from time to time, but the case needed something more than that. Neglect would not rouse her; jealousy might. One day there came the picture of those girls at Hastings (Abbot's hands begin to clinch; he has listened coldly up to this point), and I saw the group that was sent to them, and the pretty letter written by their secretary, Miss Warren. Then came her letter saying she was Guthrie Warren's sister. I knew him well at college, and an idea occurred to me. I took your picture, wrote a note, and had Rix copy it, and sent it in your name. When the answer came Rix and I were on the lookout for it, and got it, and wrote again and again. I had matter enough to work on with my knowledge of Warren, and then his death intensified the interest. I don't care to look in your face now, Abbot, for I'm not a fearless man; nothing but a beaten, broken, cowardly scoundrel; but I began trying on that sweet and innocent country girl the arts against which your _fiancé_ my highbred kinswoman, had been proof; I was bound to punish _her_ pride. But I found my pretty correspondent as shy, as maidenly and reserved, with all her sister-love and pride, as the other was superior. It was game worth bringing down, by Heaven! and I grew desperate. I was drinking then, and getting snarled up in my accounts, and you had turned a cold shoulder on me; and then came the campaign and Rix's break and more difficulties, and I was at my wit's end to keep the letters from you; and just before Second Bull Run came Miss Winthrop's letters challenging me to prove that you did not care for her, and I sent her three of Miss Warren's letters. But, worse than that, I had been wooing another in your name; and, because she would not betray an undue interest, I became more engrossed; became more warmly interested; and soon it was not for the sake of showing your _fiancé_ a love-letter from another woman, but to satisfy the cravings of my own heart. I began more and more to strive to win this dainty, innocent, pure-minded girl. Aye, sir, I was wooing over your name; but 'twas _I_ who loved; yes, loved her, Abbot. _Now_, what think you of me and what I suffered?"

He pauses a moment, choked and quivering. He motions with his hand to the cup of stimulant the doctor has left him. Abbot coldly hands it to him, and finds that he must raise him from the pillow before he can swallow. He is stirred to his inmost soul with wrath and indignation against this ruthless traitor, even when the fates have laid him low. It is hard to touch him gently, but he steps to his side and does what he can, bidding him use no exertion and be calm as possible. A few painful, hurried breaths, and then Hollins goes on again.

"Though not once had she confessed her love, I felt I was gaining. She sent me her photograph. It is here, on my breast; I have carried it day and night." Abbot's muscles grew rigid again and his stern face sets with a sterner look. "But I was in constant worry about my affairs and the coming of those letters. Then when you were wounded and left behind at South Mountain I felt that the crisis had come. I _had_ to get back there. Something told me she would hasten to you. They came, and I had the agony of seeing him--her father--returning from his visit to you; Rix told me of it afterwards. Then I strove madly to see her; to tell her the truth, though I knew she would only despise and spurn me. I scrawled a note confessing my crime, but sending no name; gave it to the woman to give to the doctor, and then tore myself away. I was the rebel spy the colonel nearly caught, and from that time I have been a fugitive; and now--a chance shot ends it all. Rix has been faithful to me, poor devil, and I came here to do what I could for him. _Voila tout!_ Abbot, don't let them shoot him. He isn't worth it. Give me more of that brandy."

He lies back on the grimy pillow, breathing fast and painfully. Abbot stands in silence a moment. Then his voice, stern and constrained, is heard in question:

"Have you any messages, Hollins? Is there any way in which I can serve you?"

"It seems tough--but the only friend I have to close my eyes is the man I plotted against and nearly despoiled of his lady-love," mutters Hollins. Either he is wandering a little bit or the brandy is potent enough to blur his sense of the nearness of death. "I wanted to tell you the truth--not that I look for forgiveness. I know your race well enough. You'll see fair play, but love and hate are things you don't change in much. I've no right to ask anything of you, but--who _is_ there? My God! I believe your wife that is to be was about the only friend I had in the world--except Rix. He brought me back the letters, and says she was so good to him. I hope he didn't ask her for money. He swears he didn't, but he's such a liar! We both are, for that matter. I'm glad, though, now, that my lies didn't hurt you. They didn't, did they, Abbot? You're still engaged?"

"I--am engaged."

"Oh, well; if I only hadn't brought that damnable sorrow to that poor child, and if I could only feel that they wouldn't shoot Rix, it wouldn't be so bad--my going now. What _will_ they do with Rix?"

"He must stand trial for desertion, I fancy. The men nearly lynched him as it was."

"I know, and you saved him. Isn't it all strange?" Here for over a year we two have been plotting against you, and now, at the last, you're the only friend we have. "Where is he?"

"Down below, under guard. You shall see him whenever you feel like it. Is there any one else you want to see, Hollins?"

