THE FLIGHT.
One bright morning about the middle of January, Herbert announced his
intention of going to Worcester with Anna, who, he said, wished to visit
the Lunatic Asylum, and as a young physician of his acquaintance had
just commenced practising there, it would be a good opportunity for them
to go over the building. To this my aunt made no objection, merely
proposing that Ada, too, should go. Afterwards I remembered the peculiar
look in Herbert’s eye, as he replied “Oh fie! mother, Ada’s nerves are
not strong enough to endure it. She can go with me some other time.”
Accordingly, when breakfast was over, Anna went up to her room to make
the necessary preparations for her ride, while I stood by and gave her
whatever assistance she needed. I observed that every article which
belonged to her was put in its proper place, but I gave it no further
heed, though I did wonder why she kissed me so often, turning back even
after she had reached the door to bid me another good-bye. Slowly the
day passed away and night came on, dark, cold, and stormy. Even now, as
I write, I can recall to mind the gloom which pervaded my spirits, as I
listened to the sound of the sleet and hail, which drove past the
window, where I had watched so long for their return. Seven, eight,
nine, ten, was rung from more than one church dome, and then we gave
them up, for the shrill whistle of the last train on which they would be
likely to come, had long since sounded in our ears.
“They must have stayed somewhere; don’t you think so?” said my aunt,
addressing her husband, who, manlike, was not in the least alarmed, but
sat conning his evening paper, nearer asleep than awake.
“Of course they have,” said he, looking up at his wife’s inquiry. “I
wouldn’t come in this storm, if I were in their places.”
That night I watered my pillow with tears, scarcely knowing why I wept,
save that I felt oppressed with a sense of desolation, as if Anna was
gone from me forever. The next day came and went, but it brought no
tidings of the missing pair, and half unconscious of what she was doing,
my aunt went from room to room, sometimes weeping and again brightening
up, as she enumerated the many things which might have prevented their
return. At evening, Ada came in, and my aunt immediately began urging
her to spend the night. This she did willingly, seeming very anxious
concerning the absence of Herbert, and feeling, I was sure, a little
suspicious that I might know more of his whereabouts than I chose to
tell, for once, when we were alone, she turned towards me and very
haughtily asked, if “I had any idea where they were?”
“None, whatever,” said I, and she continued—
“Has it never occurred to you that this Anna Lee manifested altogether
too marked a preference for a gentleman whom she knew to be engaged?”
“The preference was mutual,” I replied. “Herbert liked Anna, and Anna
liked Herbert.”
“And they have gone off to consummate that liking by a marriage,”
interrupted Ada.
“I do not know that they have,” I returned; “but such a termination of
affairs would not surprise me.”
She was very pale, and there were tears in her eyes, but I thought they
arose more from a sense of mortification than from any real love which
she bore for Herbert Langley, and so I did not pity her as I should
otherwise have done. The next morning at breakfast both she and my aunt
(particularly the latter) looked weary and worn, as if neither had slept
at all during the night. My uncle, on the contrary, seemed to be
unmoved. He probably had an opinion of his own, but whatever it was he
kept it to himself, merely saying that if the eastern mail brought no
letter he would go in quest of them himself. I knew I could not study in
my present excitement, and so I asked permission to remain at home.
Stationing myself at the window, I watched anxiously for the return of
Herod, who, as usual, had been sent to the office. He came at last,
bringing his pocket full of letters, two of which were for me, one
postmarked Meadow Brook, and the other Albany! With a trembling hand I
tore open the latter, which was in my sister’s handwriting. Glancing at
the signature, my fears were confirmed, for there stood the name of
“Anna Langley” in Herbert’s bold dashing hand!
“_She_ had refused to write it thus,” he said, in a postscript, “and so
he had done it for her.”
The letter contained no apology from either for what they had done, but
merely informed me of the fact that instead of stopping in Worcester,
they had gone straight on to Albany, which they reached about six
o’clock, going to the Delevan House, where in less than an hour they
were husband and wife; Herbert’s old comrade, Tom Wilson, accompanying
them, and being a witness of the ceremony. What affected me more
unpleasantly than all the rest, was the derisive manner in which Herbert
spoke of Ada.
“Give her my love,” he said, “and tell her not to feel too badly. I’d
like well enough to marry her, too, but under the present laws a man
can’t have two wives, unless he joins the Mormons. Maybe I shall do that
sometime, and then I’ll remember _her_!”
Of his mother he wrote differently, and though there was no cringing, no
acknowledgment of wrong, he spoke of her kindly and respectfully,
saying, “he hoped she would love his Anna for his sake.”
Of course I could not tell Ada what he said of her, neither was it
necessary, for guessing the truth from my face, she came up softly
behind me, and looking over my shoulder, read every word until she came
to the message intended for her. Then stamping her little foot, she
exclaimed passionately, “The villain, to insult me thus! As if _I_,
sprung from the best blood in Georgia, would stoop to become a rival of
that low-born country girl. No! By this act Herbert Langley has shown
that he is all unworthy of me, and I rejoice in my escape, while I give
him much joy with his highly refined and polished bride.”
