CHAPTER XIII. RUPERT.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 118, 5 September 1885, Page 6

CHAPTER XIII. RUPERT.

The days grew into weeks and the weeks into months, and Donald Owen brought to Doris no clear account of her husband. He had made great show of searching for him, had pretended that he had discovered him ; and then, when sure that the long agony was over, tho trace was lost again ; and, with many groans, he was forced to pronounce the case hopeless. "Alas, my child, a sad spectacle am I in my own sight when I— Donald Owen— am obliged to relinquish .hope !" But Doris had not fainted. Again and again word had come to her from the loved one that he was alive and well. Beppo had been thrice to see her since his first appear ance ; and on another occasion a seeming wayfarer had surreptitiously conveyed to her hand a note from the absent sharer of her hopes and fears. Several weeks had now passed since the reception of that last blessed note, and she had heard no further word. The month of July was more than half gono^ She knew that the armies of the North and the South had met, and that there had been sharp and sanguinary battle. She watched for the papers, hoping that she might see her husband's name. She would know it, but her Uncle Donald would not. In one of the missives brought by Beppo had occurred the following sentence : " Darlixo,— l have been promoted, and at Ren wick's suggestion I have somewhat modified my name. As you are aware, the full name given me by my parents was George Foksyth Amsden Bertram. Well, I have dropped thetirst name and the last, and am known in the service as Forsyth Amsdex, We have grown to a brigade, and Renwick is our brigadier. My old captain, Tom Errington, is colonel of our regiment, Frank Oakland is major, and I am captain of the old company — the oldest company in the brigade, and on the right of the line. A curious thing has happened. Two days ago a squad of recruit.3 came in from Roanoke County, one of whom, a bright young fellow not more than nineteen, is named George Bertram. There's a concatenation for you. Renwick nodded mysteriously as he told me of the circumstance, at the same time remarking that it might serve him a handy turn. So remember, my precious, I am, until further notice, Forsyth Amsden, yet loving you with all the old love and a thousandfold added thereto " For many a weary day Doris searched the pipers in vain for mention of the command to which her husband belonged. She knew it was on detached service ; but she knew it was active, and she saw not why it should not be spoken of. At length the spell was broken. She read, in staring letters : " Sple>*did Dash of Reswick'r Troop. Not a man of the command killed, but a few wounded. Of two or three seriously wounded was " Corpoud George Bertram." As her eye caught t w e name, her heart gave a painful leap, and a sharp cry was on her lips ; but she quickly remembered that it coald not be her husband. And now she thought of the remark which Gen. Renwick had made, ani she saw its meaning. Her uncle, if he should see the item, would believe that her own George was meant. And so it proved, as we shall see anon. On the first day of August two events happened of deep interest to Donald Owen First. — Towards the middle of the afternoon the stage coach landed at his door his only son -his only child— Rupert, the only thing on earth, or above it, that he truly loved, saving only his money. Rupart Owen was twenty-three years of age ;of medium height ; of slight frame ; dark bro,vn, wavy hair ; dark hazel eyes; his e'ean-cut, handsome features pale and wan. He had never been strong, either as boy O" man, and his close attention to his studies had told upon him sadly. Until now his father had no knowledgo that he had seen military service ; but so it proved. He had left college at the outbreak of the war— at the first call for troops — and had been given a captain's commission ; and lie had been in two battles, both hard fought, and had received the commendation, in glowing terms, of his commander ; but his health had so far failed him that the surgeon of hi 3 regiment had ordered him home on the tick li 3 t. Not, however, until he had fainted dead away twice while in the saddle had he bc&n willing to give up. All this he now told his father during the nx3t moments of his arrival. "0, it was hard, very hard, father, to have to give up General Johnson told me, if I had been strong enough, I should have had a place on hi 3 staff. Wasn't it too bad ? Ah ! a place on bis staff means work, and sharp ai-.d plenty of it. I wasn't fib for it. But I may gain strength, who shall say ? J I'll try for it, all all events." If Doris could have teen Donald Owen at that moment, she might have thought him *-«ally good-looking. Ris" fatherly pride, and the honest love that beamed in his usually hard face, gave him an expression of humanity that he seldom wore. And he had reason to be proud of that son, and reason to love him. He was a good man, as he had been good in youth and in boyhood. He was his mother's son ; and those who had known his mother, and could remember, her sweet, melancholy face, could not fail to Bee her in her boy. For an hour father and son eat in ttie smaller drawing-room and conversed, the son doing most of the talking. The old man hung upon his words as a lover of music might have hung upon a sweet melody, and thought not of speaking of his own affairs gave when directly questioned. At the end of an hour the father turned to a packet of letters which had come by post, and which, with newspapers, had been laid upon his table while he was conversing. At the same time Rupert picked up and opened a newspaper. " Oho ! • Deaths in Hospital !' " said tho son, reading the heading of an article that had attracted his attention. "I wonder if there is anybody whom I know." In a moment more the elder man leaped to his feet with a startled exclamation, an open letter in his hand, upon the single page of which three lines, and no more, had been written. • ' In mercy's name ! What is it, father ?" "Dead! George Bertram !" ' "0-oh !— yes. I see his death here, in this paper," said the son, casting his eye again upon the item. "Yes: 'George Bertram, Company G t Erringtoits Regiment, of Benwiclc's Brigade.' Died in hospital at Walteraville. Is that your man ?" "Yes," answered the father, turning in his nervous walk to and fro, and holding tut the letter. "Read."