"Any one--any one? Ah, God! Yes, with a longing that burns. It is _her_ face. It is she--Bessie!" His hand steals feebly into his breast, and he drags slowly forth a little packet of oiled silk. This he hugs close to his fluttering heart, and his eyes seek those of the young soldier standing there so strong, so self-reliant and erect. His glance seems envious, even now, with the fast-approaching angel's death-seal dimming their light, and the clammy dew gathering on his brow.

"It was your picture I sent her, just as you seem to stand there now. It was I who won her, but she thinks I looked like you."

"Pardon me, Hollins," breaks in Abbot, with a voice that trembles despite every effort at self-control, and trembles, too, through the very coldness of the tone. "Colonel Putnam is not far off. There are others whom you might like to see; and shall I send Rix to you?"

"No--not now--no use. Promise me this, Abbot. No matter where or how I'm buried--never mind coffin, or the flag, or the volleys, or the prayers; I don't deserve--They won't help me. _You_ see to it, will you, that this is buried on my heart? It's her picture, and some letters. Promise."

Abbot slowly bows his head.

"I promise, Hollins, if it will comfort you."

"If there were only some way--some way to tell her. I loved her so. She might forgive when she knew how I died. You may see her, Abbot. Stop! take these three letters; they're addressed to you, anyway. Take them to her, by and by, and tell her, will you? but let the picture go with me."

The clutching fingers of one hand clasp about the slim envelope that contains the little photograph; the fingers of the other hand are plucking nervously at the blanket that is thrown over the dying man. There is another moment of silence, and then Abbot again asks him if he will have his brother brought to him. Hollins nods, and Abbot goes to the door and whispers a few words to the orderly. When he returns a feeble hand gropes its way towards him, and Hollins looks up appealingly.

"I'm so much weaker. I'm going fast. Would you shake hands, Abbot? What! Then you bear me no ill-will?"

"I do not, Hollins."

The clouding eyes seem to seek his wistfully, wonderingly.

"And yet--I wronged you so."

"Do not think of me. That--all came right."

"I know--I know. It is _her_ heart I may have broken--Bessie's. My God! What could she have thought when he came back to her--after seeing you?"

"He told her her lover was dead. I made inquiries."

"Thank God for that! But all the same--she is sorrowing--suffering--and it's all my doing. I believe I could die content, almost happy, if I knew she had not--if I knew--I had not--brought her misery."

"Are you sure, Hollins?"

"Sure! Heaven, yes! Why, Abbot? Do you--do _you_ know?"

"She seems happy, Hollins. She is to be married in the spring; I don't know just when."

There is another moment of intense silence in the little room. Outside the muffled tramp of the night patrols and the gruff challenge of sentries fall faintly on the ear. Within there is only the quick breathing of the sinking man. There is a long, long look from the dying eyes; a slow movement towards the well-nigh pulseless heart. Then comes the sound of heavy feet upon the stair, and presently the uncouth form of Rix is at the threshold, a piteous look in his haggard face. Abbot raises a hand in warning, and glances quickly from the prisoner at the door to the frame whence fast is ebbing the imprisoned soul. The hand that had faintly clasped his is slowly creeping up to the broad and brawny chest, so feeble now. Far across the rippling waters of the Rappahannock the notes of a bugle, prolonged and distant, soft and solemn, float upon the still night air. 'Tis the soldiers' signal "Lights Out!"--the soldiers' rude yet never-forgotten lullaby. An instant gleam as of recognition hovers in the glazing eyes. Then follow a few faint gasps; then--one last gesture as the arm falls limp and nerveless; but it draws forth her precious picture and lays it at a rival's feet.

THE END.

* * * * *

BY AMELIE RIVES.

A BROTHER TO DRAGONS, AND OTHER OLD-TIME TALES. Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $1 00.

VIRGINIA OF VIRGINIA. A Story. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Extra, $1 00.

One is permitted to discover qualities of mind and a proficiency and capacity in art from which something new and distinctively the work of genius may be anticipated in American literature.--_Boston Globe._

Miss Rives has imagination, breadth, and a daring and courage oftenest spoken of as masculine. Moreover, she is exquisitely poetical, and her ideals, with all the mishaps of her delineations, are of an exalted order.--_N. Y. Star._

It was little more than two years ago that Miss Rives made her first literary conquest, a conquest so complete and astonishing as at once to give her fame. How well she has sustained and added to the reputation she so suddenly won, we all know, and the permanency of that reputation demonstrates conclusively that her success did not depend upon the lucky striking of a popular fancy, but that it rests upon enduring qualities that are developing more and more richly year by year.--_Richmond State._

It is evident that; the author has imagination in an unusual degree, much strength of expression, and skill in delineating character.--_Boston Journal._

There are few young writers who begin a promising career with so much spontaneity and charm of expression as is displayed by Miss Rives.--_Literary World_, Boston.

