ADA MONTROSE.
Aunt Charlotte, Anna, and myself were sitting in the parlor one morning,
about four weeks after our arrival in Boston, when the door-bell rang,
and the servant ushered in a young lady, who I readily guessed was Ada
Montrose, for there was about her an air of languor, as if she had just
arisen from a sick bed. All doubt on this point was soon settled by my
aunt’s exclaiming, as she hastened to greet her, “Why, Ada, my child,
this is a surprise. How do you do?”
The voice which answered was, I thought, the sweetest and most musical I
had ever heard, and yet there was in it something which made me
involuntarily shudder. I do not know that I believe in _presentiments_,
but sure I am that the moment I heard the tones of Ada Montrose’s voice,
and looked upon her face, I experienced a most disagreeable sensation,
as if, in some way or other, _she_ would one day cross my path. She was
beautiful—so beautiful, that it seemed impossible to detect a single
fault either in her features or complexion, though there was in the
former an expression which made me feel, when her eyes were fixed upon
me, much as the bird must when charmed by the rattlesnake. Do what I
would, I could not rid myself of the idea that she was my _evil genius_,
though how in any way she, a proud southern belle, could ever affect me,
a plain school-girl of fourteen, was difficult to tell. She was, as I
afterwards learned, twenty-two years of age, but being rather diminutive
in size, and affecting a great deal of childish simplicity, she passed
for four or five years younger; and, indeed, she herself gave her age as
eighteen—looking up to Anna, who was really two years her junior, as a
very ancient, matronly sort of person, who was supposed to remember as
far back as the flood.
Divesting herself of her warm wrappings, which she left upon the floor,
and shaking out her long curls, she informed my aunt that she had come
to spend the day, saying, by way of apologizing for not having sent her
word, that “she had ventured to come without an invitation, she felt
herself so perfectly at home.”
Of course Aunt Charlotte was delighted, and after assuring her of the
fact, she suddenly remembered our presence, and introduced us to the
lady as “Mr. Lee’s nieces from the country.” Not an instant did the
large brownish black eyes rest on me, for I was of little importance
compared with Anna, who the Thursday night previous had made her first
appearance in society, where her sweet face and fresh, unstudied manners
had produced something of a sensation, which had undoubtedly reached the
ear of the reigning belle. What her thoughts were as she scanned my
sister from head to foot, I do not know; but as I watched her, I fancied
I could detect an expression of mingled scorn and surprise that one so
unassuming should awaken an interest in those who were accustomed to pay
her homage. When she had satisfied herself with Anna’s personal
appearance, she gave me a hasty glance, and then drawing from her
reticule a fanciful mat which she was crotcheting, she leaned back among
the soft cushions of her chair, and commenced talking to my aunt in a
very artless, childish manner, never noticing us in the least, except
once when she asked me to pull the bell rope, which was much nearer to
her than me. Several times I fancied she seemed to be listening for
something, and when at last I heard Herbert’s voice in the hall and saw
the deepening flush on her cheek, I was sure that she felt more than a
common interest in him.
In his usual good-natured, off-hand way he entered the room, tossing
into my lap a letter from brother Charlie, and telling Anna that her
_beau_ hadn’t yet written; then, as his eye fell upon Ada, he started
back in evident surprise. Soon recovering himself, however, he said, as
he took the little snowflake of a hand, which she offered him—
“Why, Ad, who knew you were here?”
“Not you, or you would have come sooner, I reckon;” said she, looking up
in his face in a confiding kind of way, which brought a frown to Anna’s
brow.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have come so soon,” he replied laughingly, at the
same time stealing a sidelong glance at Anna.
“Here, sit right down by me,” said Miss Montrose, as she saw him looking
for a seat. “I want to scold you for not calling on me oftener when I
was sick. You don’t know how neglected I felt. Why didn’t you come,
hey?”
And she playfully pulled his hair, allowing her hand to remain some time
among his wavy locks. This was a kind of coquetry entirely new to me,
and I looked on in amazement, while Anna, more disturbed than she was
willing to acknowledge, left the room. When she was gone, Ada said,
letting her hand fall from Herbert’s head to his arm, “Tell me, is that
the _Lee girl_, who attracted so much attention at Mrs. G——’s party?”
