WHAT ROVER FOUND.
Unmindful of the sleet beating upon his uncovered head, Hugh hastened to
the spot, where the noble brute was licking a baby face, which he had
ferreted out from beneath the shawl wrapped so carefully around it to
shield it from the cold, for instead of _one_ there were _two_ in that
drift of snow—a mother and her child! Dead the former seemed, for the
white cheek which Hugh touched was cold as stone, and with a sickening
feeling the young man leaned against the gate-post and tried to assure
himself that what he saw was a mere fancy of the brain. But it was
terribly real. That stiffened form lying there so still hugging that
sleeping child so closely to its bosom, was no delusion, and his
mother’s voice, calling to know what he was doing, brought Hugh back at
last to a consciousness that he must act immediately.
“Mother,” he screamed, “send a servant here, quick, or let Ad come
herself. There’s a woman dead, I fear. I can carry her well enough, but
Ad must come for the child.”
“The what?” gasped Mrs. Worthington, who, terrified beyond measure at
the mention of a dead woman, was doubly so at hearing of a child. “A
child,” she repeated, “whose child?” while ’Lina, shrinking back from
the keen blast, refused to obey, and so the mother, throwing her cloak
around her, joined the group by the gate.
Carefully Hugh lifted the light figure in his arms and bore it to the
house, where ’Lina, whose curiosity had overcome her selfishness, met
him on the piazza and led the way to the sitting-room, asking
innumerable questions as to how he found her and who she was.
Hugh made no reply save an order that the lounge should be brought near
the fire and a pillow from his mother’s bed. “From mine, then,” he
added, as he saw the anxious look in his mother’s face, and guessed that
she shrank from having her own snowy pillow come in contact with the
wet, limpid figure he was depositing upon the lounge. It was a slight,
girlish form, and the long brown hair, loosened from its confinement,
fell in rich profusion over the pillow which ’Lina brought half
reluctantly, eyeing askance the insensible object before her, and
daintily holding back her dress lest it should come in contact with the
child her mother had deposited upon the floor, where it lay crying
lustily, unnoticed save by Rover, who, quite as awkward as his master
would have been in like circumstances, seemed trying to amuse and
protect it, interposing his shaggy proportions between that and the fire
when once it showed a disposition to creep that way.
“Do one of you _do something_,” Hugh said, as he saw how indisposed both
his mother and sister were to help, the former being too much frightened
and the latter too indignant to act.
The idea of a strange woman being thrust upon them in this way was
highly displeasing to Miss ’Lina, who haughtily drew back from the
little one when it stretched its arms out toward her, while its pretty
lip quivered and the tears dropped over its rounded cheek. To her it was
nothing but an intruder, a brat, and so she steeled her heart against
its touching appeal, and turned her back upon it, leaving for Rover the
kindly office of soothing the infant.
Meantime Hugh, with all a woman’s tenderness, had done for the now
reviving stranger what he could, and as his mother began to collect her
scattered senses and evince some interest in the matter, he withdrew to
call the negroes, judging it prudent to remain away awhile, as his
presence might be an intrusion. From the first he had felt sure that the
individual thrown upon his charity was not a low, vulgar person, as his
sister seemed to think. He had not yet seen her face distinctly, for it
lay in the shadow, but the long, flowing hair, the delicate hands, the
white neck, of which he had caught a glimpse as his mother unfastened
the stiffened dress, all these had made an impression, and involuntarily
repeating to himself, “Poor girl,” he strode a second time across the
drifts which lay in his back yard and was soon pounding at old Chloe’s
cabin door, bidding her and Hannah dress at once and come immediately to
the house.
“They will need hot water most likely,” he thought and returning to the
kitchen he built the fire himself and then sat down to wait until such
time as it was proper for him to appear again in the sitting-room, where
a strange scene was enacting.
