POPULAR NOVELS.
BY
_Mrs. Mary J. Holmes_.
I.— TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.
II.— ENGLISH ORPHANS.
III.— HOMESTEAD ON THE HILLSIDE.
IV.— ’LENA RIVERS.
V.— MEADOW BROOK.
VI.— DORA DEANE.
VII.— COUSIN MAUDE.
VIII.— MARIAN GREY.
IX.— DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.
X.— HUGH WORTHINGTON.
XI.— CAMERON PRIDE.
XII.— ROSE MATHER.
XIII.— ETHELYN’S MISTAKE.
XIV.— MILLBANK.
XV.— EDNA BROWNING.
XVI.— WEST LAWN. (_New._)
Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books
are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the
sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention
to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.
All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each and sent _free_
by mail, on receipt of price, by
G. W. CARLETON & CO.,
New York.
HUGH WORTHINGTON
A Novel.
BY
MRS. MARY J. HOLMES,
AUTHOR OF “DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT,” “’LENA RIVERS,” “MARIAN GREY,”
“MEADOW BROOK,” “HOMESTEAD,” “DORA DEANE,” “COUSIN MAUDE,” “TEMPEST AND
SUNSHINE,” “ENGLISH ORPHANS,” ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
_Carleton, Publisher, Madison Square_.
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO.
M DCCC LXXV.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868 by
DANIEL HOLMES,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Northern District of
New York
JOHN F. TROW & SON, PRINTERS,
205–213 EAST 12TH ST., NEW YORK.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SPRING BANK 7
II. WHAT ROVER FOUND 16
III. HUGH’S SOLILOQUY 34
IV. TERRACE HILL 39
V. ANNA AND JOHN 49
VI. ALICE JOHNSON 55
VII. RIVERSIDE COTTAGE 61
VIII. MR. LISTON AND THE DOCTOR 73
IX. MATTERS IN KENTUCKY 78
X. ’LINA’S PURCHASE AND HUGH’S 89
XI. SAM AND ADAH 98
XII. WHAT FOLLOWED 104
XIII. HOW HUGH PAID HIS DEBTS 109
XIV. MRS. JOHNSON’S LETTER 117
XV. SARATOGA 125
XVI. THE COLUMBIAN 134
XVII. HUGH 144
XVIII. MEETING OF ALICE AND HUGH 151
XIX. ALICE AND MUGGINS 159
XX. POOR HUGH 164
XXI. ALICE AND ADAH 182
XXII. WAKING TO CONSCIOUSNESS 193
XXIII. THE SALE 208
XXIV. THE RIDE 215
XXV. HUGH AND ALICE 221
XXVI. ADAH’S JOURNEY 233
XXVII. ADAH AT TERRACE HILL 241
XXVIII. ANNA AND ADAH 256
XXIX. THE RESULT 261
XXX. EXCITEMENT 275
XXXI. MATTERS AT SPRING BANK 283
XXXII. THE DAY OF THE WEDDING 290
XXXIII. THE CONVICT’S STORY 298
XXXIV. POOR ’LINA 308
XXXV. JOINING THE ARMY 315
XXXVI. THE DESERTER 325
XXXVII. THE SECOND BATTLE OF BULL RUN 341
XXXVIII. HUGH AND SAM 347
XXXIX. GOING HOME 355
XL. CONCLUSION 366
HUGH WORTHINGTON
CHAPTER I.
SPRING BANK.
It was a large, old-fashioned, wooden building, with long, winding
piazzas, and low, square porches, where the summer sunshine held many a
fantastic dance, and where the winter storm piled up its drifts of snow,
whistling merrily as it worked, and shaking the loosened casement, as it
went whirling by. In front was a wide-spreading grassy lawn with the
carriage road winding through it, over the running brook and onward
beneath tall forest trees until it reached the main highway, a distance
of nearly half a mile. In the rear was a spacious garden, with bordered
walks, climbing roses and creeping vines showing that some where there
was a ruling hand, which, while neglecting the sombre building and
suffering it to decay, lavished due care upon the grounds, and not on
these alone, but also on the well kept barns, and the white-washed
dwellings of the negroes,—for ours is a Kentucky scene, and Spring Bank
a Kentucky home.
As we have described it so it was on a drear December night, when a
fearful storm, for that latitude, was raging, and the snow lay heaped
against the fences, or sweeping down from the bending trees, drifted
against the doors, and beat against the windows, whence a cheerful light
was gleaming, telling of life and possible happiness within. There were
no flowing curtains before the windows, no drapery sweeping to the
floor—nothing save blinds without and simple shades within, neither of
which were doing service now, for the master of the house would have it
so in spite of his sister’s remonstrances.