There was a look of gratified pride on Herbert’s face as he answered,
“Yes—the same—don’t you think her pretty?”
They had probably forgotten my presence—Ada most certainly had, or else
she did not care; for she replied, “Pretty enough for some tastes I
suppose, but she lacks polish and refinement. Is she at all related to
you?”
“My step-father’s niece, that’s all,” replied Herbert, while Ada quickly
rejoined in a low tone, “Then, of course, _I_ shan’t have to cousin
her.”
“Probably not,” was Herbert’s answer, which I interpreted one way and
Ada another.
Her next remark was a proposal that Herbert should that afternoon take
her out to ride; but to this he made some objection; whereupon she
pretended to be angry, leaning back on the sofa and muttering that “she
didn’t believe he cared a bit for her, and he might as well confess it
at once.”
Here the dinner bell rang, and offering his arm to the pouting beauty,
Herbert led her to the dining-room, where she was soon restored to good
humor by my aunt, who lavished upon her the utmost attention, humoring
every whim, and going so far as to prepare for her _four_ different cups
of black tea, which had been ordered expressly for her, and to which she
objected as being too hot, or too cold—too weak or too strong. It took
but a short time to show that she was a _spoiled baby_, good natured
only when all the attention was lavished upon her, and when her wishes
were paramount to all others.
Dinner being over, Herbert did not, as was his usual custom, return to
the parlor; but taking his hat he went out into the street, in spite of
his mother’s whispered effort to keep him at home. This, of course,
vexed the little lady, and after thrumming a few notes upon the piano,
she announced her intention of returning home, saying that “she wished
she had not come.” At this moment the door-bell rang, and some young
ladies came in to call upon Anna. They seemed surprised at finding Ada
there, and after inquiring for her health, one of them said, “Do tell us
Ada, who that gentleman was that came and went so slily, without our
ever seeing him? Mrs. Cameron says he was from Georgia, and that is all
we know about him. Who was he?”
Ada started, and turning slightly pale, replied, “What do you mean? I’ve
seen no gentleman from Georgia. Where was he? and when was he here?”
“As much as three weeks or more ago,” returned Miss Marvin. “He stopped
at the Revere House, and Mrs. Cameron, who boards there, got somewhat
acquainted with him.”
“Mrs. Cameron!” repeated Ada, turning alternately red and white. “And
pray what did she say?”
I fancied there was a spice of malice in Miss Marvin’s nature; at least,
she evidently wished to annoy Ada, for she replied, “She said he was
_ugly looking_, though quite _distingué_; that he came in the afternoon,
while she was in the public parlor talking with a lady about _you_ and
your engagement with Mr. Langley!”
“The hateful old thing!” muttered Ada, while Anna turned white as
marble, and Miss Marvin continued—“When the lady had gone he begged
pardon for the liberty, but asked her if she knew you. Of course, she
told him she did, and gave him any further information which she thought
would please him.”
“Of course she did—the meddling widow!” again interrupted Ada; after
which Miss Marvin proceeded—“Mrs. Cameron didn’t mean to do anything
wrong, for how could she guess that ’twould affect him in any way to
know you were engaged?”
“And she told _him_ I was engaged! It isn’t so. I ain’t,” exclaimed Ada,
while the angry tears dropped from her glittering eyes.
“What does that mean then?” asked Miss Marvin, laughingly, pointing at
the ring on Ada’s finger.
Her first impulse was to wrench it from her hand and cast it from her,
but she remembered herself in time, and growing quite calm, as if to
attribute her recent agitation to a different cause, she said; “I wish
people would attend to their own affairs, and let mine alone. Suppose I
am engaged—is that a reason why Mrs. Cameron should discuss the matter
with strangers? But what else did she say? And where is the gentleman
now?”
“Gone home,” answered Miss Marvin, glancing mischievously at her
companions. “He went the next morning, and she said he looked very much
disturbed, either at your illness or your engagement, the former
probably, and that is why I think it strange that he didn’t stop to see
you; though maybe he did.”
“No, he didn’t,” chimed in Miss Marvin’s sister, “for don’t you know she
said he went to the theatre?”
