HADLEY.
It will be remembered, that after his recovery from the wounds inflicted by
Bill and Dick, as recorded in a former chapter, Hadley proceeded to
Philadelphia. When he reached that city he found his mother and uncle both
very sick, and in need of constant care and attention. She had no kind
daughter to sit by her couch and smooth her pillow; and he had no
affectionate wife to bathe his fevered brow with her soft hand, and by such
gentle attentions as no one else can bestow, alleviate his pain. Hadley
endeavored, to the best of his ability, to fill the place of daughter to
one, and of wife to the other, in his assiduous efforts to watch over, aid
and comfort them; and though he did not possess all that sweet softness of
manner and voice that belongs especially to woman, and though he could not
perceive, with the quick intuition of the other sex, yet by constant
attention he was enabled to ease many a pain and throw comfort into many an
otherwise sad and lonely hour.
At first his mother was in need of the most attention, and was hardly
expected to live from one day to the next; but he soon had the satisfaction
of seeing her disease yield to nature and treatment, and she began to grow
better. But almost before he could relax anything in his attentions to her,
the uncle became much worse; and he shared his time between the two,
scarcely taking time to eat or sleep.
Between the uncle and nephew there had existed a coldness for some years,
which was caused by the following circumstance:
In his youth the uncle was the companion of an estimable young man, between
whom and himself there existed the warmest friendship and sincerest
attachment. They were indebted to each other for many kind acts, and thus
became mutually endeared one to the other. At length they were separated,
by the uncle going to the West Indies on business, expecting to be detained
a length of time, perhaps for years, which proved to be the case. While he
was away the friend of his younger days met with that fate so common to
mankind--fell in love and got married. The union proved to be a happy one;
and when, after years of separation, the uncle returned, he found in the
house of his friend a joyful wife and a beautiful, smiling daughter, a
child of seven years, with a sweet disposition, and a heart to love
everybody.
To this young child, Mr. Scofield--James Scofield was the uncle's
name--soon became very deeply and fervently attached, as did also the child
to him; He saw that the father had found a nearer and dearer friend than
himself, and he was glad in his heart to witness the happiness which
reigned in the peaceful home so sweetly cheered by love. Many persons would
have been jealous of the wife's ascendency in her husband's affections; but
instead of envying the wife, or feeling ill toward her, he came to love her
as a friend, not only for her own sake, but, also, because she made his
friend such a kind and amiable companion; and in the endearment of their
little girl, who soon learned to be his pet, he was repaid for any
exclusive companionship from her father that he might have monopolized had
he remained, like himself, a bachelor.
Four years after his return from the Indies, Mr. Scofield was called to the
bedside of his dying friend. In their last interviews he was charged with
the guardianship and care of the young girl, conjointly with the mother,
who was also recommended to his friendship, with the injunction ever to be
to her as a brother and a counselor. These trusts he accepted, with a
promise to be all to the dear ones he left behind that his friend could
wish; and this promise he faithfully kept. No friend, brother, father, or
husband could have been more attentive to the wants, or more solicitous for
the welfare of those entrusted to their protection or dependent upon them
than he was. He endeavored to anticipate their desires and necessities--of
advice and friendship, not of goods, for the friend was in good
circumstances, and had left them with plenty of means to live well and
comfortably all their lives--and in all things to be to them the kind
friend they needed.
A warm attachment existed between them. Many thought--and idle gossips
whispered it about--that the widow was soon to console herself for the
great loss she had sustained, by taking Mr. Scofield as a second husband;
but no such idea ever entered _their_ minds. Her heart was buried in the
grave with her husband; and he--ah, he had a secret. A gentle being,
beautiful to him as an angel, had once crossed his path; but before taking
her to the altar, the angels came and took her to their homes, beyond the
reach of blight or death; and since then his thoughts often wandered away
to the regions of perfection; and with the memory of his loved one in
heaven, he never coupled a thought of a second love on earth.
It was not long that the widow and her husband's friend remained in
ignorance of each other's feelings; the secret he had kept from all others
he confided to her; and in mutual explanations and confidences, they soon
came to understand each other; and thenceforth their intercourse was
unrestrained and cordial. What knew or cared they for the busy tongue of
rumor? Nothing. Secure in each other's esteem, with a high rectitude of
purpose, they continued their good offices to each other, careless what the
world might say, so they gave no cause for vicious tongues to speak evil of
them.