Rupert took the sheet, and read : " Headquarters, in Camp. "July 30th, 1861 "Donald Owen,— You will see by the report in the newsprint of the day that George Bertram is dead. Renwick." "Who in the world is George Bertram that you should find such interest in his death ?" " Rupert, it is a strange story, and it affects you very closely. Do you remember your Uncle Ralph, as you used to call him ?" "I remember him; but, I think, more from your talk than from my own petsonal recollection. I was not quite four years old when he went away, if I remember rightly." "That is so. Well, your Uncle Ralph, having lost wife and child here, in Owensville, went abroad. In Paris he married again, and from there went to India. In Calcutta a daughter was born to him. Ralph died fourteen years ago. His widow died little more than a year ago. His daughter married, and she and her husband came to the States— came here, to Owensville—to my houso. Doris, her name was, and is. She is beneath our roof at this moment. Her husband was—" " George Bertram !" said the son, as his father hesitated. "Right, Rupert. He wa3 George Bertram ; and, as you see, he is dead." "Where does he hail from? Of what country is he ?" "English." "Then how in the world did ho come to be in this mess? Has his wife turned against him ? 0 ! woman ! woman !" " No, no, Rupert. His wife is one of the sweetest, gentlest, prettiest women you ever saw. No, it was not that. He— beBut there's a long story. I will tell it at another time." The young man gazed into his father's face with a keenly searching look— a look beneath which the old man shrank and faltered. "Father! had you a hand in sending George Bertram away from his wife ?" "Never mind now, my son, I will explain it all at some future time. Let it be enough to know that the poor fellow is gone. Peace be with him." "But that will not answer. If lam to meet my Cousin Doris I must know on what footing I stand. What have you been, doing ? Tell me now. If it is anything — " " Rupert, let it rest. You would not expose me to Doris ! She believes -poor soul!— that I have done a'l in my power to bring her husband back to her. His fate has fallen— lot him rest." "Ah! it is I that find unrest, my dear father. I ask you, what yon have done to George Bertram ? Will you tell me ? How did you persuade him to enlist?" "RupBrt!" cried the truly miserable father, "you know not upon what ground I acted. I saw the savings of years— the golden prize which I had won for ray son — liable to be swept away at a breath ! Could I endure that ? For myself alone I cared not so much ; but for you, my child — the I dear boy for whom I could have laid down my life, I cared more than I can tell. Suffice it for now that what I did was to save mv son from being a pauper." "A what?" "I said it ; and I said truly — a paupc I ." "Enough, enough. Tell me no c now," said the son, hoarsely, at the same time putting out his hand as though to ward off a no:;ious thing. " You say the wifenow, alas ! a widow— is beneath this roof ?" " Ye 3." " Who will tell her of this ?" " I will mark the paper and send it to her. That will be the boat way." "And I think I will go and lie down. I feel the old pain in my side." "0 ! my son ! this untoward event, I hope, ha 3 not unfavourably affected you." "It has not helped me. But never mind now. Is my old room in order for me ? ' "I don't know. Bertram has used it; and Doris occupies the chamber adjoining." " Then I will find another, Is Susan about V" "Yes." "I'll find her. She'll provide me with a place of rest. I'll get up to supper. I only want a brief repose An hour will be all sufficient. Send the papsr to Doris. Let her have time for thought before I see her. Alas ! poor Doris ! 1 wish she could have met a different fate in her father's old homo !" "Rupert!-" "What is it, father?" "Never mind now. A thought had occurred to me ; but at another time I will speak of it. You look tired. Go and got your rest. We'll make a new man of you here at home. Courage, my son ! Brighter days are coming." When left alone, Donald Owen sank into a seat— he had arisen as his eon went out — and buried his face in his hands. Anon he started up, and began to pace up and down the apaitment, thinking aloud as he walked. "Oh ! what an opportunity is this ! If I can persuade the Doy to take a fancy to this young widow, what a stroke it would be! And why not? Where can he find more attractive beauty? Aye, and where can she find a more lovable man ? It would be a proper match With that knot tied, all trouble is at an end. But Rupert is a strange youth. His sense of right and wrong is too keen and delicate to be trifled with. I must appeal directly to his reason, and be perfectly frank about it No sort of chaff will blind or deceive him. But certainly, he should see what is for his own interest." A few more turns were taken in silence ; then he sat down at the table whereon were tho letters and papers, and took up the paper containing the account of Bertram's death. A little while h i held it in his hand, his eyes resting on the fateful item ; then he arose, saying to himself : "I will carry it to hor. Why should I send a servant ? She will think more of my sympathy if I wait upon her in person." With this he arose, keeping the paper in his hand, and started for Doris's room, with an exceedingly long face, and as much sorrow upon the surface as he could command. Meantime, Doris was expecting the visit ; but she was not to be dependent upon him for the intelligence. A newspaper containing the report of deaths in hospital, wherein the name cf George Bertram