The change of atmosphere and the restoratives applied had done their
work, and Mrs. Worthington saw that the long eyelashes began to tremble,
while a faint color stole into the hitherto colorless cheeks, and at
last the large, brown eyes unclosed and looked into hers with an
expression so mournful, that a thrill of yearning tenderness for the
desolate young creature shot through her heart, and bending down she
said, kindly, “Are you better now?”
“Yes, thank you. Where is Willie?” was the low response, the tone of the
voice thrilling Mrs. Worthington with an undefinable emotion. Even ’Lina
started, it was so low, so sweet, so musical, and coming near she
answered “If it’s the baby you mean, he is here, playing with our dog,
Rover.”
There was a look of gratitude in the brown eyes, while the white lips
moved slowly, and Mrs. Worthington caught the whispered words of
thanksgiving that baby Willie was safe.
“Where am I?” she said next, “and is _he_ here? Is this his house?”
“Whose house?” Mrs. Worthington asked. “Whom are you looking for?”
The girl did not answer at once, and when she did her mind seemed
wandering.
“I waited so long,” she said, “and watched from morning till dark, but
he never came again, only the letter which broke my heart. Willie was a
wee baby then, and I almost hated him for awhile, but he wasn’t to
blame. _I_ wasn’t to blame. Our Father in Heaven knew I wasn’t and after
I went to him and told him all about it, and asked him to care for
_Adah_, the first terrible pain was over and love for Willie came back
with a hope that the letter might be false. I’m glad God gave me Willie
now, even if he did take his father from me.”
Mrs. Worthington and her daughter exchanged curious glances of wonder,
and the latter abruptly asked,
“Where is Willie’s father?”
“I don’t know,” came in a wailing sob from the depths of the pillow
where the face for a moment hid itself from view.
“Where did you come from?” was the next question, put in a tone so cold
and harsh that the young girl looked up in some alarm, and answered
meekly,
“From New York, ma’am. It’s a great ways off, and I thought I’d never
get here, but every body was so kind to me and Willie, and the driver
said if ’twan’t so late, and he so many passengers, he’d drive across
the fields. He pointed out the way and I came on alone. I saw the light
off on the hill and tried to hurry, but the snow blinded me so bad and
Willie was so heavy, that I fell down by the gate, and guess I went to
sleep, for I remember dreaming that the angels were watching over me,
and covering Willie with the snow to keep him warm.”
The color had faded now from Mrs. Worthington’s face, for a terrible
suspicion of she scarcely knew what had darted across her mind, and very
timidly she asked again,
“Whom did you hope to find?”
“Mr. Worthington. Does he live here?” was the frank reply; whereupon
’Lina, with crimsoning cheek, drew herself up haughtily, exclaiming,
“I knew it. I’ve thought so ever since Hugh came home from New York.”
In her joy at having, as she supposed, found something tangible against
her provoking brother—some weapon with which to ward off his offensive
attacks upon her own deceit and want of truth—’Lina forgot that she had
never seen much of him until several months after his return from New
York, at which time she had become, from necessity, a member of his
household and dependent upon his bounty. ’Lina was unreasonable, and
without stopping to consider the effect her remarks would have upon the
young girl, she was about to commence a tirade of abuse, when the mother
interposed, and with an air of greater authority than she generally
assumed toward her imperious daughter, bade her keep silence while she
questioned the stranger, gazing wonderingly from one to the other, as if
uncertain what they meant.
Mrs. Worthington had no such feelings for the girl as ’Lina entertained.
If she were anything to Hugh, and the circumstances thus far favored
that belief, then she was something to Hugh’s mother, and the kind heart
of the matron went out toward her even more strongly than it had done at
first.
“It will be easier to talk with you,” she said leaning forward, “if I
knew what to call you.”
“Adah,” was the response, and the brown eyes, swimming with tears,
sought the face of the questioner with a wistful eagerness.
“Adah, you say. Well, then, Adah, why have you come to my son on such a
night as this, and what is he to you?”
“Are you his mother?” and Adah started up. “I did not know he had one.