All this time my interest in the unknown Georgian had been increasing,
and at this last remark I forgot myself entirely, and started forward,
exclaiming, “Yes, he was there, I saw him and spoke with him too.”
The next moment I sank back upon the ottoman, abashed and mortified,
while Ada gave me a withering glance, and said scornfully, “_You_ spoke
to him! And pray, what did you say?”
An explanation of what I said, would, I knew, oblige me to confess the
fainting fit, of which I was somewhat ashamed, and so I made no reply;
nor was any expected, I think, for without waiting for my answer, Ada
said to Miss Marvin, “Mrs. Cameron, of course, learned his name, even if
she had to ask it outright.”
“Yes, she made inquiries of the clerk, who wouldn’t take the trouble of
looking on the book, but said he believed it was _Field_, or something
like that,” returned Miss Marvin.
As if uncertainty were now made sure, Ada turned so white that in some
alarm her young friends asked what they should do for her; but she
refused their offers of aid, saying, “it was only the heat of the room,
and she should soon feel better.”
“And is it the heat of the room which affects _you_, Miss Lee?” asked
one of the girls, observing for the first time the extreme pallor of
Anna’s face.
“Only a headache,” was her answer, as she pressed her hand upon her
forehead.
She was fearfully pale, and I knew it was no common thing which had thus
moved her, and when not long afterwards the young ladies left us, I was
glad, for I felt that both she and Ada needed to be alone. The moment
they were gone Anna left the parlor, while I, frightened by the agonized
expression of her face, soon followed her; but the door of our room was
locked, and it was in vain I called on her to admit me, for she only
answered in a voice choked with tears, “Go away, Rosa; I would rather be
alone.”
So I left her and returned to the parlor, where I found Ada weeping
passionately, while my aunt, who had not been present during the
conversation which had so affected her, was trying in vain to learn the
cause of her grief.
“Nothing much,” was all Ada would say, except that “she wanted to go
home.”
In the midst of our excitement, Herbert came in. He had repented of his
ungracious refusal to ride with Ada, and now the carriage stood at the
door, but she refused, saying petulantly, when urged by my aunt to go,
that “if she couldn’t ride when she wanted to, she wouldn’t ride at
all.”
“Where’s Anna? she’ll go, I know,” said Herbert, glancing around the
room, and adding in a low tone, which reached my ear only, “and I’d far
rather she would.”
When I explained to him that she had a headache, and did not wish to be
disturbed, he exclaimed, “What ails all the girls to-day. Anything the
matter with you, Rose? If there isn’t, put on your bonnet and I’ll show
you the city, for I am resolved upon riding with somebody.”
As my aunt made no objection, I was soon ready and seated by the side of
Herbert, in the light vehicle, which he drove himself. I think he
exerted himself to be agreeable, for I never saw him appear so well
before, and in my heart I did not blame my poor sister for liking him,
as I was sure she did, while at the same time I wondered how he could
fancy Ada Montrose. As if divining my thoughts, he turned suddenly
towards me and said, “Rosa, how do you like Ada?”
Without stopping to reflect, I replied promptly, “_Not at all_.”
“Frankly spoken,” said he, and then for several minutes he was silent,
while I was trying to decide in my own mind whether or not he was
offended, and I was about to ask him, when he turned to me again,
saying, “We are engaged—did you know it?”
I replied that I had inferred as much from the conversation which I had
heard between her and Miss Marvin, saying further, for his manner
emboldened me, that “I was surprised, for I did not think her such an
one as he would fancy.”
“Neither is she,” said he, again relapsing into silence. At last,
rousing up, he continued, “I must talk to somebody, and as you seem to
be a sensible girl, I may as well make a clean breast, and tell you all
about it. Ada came up here from Georgia last spring, and the moment
mother saw her, she picked her out for her future daughter-in-law. I
don’t know why it is, but mother has wanted me to get married ever since
I began to shave. I believe she thinks it will make me steady; but I am
steady enough now, for I haven’t drank a drop in almost a year. I should
though, if Ada Montrose was my wife. But that’s nothing to the point.