“Some one might lose their way on that terrible night,” he said, “and
the blaze of the fire on the hearth, which could be seen from afar,
would be to them a beacon light to guide them on their way. Nobody would
look in upon them, as Adaline, or ’Lina as she chose to be called seemed
to think there might, and even if they did, why need she care? She was
looking well enough, and she’d undone all those little braids which
disfigured her so shockingly in the morning, but which, when brushed and
carefully arranged, gave her hair that waving appearance she so much
desired. As for himself, he never meant to do anything of which he was
ashamed, so he did not care how many were watching him through the
window,” and stamping his heavy boots upon the rug, for he had just come
in from the storm, Hugh Worthington piled fresh fuel upon the fire, and
shaking back the mass of short brown curls which had fallen upon his
forehead, strode across the room and arranged the shades to his liking,
then, sitting down before the fire, he went off into a reverie, the
nature of which his mother, who was watching him, could not guess; and
when at last she asked of what he was thinking so intently, he made her
no reply. He could hardly have told himself, so varied were the thoughts
crowding upon his brain that wintry night. Now they were of the
eccentric old man, from whom he had received Spring Bank, together with
the many peculiar ideas which made him the strange, odd creature he was,
a mystery to his own sex, and a kind of terror to the female portion of
the neighborhood, who, looking upon him as a woman-hater, avoided or
coveted his society, just as their fancy dictated. For years the old man
and the boy had lived alone in that great house, enjoying the freedom
from all restraint, the liberty of turning the parlors into kennels if
they chose, and converting the upper rooms into a hay-loft, if they
would. No white woman was ever seen upon the premises, unless she came
as a beggar, when some new gown, or surplice, or organ, or chandelier,
was needed for the pretty little church, lifting its modest spire so
unobtrusively among the forest trees, not very far from Spring Bank.
John Stanley didn’t believe in churches, nor gowns nor organs, nor
women, but he was proverbially liberal and so the fair ones of Glen’s
Creek neighborhood ventured into his den, finding it much pleasanter to
do so after the handsome, dark-haired boy came to live with him for
about Hugh there was then something very attractive to the little girls,
while their mothers pitied him, wondering why he had been permitted to
come there, and watching for the change in him, which was sure to ensue.
Not all at once did Hugh conform to the customs of his uncle’s
household, and at first there often came over him a longing for the
refinements of his Northern home, and a wish to infuse into Chloe, the
colored housekeeper, some of his mother’s neatness. But a few attempts
at reform had taught him how futile was the effort, Aunt Chloe always
meeting him with the argument,
“’Tain’t no use, Mas’r Hugh. A nigger’s a nigger; and I spec’ ef you’re
to talk to me till you was hoarse bout your Yankee ways of scrubbin’,
and sweepin’, and moppin’ with a broom, I shouldn’t be an atomer
white-folksey than I is now. Besides Mas’r John wouldn’t bar no finery;
he’s only happy when the truck is mighty nigh a foot thick, and his
things is lyin’ round loose and handy.”
To a certain extent this was true, for John Stanley would have felt
sadly out of place in any spot where, as Chloe said, “his things were
not lying round loose and handy,” and as habit is everything, so Hugh
soon grew accustomed to his surroundings, and became as careless of his
external appearance as his uncle could desire. Only once had there come
to him an awakening—a faint conception of the happiness there might
arise from constant association with the pure and refined, such as his
uncle had labored to make him believe did not exist. He was thinking of
that incident now, and it was not strange that he did not heed his
mother when she spoke, for Hugh was far away from Spring Bank, and the
storm beating against its walls was to him like the sound of the waves
dashing against the vessel’s side, just as they did years ago on that
night he remembered so well, shuddering as he heard again the murderous
hiss of the devouring flames, covering the fated boat with one sheet of
fire, and driving into the water as a safer friend the shrieking,
frightened wretches who but an hour before had been so full of life and
hope, dancing gayly above the red-tongued demon stealthily creeping
upward from the hold below, where it had taken life. What a fearful
scene that was, and the veins grew larger on Hugh’s brow while his broad
chest heaved with something like a stifled sob as he recalled the little
childish form to which he had clung so madly until the cruel timber
struck from him all consciousness, and he let that form go down—‘neath
the treacherous waters of Lake Erie never to come up again alive, for so
his uncle told him when, weeks after the occurrence, he awoke from the
delirious fever which ensued and listened to the sickening detail.