We need hardly say that with such intimate association, Mr. Scofield
learned to love little Ida as a father loves his own child. Had it not been
for the judicious watchfulness and careful training of her excellent
mother, she might have been spoiled by his petting. As it was, no child
could be gladder to see a parent than she was to see her friend. She would
bound away to meet him; and when seated, would climb upon his knee while
young, and when older seat herself by him and listen to the stories he
would tell her, or play in his locks with her childish fingers.
About a year after his friend's death, Mr. Scofield's only sister lost her
husband; and, at his earnest solicitation, she and her little boy came to
live with him.
Mrs. Hadley was not wealthy, though she could not be called poor, as her
husband had left her a small property, which, by careful management, would
school Charles and keep them both until he should arrive at manhood, when,
by his own exertions, he could carve out a fortune for himself.
Mr. Scofield soon learned to love Charles very dearly, for he was an
amiable and affectionate boy, and always strove to be kind and dutiful to
his uncle. It was one of the brother's first acts to introduce his sister
to his friend's wife; and they were not long in forming a warm attachment
for each other; so much so that Mr. Scofield became almost jealous of each
of them for cheating him out of so much of the society of both. He might
have become quite jealous had it not been for the fact that while the
mothers were entertaining each other, he was left to entertain the
children, who, of course, were soon almost constantly together, and were
not long in becoming as familiar and affectionate as brother and sister.
It was not long until Mr. Scofield conceived the idea of a marriage between
these two children when they should arrive at proper age; and this finally
became the darling wish and object of his life.
It does not come within the scope of this sketch, to dwell upon particulars
in regard to the affairs of these two happily situated families, and so we
pass over the intervening years, until Charles, at seventeen, was sent to
College. About the same time Mr. Scofield was called away to the West
Indies on business, and by his advice, the two widows were to live together
during his absence.
He had never breathed his intentions concerning the young people to any
one, and he hoped no interference would be required, but that the constant
association of the two would naturally result in an attachment like the one
he so anxiously desired to spring up between them.
Charles made rapid progress at college, and in three years graduated with
honor. During these three years he had seen his uncle but once, as his
India business was much more complicated than he had expected to find it,
and detained him, with the exception of a brief visit home, a little over
three years in arranging it, which, was finally done by closing it up and
removing his funds nearer home.
He was very proud of Charles as a student, and often prophesied great
things for him; but he was sorry to be able to perceive no signs of an
attachment like that of lovers existing between the young folks. Still he
was hopeful. They might love and not know it themselves; if so, it would
require something to awaken them to a consciousness of the fact. He
resolved on trying an experiment. Meeting Ida alone, he said:
"Do you know, my dear, that I am about to send Charles away?"
"No. Where is he going?"
"Where there is a possibility we may never see him again."
"Oh, don't say so, uncle!" (She had learned to call him uncle.) "What would
we do without him? Do send some one else, and let him stay!"
The uncle thought he saw the evidence of a deep affection in her evident
distress, and, as this was his object, he replied:
"Oh, I had only thought of sending him to the West Indies; but if you
insist so hard, I suppose I shall have to find some one else to go."
"There, that's a good, dear uncle, as you always are. Oh, I am so glad
Charles will not be sent away from us!"
With secret delight--for he felt sure she loved his nephew as he
wished--Mr. Scofield next sought Charles, to see if an interview with him
would result as satisfactorily to his wishes as with Ida. He was
disappointed; Charles evidently loved Ida, but it was only with a brotherly
affection. He waited a few weeks longer, and then spoke plainly to his
nephew on the subject that lay nearest his heart. He told the young man how
much he desired to see him and Ida united, and hoped if he did not already
love her, that he would try to do so. As Charles had formed no attachment
at that time, he readily consented to converse with Ida--ascertain whether
her affections were engaged to him, and if so, to reciprocate them, if
possible. He did so; but he found that Ida's attachment was like his own,
and then he plainly told her of his uncle's wishes.
"I had never thought of that," she said; "but if it is his desire and yours
also, that we should be united, I think I could live happily with you."
This was said in a matter-of-fact way, that, more clearly than anything
else, showed her want of that peculiar kind of love which sanctifies
marriage. Charles saw this, and replied:
"I have no doubt, Ida, but you would make one of the best of wives; but I
should fear to wed you, when neither of us loved more ardently than we do."