Oh, I’m so glad. And you’ll be kind to me, who never had a mother?”
A person who never had a mother was an anomaly to Mrs. Worthington,
whose powers of comprehension were not the clearest imaginable.
“Never had a mother!” she repeated. “How can that be?”
A smile flitted for a moment across Adah’s pale face, and then she
answered,
“I never knew a mother’s care, I mean. There is some mystery which I
could not fathom, only sometimes there comes up visions of a cottage
with water near, and there’s a lady there with voice and eyes like
yours, and somebody is teaching me to walk—somebody who calls me little
sister, though I’ve never seen him since. Then there is confusion, a
rolling of wheels, and a hum of some great city, and that’s all I know
of mother.”
“But your father? What do you know of him?” said Mrs. Worthington, and
instantly a shadow stole into the sweet young face, as Adah replied,
“Nothing definite.”
“And Hugh? Where did you meet him? And what is he to you?”
“The only friend I’ve got in the wide world. May I see him, please?”
“First tell what he is to you and to this child,” ’Lina rejoined, her
black eyes flashing with a gleam, before which the brown eyes for an
instant quailed; then as if something of a like spirit were called to
life in her bosom, Adah answered calmly,
“Your brother might not like me to tell. I must see him first—see him
alone.”
“One thing more,” and ’Lina held back her mother who was starting in
quest of Hugh, “are you a wife?”
“Don’t, ’Lina,” Mrs. Worthington whispered, as she saw the look of agony
pass over Adah’s face. “Don’t worry her so; deal kindly by the fallen.”
“I am not fallen!” came passionately from the quivering lips. “I’m as
true a woman as either of you—look!” and she pointed to the golden band
encircling the third finger.
’Lina was satisfied, and needed no further explanations. To her, it was
plain as daylight. Two years before Hugh had gone to New York on
business connected with his late uncle’s affairs, and in an unguarded
moment had married some poor girl, whose pretty face had pleased his
fancy. Tiring of her, as of course he would, he had deserted her,
keeping his marriage a secret, and she had followed him to Spring Bank.
These were the facts as ’Lina read them, and though she despised her
brother for it, she was more than half glad. Hugh could never taunt her
again with double dealing, for wouldn’t she pay him back if he did, with
his neglected, disowned wife and child? She knew they were his, and it
was a resemblance to Hugh, which she had noticed from the first in
Willie’s face. How glad ’Lina was to have this hold upon her brother,
and how eagerly she went in quest of him, keeping back old Chloe and
Hannah until she had witnessed his humiliation.
Somewhat impatient of the long delay, Hugh sat in the dingy kitchen,
watching the tallow candle spluttering in its iron socket, and wondering
who it was he had rescued from the snow, when ’Lina appeared, and with
an air of injured dignity, bade him follow her.
“What’s up now that Ad looks so solemn like?” was Hugh’s mental comment
as he took his way to the room where, in a half reclining position Adah
lay, her large, bright eyes fixed eagerly upon the door through which he
entered, and a bright flush upon her cheek called up by the suspicions
to which she had been subjected.
Perhaps they might be true. She did not know. Nobody knew or could tell
her unless it were Hugh, and she waited for him so anxiously, starting
when she heard a manly step and knew that he was coming. For an instant
she scanned his face curiously to assure herself that it was he, then
with an imploring cry as if for him to save her from some dreaded evil
she stretched her little hands toward him and sobbed, “Mr. Worthington,
was it true? Was it a real thing, or only sheer mockery, as his letter
said? George, George Hastings, you know,” and shedding back from her
white face the wealth of flowing hair, Adah waited for the answer, which
did not come at once. In utter amazement Hugh gazed upon the stranger,
and then with an interjection of astonishment, exclaimed,
“Adah, Adah Hastings, why are you here?”
In the tone of his voice surprise was mingled with disapprobation, the
latter of which Adah, detected at once, and as if it had crushed out the
last lingering hope, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed
piteously,
“Don’t you turn against me, or I’ll surely die, and I’ve come so far to
find you.”
