HUGH'S SOLILOQUY
"One, two three--yes, as good as four women and a child," he began, "to
say nothing of the negroes, and that is not the worst of it; the hardest
of all is the having people call me stingy, and the knowing that this
opinion of me is encouraged and kept alive by the remarks and
insinuations of my own sister," and in the red gleam of the firelight
the bearded chin quivered for a moment as Hugh thought how unjust 'Lina
was to him, and how hard was the lot imposed upon him.
Then shifting the position of his feet, which had hitherto rested upon
the hearth, to a more comfortable and suggestive one upon the mantel,
Hugh tried to find a spot in which he could economize.
"I needn't have a fire in my room nights," he said, as a coal fell into
the pan and thus reminded him of its existence, "and I won't, either.
It's nonsense for a great hot-blooded clown, like me to be babied with a
fire. I've no tags to braid, no false switches to comb out and hide, no
paint to wash off, only a few buttons to undo, a shake or so, and I'm
all right. So there's one thing, the fire--quite an item, too, at the
rate coal is selling. Then there's coffee. I can do without that, I
suppose, though it will be perfect torment to smell it, and Hannah makes
such splendid coffee, too; but will is everything. Fire, coffee--I'm
getting on famously. What else?"
"Tobacco," something whispered, but Hugh answered promptly: "No, sir, I
shan't! I'll sell my shirts, the new ones Aunt Eunice made, before I'll
give up my best friend. It's all the comfort I have when I get a fit of
the blues. Oh, you needn't try to come it!" and Hugh shook his head
defiantly at his unseen interlocutor, urging that 'twas a filthy
practice at best, and productive of no good.
Horses was suggested again. "You have other horses than Bet," and Hugh
was conscious of a pang which wrung from him a groan, for his horses
were his idols. The best-trained in the country, they occupied a large
share of his affections, making up to him for the friendship he rarely
sought in others, and parting with them would be like severing a right
hand. It was too terrible to think about, and Hugh dismissed it as an
alternative which might have to be considered another time. Then hope
made her voice heard above the little blue imps tormenting him so sadly.
He should get along somehow. Something would turn up. Ad might marry and
go away. What made her so different from his mother? He had loved her,
and he thought of her now as she used to look when in her dainty white
frocks, with the strings of coral he had bought with nuts picked on the
New England hills.
He used to kiss those chubby arms--kiss the rosy cheeks, and the soft
brown hair. But that hair had changed sadly since the days when its
owner had first lisped his name, and called him "Ugh," for the bands and
braids coiled around 'Lina's haughty head were black as midnight. Not
less changed than 'Lina's tresses was 'Lina herself, and Hugh, strong
man that he was, had often felt like crying for the little baby sister,
so lost and dead to him in her young womanhood. What had changed Ad so?
There was many a tender spot in Hugh Worthington's heart, and shadow
after shadow flitted across his face as he thought how cheerless was his
life, and how little there was in his surroundings to make him happy.
There was nothing he would not do for people if approached in the right
way, but nobody cared for him, unless it were his mother and Aunt
Eunice. They seemed to like him, and he reckoned they did, but for the
rest, who was there that ever thought of doing him a kindness? Poor
Hugh! It was a dreary picture he drew as he sat alone that night,
brooding over his troubles, and listening to the moan of the wintry
wind--the only sound he heard, except the rattling of the shutters and
the creaking of the timbers, as the old house rocked in the December
gale.
Suddenly there crept into his mind Adah's words, "I shall pray for you
to-night." He never prayed, and the Bible given by Golden Hair had not
been opened this many a day. Since his dark sin toward Adah he had felt
unworthy to touch it, but now that he was doing what he could to atone,
he surely might look at it, and unlocking the trunk where it was hidden,
he took it from its concealment and opened it reverently, half wondering
what he should read first, and if it would have any reference to his
present position.
"Inasmuch as ye did it to the least of these ye did it unto Me."
That was what Hugh read in the dim twilight, that the passage on which
the lock of hair lay, and the Bible dropped from his hands as he
whispered:
"Golden Hair, are you here? Did you point that out to me? Does it mean
Adah? Is the God you loved on earth pleased that I should care for her?"
To these queries, there came no answer, save the mournful wailing of the
night wind roaring down the chimney and past the sleet-covered window,
but Hugh was a happier man for reading that, and had there before
existed a doubt as to his duty toward Adah, this would have swept it
away.