“Lost, my boy, lost with many others,” was what his uncle had said.
“_Lost_”—there was a world of meaning in that word to Hugh and though it
was but a child he lost, yet in the quiet night, when all else around
Spring Bank was locked in sleep, he often lay thinking of her and of
what he might perhaps have been had she been spared to him. He had
talked with her scarcely an hour in all, but even in that time she had
made upon him an impression which could never be effaced. He was
thinking of her now, and as he thought, visions of a sweet, young face,
shadowed with curls of golden hair, came up before his mind, and he saw
again the look of surprise and pain which shone in the soft, blue eyes
and illuminated every feature when in answer to some remark of hers he
gave vent to the half infidel principles he had learned from his uncle.
Her creed was different from his, and she explained it to him so
earnestly, that he said to her at last he did but jest to hear what she
would say, and though she seemed satisfied he felt there was a shadow
between them which was not swept away, even after he promised to read
the Bible she timidly offered him and which he had accepted wondering at
her interest in one whose _name_ she did not even know. _Hers_ was
written on the fly-leaf of the little book which he had yet hidden away
where no curious eye could find it, while carefully folded between its
leaves was a curl of golden hair. That tress and the Bible which
enclosed it had made Hugh Worthington a better man. He did not often
read the Bible, it is true, and his acquaintances were frequently
startled with opinions which had so pained the little girl on board the
St. Helena, but this was merely on the surface, for far below the rough
exterior there was a world of goodness, a mine of gems kept bright by
memories of the angel child who flitted for so brief a span across his
pathway and then was lost forever. He had tried so hard to save her—had
clasped her so fondly to his bosom when with extended arms she came to
him for aid. He could save her, he said—he could swim to the shore with
perfect ease; and so without a moment’s hesitation she had leaped with
him into the surging waves, and that was about the last he could
remember, save that he clutched frantically at the long, golden hair
streaming above the water, retaining in his grasp the lock which no one
at Spring Bank had ever seen, for this one romance of Hugh’s life was a
secret with himself. No one save his uncle had witnessed his emotions
when told that she was dead; no one else had seen his bitter tears or
heard the vehement exclamation, “You’ve tried to teach me there was no
hereafter, no Heaven for such as she, but I know better now, and I am
glad there is, for she is safe forever.”
These were not idle words, and the belief then expressed became with
Hugh Worthington a fixed principle, which his skeptical uncle tried in
vain to eradicate. “There was a Heaven, and she was there,” comprised
nearly the whole of Hugh’s religious creed, if we except a vague, misty
hope, that he, too, would some day find her, how or by what means he
never seriously inquired; only this he knew, it would be through her
influence, which even now followed him every where, producing its good
effects. It had checked him many and many a time when his fierce temper
was in the ascendant, forcing back the harsh words he would otherwise
have spoken, and making him as gentle as a child; and when the
temptations to which young men of his age are exposed were spread out
alluringly before him, a single thought of her was sufficient to lead
him from the forbidden ground.
Every incident connected with his brief acquaintance with Golden Hair
seemed to be recalled to his mind this wintry night, and so absorbed was
he in his reverie that until twice repeated he did not hear his mother’s
anxious inquiry,
“What is that noise? It sounds like some one in distress.”
Hugh started at last, and after listening for a moment he, too, caught
the sound which had alarmed his mother, and made ’Lina stop her reading.
A moaning cry, as if for help, mingled with an infant’s wail, now here,
now there it seemed to be, just as the fierce north wind shifted its
course and drove first at the window of the sitting-room, and then at
the ponderous doors of the gloomy hall.
“It is some one in the storm,” Hugh said, going to the window and
peering out into the darkness.
“Lyd’s child, most likely. Negro young ones are always squalling, and I
heard her tell Aunt Chloe at supper time that Tommie had the colic,”
’Lina remarked, opening again the book she was reading, and with a
slight shiver drawing nearer to the fire.
“Where are you going, my son?” asked Mrs. Worthington, as Hugh arose to
leave the room.
“Going to Lyd’s cabin, for if Tommie is sick enough to make his screams
heard above the storm, she may need some help,” was Hugh’s reply, and a
moment after he was ploughing his way through the drifts which lay
between the house and the negro quarters.
“How kind and thoughtful he is,” the mother said, more to herself than
to her daughter, who nevertheless quickly rejoined,
“Yes, kind to niggers, and horses, and dogs, I’ll admit, but let me, or
any other white woman come before him as an object of pity, and the
tables are turned at once. I wonder what does make him hate women so.”