By this time Hugh was himself again. His rapid, quick-seeing mind had
taken in both the past and the present, and turning to his mother and
sister, he said,
“Leave us alone for a time. I will call you when you are needed and, Ad,
remember, no listening by the door,” he continued, as he saw how
disappointed ’Lina seemed.
Rather reluctantly Mrs. Worthington and her daughter left the room, and
Hugh was alone with Adah, whose face was still hidden in her hands, and
whose body shook with strong emotion. Deliberately turning the key in
the lock, Hugh advanced to her side, and kneeling by the couch, said,
kindly, “I am more pained to see you here than I can well express. Why
did you come, and where is——?”
The name was lost to ’Lina, listening outside, in spite of her brother’s
injunction. Neither could she understand the passionate, inaudible
response. She only knew that sobs and tears were mingled with it, that
there was a rustling of paper, which Adah bade Hugh read, asking if it
were true. This was all ’Lina could hear, and muttering to herself, “It
does not sound much like man and wife,” she rather unwillingly quitted
her position, and Hugh was really alone with Adah.
Never was Hugh in so awkward a position before, or so uncertain how to
act. The sight of that sobbing, trembling, wretched creature, had
perfectly unmanned him, making him almost as much a woman as herself.
Sitting down by her side, he laid her poor aching head upon his own
broad bosom, and pushing back her long, bright hair, tried to soothe her
into quiet, while he candidly confessed that he feared the letter was
true. It had occurred to him at the time, he said, that all was not
right, but he had no suspicion that it could be so bad as it now seemed
or he would have felled to the floor every participant in the cruel
farce, which had so darkened Adah’s life. It was a dastardly act, he
said, pressing closer to him the light form quivering with anguish. He
knew how innocent she was, and he held her in his arms as he would once
have held the Golden Haired had she come to him with a tale of woe.
“Let me see that letter again,” he said, and taking the rumpled sheet,
stained with Adah’s tears, he turned it to the light and read once more
the cruel lines, in which there was still much of love and pity for the
poor helpless thing, to whom they were addressed.
“You will surely find friends who will care for you, until the time when
I may come to really make you mine.”
Hugh repeated these words twice, aloud, his lip curling with contempt
for the man who could so coolly thrust upon others a charge which should
have been so sacred; and his heart, throbbing with the noble resolve,
that the confidence she had placed in him by coming there, should not be
abused, for he would be true to the trust, and care for poor, little,
half-crazed Adah, moaning so piteously beside him, and as he read the
last line, saying eagerly,
“He speaks of coming back. Do you think he ever will? or could I find
him if I should try? I thought of starting once, but it was so far; and
there was Willie. Oh, if he could see Willie! Mr. Worthington, do you
believe he loves me one bit?” and in the eyes there was a look as if the
poor creature were famishing for the love whose existence she was
questioning.
Hugh did not understand the nature of a love which could so deliberately
abandon one like Adah. It was not such love as he had cherished for the
Golden Haired, but men were not alike; and so he said, at last, that the
letter contained many assurances of affection, and pleadings for
forgiveness for the great wrong committed.
“It seems family pride has something to do with it. I wonder where his
people live, or who they are? Did he never tell you?”
“No,” and Adah shook her head mournfully. “There was something strange
about it. He never gave me the slightest clue. He only told how proud
they were, and how they would spurn a poor girl like me; and said, we
must keep it a secret until he had won them over. If I could only find
them!”
“Would you go to them?” Hugh asked quickly; and Adah answered,
“Sometimes I’ve thought I would. I’d brave his proud mother—I’d lay
Willie in her lap. I’d tell her whose he was, and then I’d go away and
die. They could not harm my Willie!” and the young girl mother glanced
proudly at her sleeping boy. Then, after a pause, she continued, “Once,
Mr. Worthington, when my brain was all on fire, I went down to the
river, and said I’d end my wretched life, but God, who was watching me,
held me back. He cooled my scorching head—he eased the pain, and on the
very spot where I meant to jump, I kneeled down and said, ‘Our Father.’