"Why would you _fear_?"
"That either or both of us might afterward see some one that we could love
as those are expected to, who enter into the solemn obligations of the
marriage covenant. The heart is not master of its own emotions; they come
and go, regardless of our calls and commands, and we may not count upon
being able to control them. How wretched it would cause either of us to be
united to each other, while a third party was loved, I leave you to
determine for yourself. I have been so accustomed to regard you as a
sister, it seems strange to think of you in any other light; and I hope
this little passage between us will not mar the freedom of our
intercourse."
"I am sure I do not intend that it shall; and I think in consenting to
become a nearer companion to you than even a sister, I have given ample
assurance of my esteem and regard."
"We will then continue to be friends, and I will go at once and communicate
our decision to my uncle."
When Charles related to Mr. Scofield what had transpired between himself
and Ida, he saw that his uncle was deeply disappointed and dissatisfied.
"Boy!" he said, in more of a passion than Charles had ever seen him, "Boy,
you've made a fool of the matter and of yourself, too!"
"Why, uncle!" replied Charles, in utter astonishment.
"Yes, you have!" continued the old gentleman, "and I am provoked at you. I
have always intended to make you my heir, but I shall not do it now, at
least, not until you consent to wed Ida."
"Ida does not wish to marry me."
"She'll not object, I know she will not. I have set my heart upon the
match, and you must marry her, Charles."
"I am deeply pained to say so, but I cannot."
"You _must_!"
"Nay, then, I _will not!_"
"Boy! do you wish to drive me to disinherit and disown you?"
"Disinherit me if you will, but I beg you will not disown me. I have a
conscience in this matter; if it was only a whim, I would yield to your
wishes."
"And you utterly refuse to accede to my desires?"
"I do."
"Well, I am sorry for you, but I am resolved, seeing you care so little for
me, to substitute Ida's name for yours in my will."
Charles could bear to be treated harshly, but to be accused of want of
affection and gratitude toward the benefactor to whom he owed so much,
called tears to his eyes.
"You know, uncle, that I love you as I would a father, and it is unjust of
you to charge me with a want of affection."
Mr. Scofield was moved by the evident distress his words had caused in his
nephew's mind, and relenting a very little, he said:
"I will try you, then; instead of cutting you off at once, I give you a
week to consider the matter over; if, in that time, you find you love me
well enough to accede to my wishes, well and good; if not, I will surely do
as I have said."
Saying this, he abruptly closed the interview, and left Charles in a state
of the deepest distress and sorrow. His mother tried to persuade him to
yield to his uncle's good pleasure; and, finally, Ida and her mother joined
in entreating him not to break all their hearts by suffering himself to be
driven from home. He had most difficulty to overcome Ida's pleadings, for
she told him no fate could be so bad as for him to be sent away, to wander
in the world, and die, perhaps, among strangers, with no kind mother,
sister or friend to minister to his wants or smooth his dying pillow.
"Spare me, Ida!" he said with emotion. "You will yet see the day when you
will thank me for my firmness. If I did not think so--if I could be
convinced that you loved me, as every woman's heart must love some one at
some period in life, I would not hesitate to comply with the wishes you all
express, and remain on my uncle's terms. As it is, I shall go."
The week expired, and at its close Charles had everything arranged to leave
home. He formally told his uncle of his determination to seek his own
fortune, as it was impossible for him to comply with his wishes; but that
he did not go in anger. For his fortune he cared but little, though it was
a great grief to be compelled to go from him bearing his ill-will.
The uncle was much affected, and a word of entreaty from the young man
would have induced him to recall the sentence of his doom; but as that
word was not spoken, he could not quite unbend enough to voluntarily ask
his nephew to remain. Charles left on the morning after the interview, for
the west, having, after due reflection, arrived at the conclusion that a
competence could be secured there as speedily as anywhere else. Fortune led
him to the Mandeville settlement, where he soon became a favorite, and
where he was in a fair way to accumulate a reasonable share of this world's
goods, when the incidents occurred and the mishaps befel him, which have
already been narrated.