Mother saw her and liked her. _I_ saw her, and liked her well enough at
first, for she is beautiful, you know, and every man is more or less
attracted by that. They say, too, that she is wealthy, and though I
would as soon marry a poor girl as a rich one, provided I liked her, I
shall not deny but her money had its influence with me, to a certain
extent. And then, too, it was fun to get her away from the other young
men who flocked around her, like bees round a honey jar. But, to make a
long story short, we got engaged—Heaven only knows how; but engaged we
were, and then”—— Here he paused, as if nearing a painful subject, but
soon resuming the thread of his story, he continued; “And then I stopped
writing to Anna, for I would not be dishonorable. Do you think she felt
it?”
The question was so unexpected, that I was thrown quite off my guard,
and replied, “Of course, she did; who wouldn’t feel mortified to have
their letters unanswered?”
“’Twas wrong, I know,” said he. “I ought to have been man enough to tell
her how it was, and I did begin more than a dozen letters, but never
finished them. Do you think Anna likes me now, or could like me, if I
was not engaged, and she knew I’d never get drunk again?”
Could he have seen her when first she learned that his affections were
given to another, he would have been sufficiently answered, but he did
not, and it was not for me, I thought, to enlighten him; so I replied
evasively, after which he continued, “As soon as I was engaged to Ada,
she began to exact so much attention from me, acting so _silly_, and
appearing so ridiculous that I got sick of it, and now my daily study is
how to rid myself of her; but I believe I’ve commenced right. Can I make
a confidant of you, and feel sure you’ll not betray me to any one,
unless it is Anna?”
I hardly knew how to answer, for if it was anything wrong which he
meditated, I did not wish to be in the secret, and so I told him; but it
made no difference, for he proceeded to say, “I shall never marry Ada
Montrose, never; neither would it break her heart if I shouldn’t for
she’s more than half tired of me now.”
I thought of the dark stranger, and felt that he was right, but I said
nothing, and he went on; “Sometimes I thought I’d go up to Meadow Brook,
tell Anna all about it, ask her to marry me, and so settle the matter at
once; but then I did not know but she might have grown up raw, awkward,
and disagreeable, so I devised a plan by which I could find out. Mother
would burn her right hand off I believe, to save me from a drunkard’s
grave, and when I wish to win her consent to any particular thing, all I
have to do is to threaten her with the wine-cup.”
“Oh, Herbert! how can you?” I exclaimed, for I was inexpressibly
shocked.
“It’s a way I’ve got into,” said he, laughing at my rueful face. “And
when I suggested that Anna should spend the winter here, I hinted to the
old lady that if she didn’t consent, I’d go off with a party of young
men on a hunting excursion. Of course she yielded at once, for she well
knew that if I joined my former boon companions, I should fall.
“And so we are indebted to you for our winter in Boston,” said I,
beginning to see things in a new light.
“Why no, not wholly,” he answered; “mother consented much easier than I
supposed she would. The fact is, she’s changed some since she was at
Meadow Brook. She’s joined the Episcopal Church, and though that in my
estimation don’t amount to much, of course, she has to do better, for it
wouldn’t answer for a professor to put on so many airs.”
As the daughter of a deacon, I felt it incumbent upon me to reprove the
thoughtless young man, but it did no good, for he proceeded to say,
“It’s all true, and there’s only one denomination who are sincere in
what they profess, and that’s the Methodist. They carry their religion
into their whole life, while the Episcopalians, Presbyterians, and
Baptists sit on different sides of the fence, and quarrel like fun about
High Church and Low, Old School and New, close communion and open
communion, and all that sort of thing. I tell you, Rose, if I am ever
converted—and mother thinks I will be—I shall be a roaring Methodist,
and ride the Circuit at once!”
I was unused to the world, and had never heard any one speak thus
lightly of religion; but I knew not what to say, so I kept silence,
while he continued, “But I am rambling from my subject. Mother _is_ a
different woman, if she does _read_ her prayers; and as she has never
known a word about my writing to Anna, she consented to her coming,
without much trouble, saying she would try to make it pleasant for her,
and proposing that you too should accompany her, and go to school. You
can’t imagine how delighted I was to find Anna what she is, and from the
moment I met her in the parlor, Ada Montrose’s destiny, so far as I am
concerned, was decreed; that is, if I can secure your sister; and I
think I shall have no difficulty in so doing, for notwithstanding her
affected coolness, it is easy to see that I am not indifferent to her.”