All my Lee temper, which is considerable, was roused, and turning
towards the lady, I exclaimed, “My sister, Miss Montrose, is as good as
_you_, aye, or as Herbert Langley either, and the news of her marriage
with _him_ will carry sorrow to our home at Meadow Brook, where they
will say she has literally thrown herself away.”
“Very likely,” returned Ada, sarcastically. “It is quite probable that a
_poor laborer_ will object to his daughter’s marrying into one of the
first families in Boston.”
“He isn’t a poor laborer,” I replied, “and even if he were, he _would_
object to his daughter’s marrying a drunkard, for such Herbert Langley
has been and such he will be again.”
A deep groan came from the white lips of my aunt, and for the first time
since Ada’s outbreak, I remembered that she was there. She did not
reprove me angrily, but in trembling tones she said, “Rose, Herbert is
_my_ child, _my_ boy, and it becomes not a girl of your age to speak
thus of him in the presence of his mother.”
I was humbled, and winding my arms about her neck, I asked forgiveness
for the harsh words I had spoken; and she forgave me, for she meant to
do right, and if sometimes she erred, it was owing more to a weakness of
the flesh than an unwillingness of the spirit. In the midst of our
excitement _Tom Wilson_ was ushered in. He had returned in the same
train which brought the letter, and had come to give us any further
information which we might be desirous of knowing.
“When will Herbert come home?” was my aunt’s first question, her whole
manner indicating how much interest she felt in the answer.
“Not very soon,” returned Tom. “He is tired of the city, he says, and
besides that he wishes to avoid the unpleasant remarks his elopement
will necessarily occasion.”
“More like he wishes to avoid introducing his bride into society, which
he knows has no wish to receive her,” muttered Ada.
Tom paid no attention to this spiteful speech, but continued, “He has
drawn his money from the —— Bank, and with it he intends purchasing a
farm in the western part of New York.”
“An admirable plan,” again interrupted Ada. “That Lee girl is just
calculated for a farmer’s wife.”
Taken alone there was nothing particularly disagreeable in the three
words “_that Lee girl_;” but spoken by Ada Montrose they sounded
insultingly, and every time she uttered them, I felt my blood boil, for
_I_, too, was a _Lee girl_, and I was sure she included me in the same
contemptuous category. As Herbert had said, I did not think the
disappointment would break her heart. She was too angry for that, and I
believe now, as I did then, that most of her feeling arose from the
mortification of knowing that a “poor country girl,” as she called Anna,
was preferred to herself. For half an hour or more Tom Wilson and my
aunt conversed together, she asking him at least a dozen times “if he
did not think Herbert could be induced to return.” At last, with
quivering lips and flushed cheeks, as if it cost her pride a great
effort, she said, “Of course I mean _Anna_, too, when I speak of
Herbert’s return. She is his wife, you say, and though I might, perhaps,
wish it otherwise, it cannot now be helped, and if he only would come
back to me, I should love her for his sake.”
In my heart I blessed her for these words, and mentally resolved to
leave no argument untried, which might bring the fugitives back. But it
could not be. Herbert was decided, he said. He meant to be a farmer and
live in the country, adding what he knew would silence his mother sooner
than aught else he could say, “that temptations for him to drink were
far greater in the city than in the country, and it was for this reason
partly that he preferred living in the latter place.”
And so my aunt yielded the point; but from the day of her son’s
desertion, there was in her a perceptible change. Far oftener was she
found in the house of prayer, and less frequently was she seen in places
of amusement, while more than once I heard her in secret asking that her
wayward boy might be shielded from the great temptation. Alas! for thee,
poor Herbert Langley, sleeping in thine early grave! There were prayers
enough, methinks, to save thee; for at the old Meadow Brook home, thou
wert remembered in the early morn, and not forgotten when at eve, my
father knelt him down to pray. Why, then, didst thou fall ere thy sun
had reached the meridian of manhood? Was it because in thine early
training there was an error which no after exertions could repair? We
answer, Yes. The fault was there, and little know they what they do, who
set before their sons the poisonous cup, and bid them, by their own
example, drink and die. How many young men, from the higher walks of
life, now sleeping in the dishonored grave of a drunkard, might at this
moment be filling some honorable position, had it not been for the wine
or beer drinking habit acquired in childhood by their own firesides, and
at their father’s table? Look to it, then, you around whose hearthstones
promising sons are gathered, and if in the coming years you would escape
the sleepless nights, the bitter tears, and the broken hearts of those
whose children walk in the path, which, sooner than all others, leadeth
down to death, teach them, both by precept and by practice, to “touch
not, taste not, handle not,” for therein alone lieth safety.