With these digressive remarks, thrown in to give the reader a fuller
knowledge of the character and position of one of our most interesting
characters, as, also, that what follows may be understood, we return to
that portion of our story now supposed to be more deeply interesting to
those who have followed us thus far, in the perusal of this more than
merely romantic tale.
As we said, Hadley's time was taken up first, in waiting upon his mother,
and then upon his uncle. In the midst of these trying but cheerfully
performed duties, he found but little time to think upon his own prospects,
though not an hour passed that the image of Eveline was not called up
before his mental vision, and if left to the current of thought for a brief
period, his reflections became of the most agonizing character, and the
topics upon which he dwelt something like these:
Was she sick? or, worse for his hope, had she passed to that "bourne from
whence no traveler returns?" If alive, was she still persecuted by Duffel?
was her father still resolved to force her to wed the villain against her
will?
As such thoughts rushed through his mind, he almost became impatient of
duty and ready to leave his post to fly to the rescue of his love. But a
groan from either of the invalids would instantly call back his wandering
mind, and in the active labor of kindness and sympathy, he always forgot
his own troubles. It was well for him he knew not of the charge preferred
against him by his base rival, and still better that he knew nothing of the
villain's intentions in regard to the idol of his heart, or he would
probably have left the sick ones to care for themselves, and flown to the
rescue of her he loved, ere she was stolen and conveyed to the cave.
In the midst of his duties at the bedsides of the afflicted, he had
forgotten to inquire after his old friends, Ida and her mother; but so soon
as Mrs. Hadley began to mend, she told him they were away from the city on
a visit to some friends, but were expected to return in a few days. He was
glad to hear this, for as soon as he could leave, he wished to return to
the west. He made a confidant of his mother, and told her she must excuse
his impatience to learn the fate of his affianced bride. She remembered but
too well the days of her youth to chide him, telling him he should go as
early as he felt it safe to leave his uncle. They had scarcely finished
their little communications, when Charles was called to minister to the
other invalid. After making him as comfortable as possible, Mr. Scofield
requested him to be seated, and then opened a conversation with him, on
this wise:
"I suppose, Charles, you have not forgotten the cause that separated us?"
"No, uncle, I have not?"
"And do you still adhere to your old determination?"
"I do?"
"Well, I have repented of my rashness, and I hope you will forgive me."
"I have nothing to forgive, but much to be thankful for."
"I was very cruel, for I had set my heart on the marriage, and it was a
deeper disappointment to me than you could well imagine; but it is over
now, and I am satisfied all has turned out for the best, seeing you did not
love each other. I have finally arranged my affairs, and my will bequeathes
ten thousand dollars to Ida, and the rest, about fifty thousand, to
yourself. I may not live long, or I may linger for years; but whether I go
soon or remain long, be a friend to Ida and her mother when I am taken from
them."
"I could not be otherwise, my dear uncle; it will be truly a pleasure to
serve and protect them. But now let me thank you from the bottom of my
heart, for your kindness. I am unworthy to become your heir, but if it so
please Providence and you to permit me to become the recipient of your
bounty, I shall make it my endeavor to use and not abuse your wealth."
"God help you there, my boy! It is a difficult thing to make good use of
riches."
We shall not dwell to narrate all that transpired. In a few days Ida and
her mother came home, and learning the situation of their friends,
immediately installed themselves as nurses to the sick.
Hadley was now relieved from the weight of care and duty he had assumed,
and took more rest.
His meeting with Ida was cordial, and it was not many hours till they were
mutual confidants, and Ida said:
"So, you see, I _do_ thank you for your firmness. But, oh, I so much wish
to see Eveline. You must go back soon. She may need your aid."
And he did go soon. Mr. Scofield soon began to convalesce; his mother was
out of danger, and bidding all an affectionate adieu, with the hope soon to
meet again, he started in the early dawn of a beautiful morning for the
scene of his hopes and fears.
On the second day of his journey, a sad presentiment of impending evil took
possession of his mind. Ah! had he known the situation of his beloved at
that hour, how his heart would have died within him, and his soul burned to
inflict merited retribution on the heads of her enemies. But the dark fate
that hung over her at that hour was vailed from his view, and hope mingled
with fear in his bosom. Fear, however, kept increasing, and before the
close of the third day, a voice seemed to Whisper:
"Haste, Hadley, haste! Wings of lightning can scarcely bear thee swift
enough to the rescue of her thou lovest so dearly!"