It was in vain for me to argue that he was doing Ada a great wrong, for
he insisted upon saying that he was not. “She hadn’t soul enough,” he
said, “to really care for any one, and even if she had, he would far
rather commit suicide at once, than be yoked to her for life; she was so
silly, so fawning, so flat!”
It was nearly dark when we reached home, and as the lamps were not yet
lighted in the parlor, I went immediately to my room, where I found Anna
lying upon the sofa, with her face buried in the cushions. I knew she
was not asleep, though she would not answer me, until I had thrice
repeated her name. Then lifting up her head, she turned towards me a
face as white as ashes, while she said, motioning to a little stool near
her, “Sit down by me, Rosa, I must talk to some one, or my heart will
break.”
Taking the seat, I listened while she told me how much she had loved
Herbert Langley—how she had struggled to overcome that love when she
thought he had slighted her, and how when she saw him daily in his own
home, it had returned upon her with all its former strength, until there
came to her the startling news that he was engaged to another. “I cannot
stay here,” said she. “I am going home. I have written to mother—see,”
and she pointed to a letter which lay upon the table, and which she bade
me read. It was a strange, rambling thing, saying that “she should die
if she staid longer in Boston, and that she was coming back to Meadow
Brook.”
“You can’t send this, Anna,” said I, at the same time tossing it into
the grate, where a bright coal fire was burning.
At this bold act of mine she expressed no emotion whatever, but simply
remarked, “I can write another or go without writing.”
“And you indeed love Herbert so much?” I said.
“Better than my life—and why shouldn’t I?” she replied. “He is all that
is noble and good.”
“Suppose he proves to be a drunkard?” I queried, looking her steadily in
the face, while she answered simply, “And what then? Would that be
harder to endure than a life without him?”
I know not whether the spirit of prophecy was upon me, or whether I felt
a dim foreshadowing of my sister’s wretched future, but from some cause
or other, I proceeded to picture to her the sorrows of a drunkard’s home
and the utter degradation of a drunkard’s wife, while she listened
shudderingly, saying when I had finished, “God save me from such a
fate!”
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and Herbert’s voice was
heard at the door, asking for admittance. He had often visited us in our
room, and now, without consulting Anna’s wishes, I bade him enter, going
out myself and leaving them alone. What passed between them I never
knew, but the supper table waited long for Herbert, and was finally
removed, my aunt thinking he had gone out, “to see Ada, perhaps,” she
said, and then she asked me how I liked her, telling me she was to be
Herbert’s wife, and that she hoped they would be married early in the
spring.
I made her no direct reply, for I felt I was acting a double—nay, a
treble part, in being thus confided in by _three_, but I could not well
help it, and I hoped, by betraying neither party, to atone in a measure
for any deceit I might be practising. After that night there was a great
change in Anna, who became so lively and cheerful that nearly all
observed it, while Herbert’s attentions to her, both at home and abroad,
were so marked as to arouse the jealously of Ada, who, while she
affected to scorn the idea of being supplanted by “that awkward Lee
girl,” as she called her, could not wholly conceal her anxiety lest “the
Lee girl” should, after all, win from her her betrothed husband.
Something of this she told my aunt, who, knowing nothing of the true
state of affairs, and having the utmost confidence in her son’s honor,
laughed at her fears, telling her once in my hearing, though she was
unaware of my proximity, that, “however much Herbert might flirt with
Anna, he had been too well brought up to think of marrying one so far
beneath him.”
“But he does think of it—I most know he does,” persisted Ada, beginning
to cry; “and I wish you’d send her home, won’t you?”
I did not hear my aunt’s reply, but with Ada, my own heart echoed, “send
her home,” for much as I liked Herbert, I shrank from the thought of
committing my gentle sister’s happiness to his keeping, and secretly I
resolved upon writing to my father and acquainting him with the whole;
but, alas! I deferred it from day to day, until it was too late.