ADAH'S JOURNEY
The night express from Rochester to Albany was crowded. Every car was
full, or seemed to be, and the clamorous bell rang out its first summons
for all to get on board, just as a pale, frightened-looking woman,
bearing in her slender arms a sleeping boy, whose little face showed
signs of suffering, stepped upon the platform of the rear carriage, and
looked wistfully in at the long, dark line of passengers filling every
seat. Wearily, anxiously, she had passed through every car, beginning at
the first, her tired eyes scanning each occupant, as if mutely begging
some one to have pity on her ere exhausted nature failed entirely, and
she sank fainting to the floor. None had heeded that silent appeal,
though many had marked the pallor of her girlish face, and the extreme
beauty of the baby features nestling in her bosom. She could not hold
out much longer, and when she reached the last car and saw that, too,
was full, the delicate chin quivered perceptibly, and a tear glistened
in the long eyelashes, sweeping the colorless cheek.
Slowly she passed up the aisle until she came to where there was indeed
a vacant seat, only a gentleman's shawl was piled upon it, and he, the
gentleman, looking so unconcernedly from the window, and apparently
oblivious of her close proximity to him, would not surely object to her
sitting there. How the tired woman did wish he would turn toward her,
would give some token that she was welcome, would remove his heavy
plaid, and say to her courteously, "Sit here, madam." But no, his eyes
were only intent on the darkness without; he had no care for her, Adah,
though he knew she was there.
The oil lamp was burning dimly, and the girl's white face was lost in
the shadow, when the young man first glanced at her, so he had no
suspicion of the truth, though a most indefinable sensation crept over
him as he heard the timid footfall, and the rustling of female garments
as Adah Hastings drew near with her boy in her arms. He knew she stopped
before him; he knew, too, why she stopped, and for a brief instant his
better nature bade him be a man and offer her what he knew she wanted.
But only for an instant, and then his selfishness prevailed. "He would
not seem to see her, he would not be bothered by a woman with a brat. If
there was anything he hated it was a woman traveling with a young one, a
squalling young one. They would never catch his wife, when he had one,
doing a thing so unladylike. A car was no place for children. He hated
the whole of them."
Adah passed on, her weary sigh falling distinctly on his ear, but
falling to awaken a feeling of remorse for his unmanly conduct.
"I'm glad she's gone. I can't be bothered," was his mental comment as he
settled himself more comfortably, feeling a glow of satisfaction when
the train began to move, and he knew no more women with their babies
would be likely to trouble him.
With that first heavy strain of the machinery Adah lost her balance, and
would have fallen headlong but for the friendly hand put forth to save
the fall.
"Take my seat, miss. It is not very convenient, but it is better than
none. I can find another."
It was the friendliest voice imaginable which said these words to Adah,
and the kind tone in which they were uttered wrung the hot tears at once
from her eyes. She did not look up at him. She only knew that some one,
a gentleman, had arisen and was bending over her; that a hand, large,
white and warm, was laid upon her shoulder, putting her gently into the
narrow seat next the saloon; that the same hand took from her and hung
above her head the little satchel which was so much in her way, and that
the manly voice, so sympathetic in its tone, asked if she would be too
warm so near the fire.
She did not know there was a fire. She only knew that she had found a
friend, and with the delicious feeling of safety which the knowledge
brought, the tension of her nerves gave way, and burying her head on
Willie's face she wept for a moment silently. Then, lifting it up, she
tried to thank her benefactor, looking now at him for the first time,
and feeling half overawed to find him so tall, so stylish, so
exceedingly refined and aristocratic in every look and action.
Irving Stanley was a passenger on that train, bound for Albany. Like Dr.
Richards, he had hoped to enjoy a whole seat, even though it were not a
very comfortable one, but when he saw how pale and tired Adah was, he
arose at once to offer his seat. He heard her sweet, low voice as she
tried to thank him. He saw, too, the little, soft, white hands, holding
so fast to Willie. Was he her brother or her son? She was young to be
his mother. Perhaps she was his sister; but, no, there was no mistaking
the mother-love shining out from the brown eyes turned so quickly upon
the boy when he moaned, as if in pain, and seemed about to waken.
"He's been sick most all the way," she said. "There's something the
matter with his ear, I think, as he complains of that. Do children ever
die with the earache?"
Irving Stanley hardly thought they did. At all events, he never heard of
such a case, and then, after suggesting a remedy, should the pain
return, he left his new acquaintance.
"A part of your seat, sir, if you please," and Irving's voice was rather
authoritative than otherwise, as he claimed the half of what the doctor
was monopolizing.
It was of no use for Dr. Richards to pretend he was asleep, for Irving
spoke so like a man who knew what he was doing, that the doctor was
compelled to yield, and turning about, recognized his Saratoga
acquaintance. The recognition was mutual, and after a few natural
remarks, Irving explained how he had given his seat to a lady, who
seemed ready to drop with fatigue and anxiety concerning her little
child, who was suffering from the earache.