had appeared, had been brought to her, and she and Leila had read it together. At first she had experienced a painful shock, notwithstanding the preparatory information she had received from her husband ; but she had quickly recovered herself, being well assured tVat her own George was not the person whose death was reported. So, by the time her uncls appeared, she was ready to recieve him. It wa=! near to six o'clock when Donald Owen entered the chamber where Doris • 3 sitting The bereaved woman had ],r handkerchief at her eyes, and she did i t remove it until he had spoken. He vanced slowly and solemnly, and took a Btat at her side. " Doris ! my dear child ! Has the awful report reached your ears ?" She removed the handkerchief, and looked up. Her face was pale and wan, and there were traces of tears upon her cheeks. She , had composed hereelf , and was equal to the } occasion. ! "I have read the paper, uncle, and have 'seen the account of a soldier's death—a i

brave soldier, and true. I know he wae I But I was in a measure prepared for it. 1 had known for several days that he wa< severely wounded." " Doris, you take it as I thought yoi would. And yet I know how your hearl must ache. However, since the dear boj cannot be recalled, we must make the besi of it. If 1 could know that you would aris< from the blow with a heart still capable o; enjoyment, I should be happy indeed." Our heroine felt that she could not endun this man's presence for any length of time She must, in a measure, aot the hypocrite, and that she could not well do. It hurl her. She experienced a sense of sham< that was painful. To pretend to what she die not feel was possible, but it was far from agreeable ; so she resolved to dismiss hire as quickly as possible. She told him thai the first burst of agony had passed, anc? that she hoped to become calm and reconciled ; if she could be left to herself she would feel more composed. "By-and-by," she said, without looking up, " when I can converse of the loved one with tranquil feeling, I may do so ; but ] cannot talk now. My heart aches, and ] would be alone." The man arose upon this and turned to ward the door ; he stopped a few stops away and came back. " Doris, I had thought to go away without telling you of a circumstance which hat transpired that changes at once the whole I atmosphere of my home ; but I know you will be pleased to know it. I cannot help thinking that it will be a brighter day foi you. Dear child, my son — my Rupert— Heaven bless him ! — has come home to be with us, I trust for a considerable time. Ii I can have my way, ho shall- never go from home again. Tell me, at least, that you are not sorry." There was something in the uwVn's speech — in the tones of his voice, and in the depth of his breathing— that caused Doris to look up ; and when she saw the softened expression, the moistened eyes, the quivering lips, and the warmth of a pure, unselfish love ov6r the whole face, she felt her heart, tor the moment, beat; in sympathy with him. "Dear uncle," she said, honestly and 3amestly, "if it makes you happier I shall be glad. I hope he will like me." "0, I know ho will. And, Doris, I must _ L ell you that, though he be my son, ho is a good, true man. He is lying down now. I hope you will be willing to see him at supper time." Doris replied that she should be pleased to meet the young man whenever ho might wish to see her, and, without further ro mark, Uncle Donald retired, Supper time came, but no Rupert. His father explained that he had not awakened, and he did not care to arouse him. From tho supper table Mr Owen went softly to the door of the chamber where his son was resting, and finding him still soundly sleeping, he repaired to his office, where he found Walter Tarboll waiting for him. The master turned the keys in both tho doors, and then seatdd himself at his desk, calling upon his secretary to stand beside him. " Well, Walter, have you made the calculation ?" "Yes, sir." "And the funds can be collected immediately?" "At any moment. Tho cash is on hand." "I want it in gold." " I have attended to that, eir ; and knowing your \vishe3, i gave to Dimtry, the agent, two hundred and fifty thousand for transmission to Philadelphia " "Good i That is as it should be. How much move will there be?" "If you call it all in, thero will another quarter of a million." "Ah ! So ! Good again ! Get it in at once and ship it. And, sir, know that lam trusting you. Not a breath of this falls from your lips to another." "I will keep tho faith, sir. Your secret is as safe with me as it could be in your own bosom." " If I did not believe it,l should not trust you. The fact is, Tarbell, I don't want any large sum of money on hand, nor do I want it where we can reach it at short notice. I can see very plainly the Confederacy must borrow money. Already plans are made for issuing Confederate States' paper, and I, for one, want none of it. Not a word of thi3 outside this office, as you value your life. I trust you fully, and you must help me ; and if you are true, you shall never regret ifc." " N"ow, eir, you will make arrangements for getting in all outstanding moneys as soon as possible, and when wo have them in hand they shall be sent off. I will reserve a few thousands only for current es:penses. Rupert will want some, and I must, I suppose, do a little something towards equipping troops ; but they sha'n't dip deeply into my strong box, if I know it." Thus instructed, the secretary prepared to set about his work, while the stern patriot turned him to other plotting, for bo sure he had plenty of it on hand.