The trait which the author seems to take the most pleasure in depicting is the passionate loyalty of a girl to her lover or of a young wife to her husband, and her portrayal of this trait has feeling, and is set off by an unconventional style and brisk movement.--_The Book Buyer_, N. Y.

There is such a wealth of imagination, such an exuberance of striking language in the productions of this author, as to attract and hold the reader.--_Toledo Blade._

Miss Rives is essentially a teller of love stories, and relates them with such simple, straightforward grace that she at once captures the sympathy and interest of the reader.... There is a freshness of feeling and a mingling of pathos and humor which are simply delicious.--_New London Telegraph._

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A STRANGE MANUSCRIPT FOUND IN A COPPER CYLINDER.

A Romance. Richly Illustrated by GILBERT GAUL. 12mo, Cloth, Extra, $1 25.

The writer of this book, whose name is still kept from the public, is in every way qualified to rank with Mr. Haggard. Indeed, his clever analysis of Kosekin social laws is far more able, from a strictly literary point of view, than anything Mr. Haggard has ever done--_N. Y. Herald._

A story of remarkable power and originality, as weird and as wild as the most extravagant of Rider Haggard's romances, but better fiction and better literature in every way.... The book is well worth the reading, not only for the strangeness of the story, but for the fancy and poetic sentiment that pervade it, for the brilliancy of the invention that has been brought to bear upon it, and for the immense vividness and animation of the descriptive narrative.--Saturday _Evening Gazette_, Boston.

In close connection with the author's fanciful creations there is noticeable a fine play of irony and humor, which lends a special charm to the story. The latter is full of movement, and even in the more exciting passages the exaggeration necessarily employed has no effect in wearying the reader's attention.--_N. Y. Sun._

Written in an inviting manner, it preserves throughout a lively pictorial charm and dramatic interest. The theme is original in the extreme.... Withal the book is marvellously entertaining. Mr. Gaul's illustrations are unusually fine, as we should expect.--_Brooklyn Times._

It surpasses the best of Haggard's works in literary tone, and its fine dramatic construction and peculiar power of diction will readily be acknowledged by all readers.... Taking it altogether, this book is the most remarkable piece of fiction the new year has yet seen, and a revelation of the identity of the author would be welcomed.--_Boston Commonwealth._

A book original in conception and most powerful and dramatic in development. It is to be regretted that the author has not seen fit to reveal his name.--_Washington Post._

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NARKA, THE NIHILIST.

By KATHLEEN O'MEARA. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00.

"The scenes and incidents of Miss O'Meara's tale are purely Russian, and the time is the present period of which Tolsto[=i] treats. Naturally they suggest the marvellously realistic pictures of the author of 'Anna Karénina,' although it would be very unjust to the younger novelist to compare her work with his. Tolsto[=i] is always introspective; he deals rather with character than with the incidents which develop character. 'Narka' portrays an involved and ingenious complication of events which hold the interest of the absorbed reader until the end is reached. Tolsto[=i]'s stories, even when he has a story to tell, are simply the intuitive outgrowth of the thoughts and actions of the real men and women he draws. His _dramatis personæ_ make his plots, while Miss O'Meara's plots, on the other hand, make her men and women.... Narka Larik, a low-born Russian Jewess, is a peculiar product of Russian soil and of autocratic Russian rule. She is possessed of a beautiful person, a glorious voice, and a strong moral and mental constitution; she is suspicious, as all Muscovites are, a thorough and consistent hater, a devoted friend, truthful to a degree; and she calmly swears on the holy image of the blessed St. Nicholas to an utter falsehood in order to screen her lover and to aid his cause.... The scenes are laid among that curious mixture of Oriental magnificence and barbaric discomfort, of lavish expenditure and shabby makeshift, to be found in a Russian castle, with its splendid vastness, the immensity of its grounds, the immensity of the forests on all sides of it, and the general scale of immensity on which everything about it, and within it, is invariably conducted. Add to these Russian prisons, Paris _salons_, French convents, the lyric stage at Milan, Socialists, Nihilists, priests, patriots, and vivisectionists, and it will readily be seen how strong and effective a story can be made by a woman so gifted in the telling of stories, the weaving of plots, and the study of character as Miss O'Meara has already proved herself to be. Narka Larik is a better woman morally than Anna Karénina, intellectually she is the superior of Katia, and she is quite worthy to stand by the side of these two illustrious countrywomen of hers as the exponent of all that is true and womanly in modern Russian life."

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* * * * *

H. RIDER HAGGARD'S STORIES.

There are color, splendor, and passion everywhere; action in abundance; constant variety and absorbing interest. Mr. Haggard does not err on the side of niggardliness; he is only too affluent in description and ornament.... There is a largeness, a freshness, and a strength about him which are full of promise and encouragement, the more since he has placed himself so unmistakably on the romantic side of fiction; that is, on the side of truth and permanent value.... He is already one of the foremost modern romance writers.--_N.Y. World._