"By the way, doctor," he added, "you ought to know the remedy for such
ailments. Suppose you prescribe in case it returns. I do pity that young
woman."
Dr. Richards stared at him in astonishment.
"I know but little about babies or their aches," he answered at last,
just as a scream of pain reached his ear, accompanied by a suppressed
effort on the mother's part to soothe her suffering child.
The pain must have been intolerable, for the little fellow, in his
agony, writhed from Adah's lap and sank upon the floor, his waxen hand
pressed convulsively to his ear, and his whole form quivering with
anguish as he cried, "Oh, ma! ma! ma! ma!"
The hardest heart could scarce withstand that scene, and many now
gathered near, offering advice and help, while even Dr. Richards turned
toward the group gathering by the door, experiencing a most
unaccountable sensation as that baby cry smote on his ear. Foremost
among those who offered aid was Irving Stanley. His was the voice which
breathed comfort to the weeping Adah, his the hand extended to take up
little Willie, his the arms which held and soothed the struggling boy,
his the mind which thought of everything available that could possibly
bring ease.
"Who'll give me a cigar? I do not use them myself. Ask him," he said,
pointing to the doctor, who mechanically took a fine Havana from the
case and half-grudgingly handed it to the lady, who hurried back with it
to Irving Stanley.
To break it up and place it in Willie's ear was the work of a moment,
and ere long the fierce outcries ceased as Willie grew easier and lay
quietly in Irving Stanley's arms.
"I'll take him now," and Adah put out her hands; but Willie refused to
go, and clung closer to Mr. Stanley, who said, laughingly: "You see that
I am preferred. He is too heavy for you to hold. Please trust him to me,
while you get the rest you need."
And Adah yielded to that voice as if it were one which had a right to
say what she must do, and leaning back against the window, rested her
tired head upon her hand, while Irving carried Willie to his seat beside
the doctor! There was a slight sneer on the doctor's face as he saw the
little boy.
"You don't like children, I reckon," Irving said, as the doctor drew
back from the little feet which unconsciously touched his lap.
"No, I hate them," was the answer, spoken half-savagely, for at that
moment a tiny hand was deliberately laid on his, as Willie showed a
disposition to be friendly. "I hate them," and the little hand was
pushed rudely off.
Wonderingly the soft, large eyes of the child looked up to his.
Something in their expression riveted the doctor's gaze as by a spell.
There were tears in the baby's eyes, and the pretty lip began to quiver
at the harsh indignity. The doctor's finer feelings, if he had any, were
touched, and muttering to himself, "I'm a brute," he slouched his riding
cap still lower down upon his forehead, and turning away to the window,
relapsed into a gloomy reverie.
As they drew near to Albany, another piercing shriek from Willie arose
even above the noise of the train. The paroxysms of pain had returned
with such severity that the poor infant's face became a livid purple,
while Adah's tears dropped upon it like rain. Again the sympathetic
women gathered around, again Dr. Richards, aroused from his uneasy
sleep, muttered invectives against children in general and this one in
particular, while again Irving Stanley hastened to the rescue, his the
ruling mind which overmastered the others, planning what should be done,
and seeing that his plans were executed.
"You cannot go on this morning. Your little boy must have rest and
medical advice," he said to Adah, when at last the train stopped in
Albany. "I have a few moments to spare. I will see that you are
comfortable. You are going to Snowdon, I think you said. There is an
acquaintance of mine on board who is also bound for Snowdon. I might--"
Irving Stanley paused here, for certain doubts arose in his mind,
touching the doctor's willingness to be troubled with strangers.
"Oh, I'd rather go on alone," Adah exclaimed, as she guessed what he had
intended saying.
"It's quite as well, I reckon," was Mr. Stanley's reply, and taking
Willie in his arms, he conducted Adah to the nearest hotel.
"If you please, you will not engage a very expensive room for me. I
can't afford it," Adah said, timidly, as she followed her conductor into
the parlor of the Delavan.
She was poor, then. Irving would hardly have guessed it from her
appearance, but this frank avowal which many would not have made, only
increased his respect for her, while he wished so much that she might
have one of the handsome sitting-rooms, of whose locality he knew so
well.
It was a cozy, pleasant little chamber into which she was finally
ushered, too nice, Adah feared, half trembling for the bill when she
should ask for it, and never dreaming that just one-half the price had
been paid by Irving, whose kind heart prompted him to the generous act.
There were but a few moments now ere he must leave, and standing by her
side, with her little hand in his, he said:
"The meeting with you has been to me a pleasant incident, and I shall
not soon forget it. I trust we may meet again. There is my card. I am
acquainted North, South, East and West. Perhaps I know your husband. You
have one?" he added quickly, as he saw the hot blood stain her face and
neck to a most unnatural color.