“I don’t believe he does,” Mrs. Worthington replied. “His uncle, you
know, was very unfortunate in his marriage, and had a way of judging all
our sex by his wife. Living with him as long as Hugh did, it’s natural
he should imbibe a few of his ideas.”
“A few,” ’Lina repeated, “better say all, for John Stanley and Hugh
Worthington are as near alike as an old and young man well could be.
What an old codger he was, and how like a savage he lived here. I never
shall forget how the house looked the day we came, or how satisfied Hugh
seemed when he met us at the gate, and said, ‘everything was in splendid
order,’” and closing her book, the young lady laughed merrily as she
recalled the time when she first crossed her brother’s threshold,
stepping, as she affirmed, over half a dozen dogs, and as many squirming
kittens, catching her foot in some fishing tackle, finding tobacco in
the china closet, and segars in the knife box, where they had been put
to get them out of the way.
“But Hugh really did his best for us,” mildly interposed the mother.
“Don’t you remember what the servants said about his cleaning one floor
himself because he knew they were tired!”
“Did it more to save the lazy negroes’ steps than from any regard for
our comfort,” retorted ’Lina. “At all events he’s been mighty careful
since, how he gratified my wishes. Sometimes I believe he perfectly
hates me, and wishes I’d never been born,” and tears which arose from
anger, rather than any wounded sisterly feeling, glittered in ’Lina’s
black eyes.
“Hugh does not hate any one,” said Mrs. Worthington, “much less his
sister, though you must admit that you try him terribly.”
“How, I’d like to know?” ’Lina asked, and her mother replied,
“He thinks you proud, and vain, and artificial, and you know he abhors
deceit above all else. Why he’d cut off his right hand sooner than tell
a lie.”
“Pshaw!” was ’Lina’s contemptuous response, then after a moment, she
continued, “I wonder how we came to be so different. He must be like his
father, and I like mine, that is, supposing I know who he is. Wouldn’t
it be funny if, just to be hateful, he had sent you back the wrong
child!”
“What made you think of that?” Mrs. Worthington asked, quickly, and
’Lina replied,
“Oh, nothing, only the last time Hugh had one of his tantrums, and got
so outrageously angry at me, he said he’d give all he owned if it were
so, but I reckon he’ll never have his wish. There’s too much of old Sam
about me to admit of a doubt,” and, laughing spitefully, ’Lina returned
to her book, just as Hugh re-entered the room.
“Have you heard that sound again?” he asked. “It wasn’t Tommie, for I
found him asleep, and I’ve been all round the house, but could discover
nothing. The storm is beginning to abate, I think, and the moon is
trying to break through the clouds,” and going again to the window, Hugh
looked out into the yard, where the shrubbery and trees were just
discernible in the greyish light of the December moon. “That’s a big
drift by the lower gate,” he continued “and queer shaped, too. Come see,
mother. Isn’t that a shawl, or an apron, or something blowing in the
wind?”
Mrs. Worthington arose, and joining her son, looked in the direction
indicated, where a garment of some kind was certainly fluttering in the
gale.
“It’s something from the wash, I guess,” she said. “I thought all the
time Hannah had better not hang out the clothes, as some of them were
sure to be lost.”
This explanation was quite satisfactory to Mrs. Worthington, but that
strange drift by the gate troubled Hugh, and the signal above it seemed
to him like a signal of distress. Why should the snow drift there more
than elsewhere? He never knew it do so before. He had half a mind to
turn out the dogs, and see what that would do.
“Rover,” he called suddenly, as he advanced to the rear room, where,
among his other pets, was a huge Newfoundland, of great sagacity.
“Rover, Rover, I want you.”
In an instant the whole pack were upon him, jumping and fawning, and
licking the hands which had never dealt them aught save kindness. It was
only Rover, however, who was this time needed, and leading him to the
door, Hugh pointed toward the gate, and bade him see what was there.
Snuffing slightly at the storm which was not over yet, Rover started
down the walk, while Hugh stood waiting in the door. At first Rover’s
steps were slow and uncertain, but as he advanced they increased in
rapidity, until, with a sudden bound and a cry, such as dogs are wont to
give when they have caught their destined prey, he sprang upon the
mysterious ridge, and commenced digging it down with his paws.
“Easy, Rover—be careful,” Hugh called from the door, and instantly the
half savage growl which the wind had brought to his ear was changed into
a piteous cry, as if the faithful creature were answering back that
other help than his was needed there.
Rover had found something in that pile of snow.