He had not the remotest suspicion that she had never been a wife; he
only thought from her agitation that she possibly was a widow, and
unconsciously to himself the idea was fraught with a vague feeling of
gladness, for, to most men, it is pleasanter knowing they have been
polite to a pretty girl, or even a pretty widow, than to a wife, whose
lord might object, and Irving was not an exception. Was she a widow, and
had he unwittingly touched the half-healed wound? He wished he knew, and
he stood waiting for her answer to his question, "You have a husband?"
At a glance Adah had read the name upon the card, knowing now who had
befriended her. It was Irving Stanley, Augusta's brother, second cousin
to Hugh, and 'Lina was with his sister in New York. He was going there,
he might speak of her, and if she told her name, her miserable story
would be known to more than it was already. It was a false pride which
kept Adah silent when she knew that Irving Stanley was waiting for her
to speak, wondering at her agitated manner. He was looking at her eyes,
her large brown eyes, which dared not meet his, and as he looked a
terrible suspicion crept over him. Involuntarily he felt for her third
finger. It was ringless, and he dropped it suddenly, but with a feeling
that he might be unjust, that all were not of his church and creed, he
took it again, and said his parting words. Then, turning to Willie, he
smoothed the silken curls, praised the beauty of the sleeping child, and
left the room.
Adah knew that he was gone, that she should not see him again, and that,
at the very last, there had arisen some misunderstanding, she hardly
knew what, for the shock of finding who he was had prevented her from
fully comprehending the fact that he had asked her for her husband. She
never dreamed of the suspicion which, for an instant, had a lodgment in
his breast, or she would almost have died where she stood, gazing at the
door through which he had disappeared.
"I ought to have told him my name, but I could not," she sighed, as the
sound of his rapid footsteps died upon the stairs.
They ceased at last, and with a feeling of utter desolation, as if she
were now indeed alone, Adah sank upon her knees, and covering her face
with her hands, wept bitterly. Anon, however, holier, calmer feelings
swept over her. She was not alone. They who love God can never be alone,
however black the darkness be around them. And Adah did love Him,
thanking Him at last for raising her up this friend in her sore need,
for putting it into Irving Stanley's heart to care for her, a stranger,
as he had done. And as she prayed, the wish arose that George had been,
more like him. He would not then have deserted her, she sobbed, while
again her lips breathed a prayer for Irving Stanley, thoughts of whom
even then made her once broken heart beat as she had never expected it
to beat again.
So absorbed was Adah that she did not hear the returning footsteps as
Irving came across the hall. He had remembered some directions he would
give her, and at the risk of being left, had come back a moment. She did
not hear the turning of the knob, the opening of the door, or know that
he for whom she prayed was standing so near to her that he heard
distinctly what she said, kneeling there by the chair where he had sat,
her fair head bent down and her face concealed from view.
"God in heaven bless and keep the noble Irving Stanley."
* * * * *
In the office below, Dr. Richards, who had purposely stopped for the day
in Albany, smoked his expensive cigars, ordered oysters and wine sent to
his room--the very one adjoining Adah's--made two or three calls, wrote
an explanatory note to 'Lina--feeling half tempted to leave out the
"Dear," with which he felt constrained to preface it--thought again of
Lily--poor Lily, as he always called her--thought once of the strange
woman and the little boy, in whom Irving Stanley had been so interested,
wondered where they were going, and who it was the boy looked a little
like--thought somehow of Anna in connection with that boy; and then,
late in the afternoon, sauntered down to the Boston depot, and took his
seat in the car, which, at about ten o'clock that night would deposit
him at Snowdon. There were no "squalling brats" to disturb him, for
Adah, unconscious of his proximity, was in the rear car--pale, weary,
and nervous with the dread which her near approach to Terrace Hill
inspired. What, if after all, Anna, should not want her? And this was a
possible contingency, notwithstanding Alice had been no sanguine.
Darkly the December night closed in, and still the train kept on, until
at last Danville was reached, and she must alight, as the express did
not stop again until it reached Worcester. With a chill sense of
loneliness, and a vague, confused wish for the one cheering voice which
had greeted her ear since leaving Spring Bank, Adah stood upon the
snow-covered platform, holding Willie in her arms, and pointing out her
trunk to the civil baggage man, who, in answer to her inquiries as to
the best means of reaching Terrace Hill, replied: "You can't go there
to-night; it is too late. You'll have to stay in the tavern kept right
over the depot, though if you'd kept on the train there might have been
a chance, for I see the young Dr. Richards aboard; and as he didn't get
out, I guess he's coaxed or hired the conductor to leave him at
Snowdon."
The baggage man was right in his conjecture, for the doctor had
persuaded the polite conductor, whom he knew personally, to stop the
train at Snowdon; and while Adah, shivering with cold, found her way up
the narrow stairs into the rather comfortless quarters where she must
spend the night, the doctor was kicking the snow from his feet and
talking to Jim, the coachman from Terrace Hill.