No other words would come, only these, ‘Lead us not into temptation.’
Wasn’t it kind in God to save me?”
There was a radiant expression in the sweet face as Adah said this, but
it quickly passed away and was succeeded by one of deep concern, when
Hugh abruptly asked,
“Do you believe in God?”
“Oh, Mr. Worthington. Don’t you? You do, you must, you will,” and Adah
shrank away from him as from a monster.
The action reminded him of the Golden Haired, when on the deck of the
St. Helena he had asked her a similar question, and anxious further to
probe the opinion of the girl beside him, he continued,
“If, as you think, there is a God who knew and saw when you were about
to drown yourself, why didn’t he prevent the cruel wrong to you? Why did
he suffer it?”
“What He does we know not now, but we shall know hereafter,” Adah said,
reverently, adding, “If George had feared God, he would not have left me
so; but he didn’t, and perhaps he says there is no God—but you don’t,
Mr. Worthington. Your face don’t look like it. Tell me you believe,” and
in her eagerness Adah grasped his arm beseechingly.
“Yes, Adah, I believe,” Hugh answered, half jestingly, “but it’s such as
you that make me believe, and as persons of your creed think every thing
is ordered for good, so possibly you were permitted to suffer that you
might come here and benefit me. I think I must keep you until he is
found.”
“No, no,” and the tears flowed at once, “I cannot be a burthen to you. I
have no claim.”
“Why then did you come at all?” Hugh asked, and Adah answered,
“For a time after I received the letter every thing was so dark that I
didn’t realize, and couldn’t think of any thing. But when the landlady
hinted those terrible things, and finally told me I must leave to give
place to a respectable woman, that’s just what she said, a _respectable_
woman, with a child who knew its own father, then I woke up and tried to
think of something, but the more I tried, the more I couldn’t, till at
last I prayed so hard one night, that God would tell me what to do, and
suddenly I remembered you and your good, kind, honest face, just as it
looked when you spoke to me after it was over, and called me by the new
name. Oh, dear, oh, dear,” and gasping for breath, Adah leaned against
Hugh’s arm, sobbing bitterly.
After a moment she grew calm again, and continued,
“I wrote down your name, and where you lived, though why I did not know,
and I forgot where I put it, but as if God really were helping me I
found it in my old portfolio, and something bade me come, for you
perhaps would know if it was true. It was sometime before I could fully
decide to come, and in that time I hardly know how I lived, or where.
George left me money, and sent more, but it’s most gone now. But I must
not stay. I can take care of myself.
“What can you do?” Hugh asked, and Adah replied, sadly,
“I don’t know, but God will find me something. I never worked much, but
I can learn, and I can already sew neatly, too; besides that, a few days
before I decided to come here, I advertised in the Herald for some place
as governess or ladies’ waiting-maid. Perhaps I’ll hear from that.”
“It’s hardly possible. Such advertisements are thick as blackberries,”
Hugh said, and then in a few brief words, he marked out Adah’s future
course.
George Hastings might or might not return to claim her, and whether he
did or didn’t, she must live meantime, and where so well as at Spring
Bank.
“I do not like women much,” he said, “but something makes me like you,
pity, I reckon, and I’m going to take care of you until that scoundrel
turns up; then, if you say so, I’ll surrender you to his care, or better
yet, I’ll shoot him and keep you to myself. Not as a sweetheart, or
anything of that kind,” he hastened to add, as he saw the flush on
Adah’s cheek. “Hugh Worthington has nothing to do with that species of
the animal kingdom, but as my sister Adah!” and as Hugh repeated that
name, there arose in his great heart an undefinable wish that the gentle
girl beside him had been his sister instead of the high tempered
Adaline, who never tried to conciliate or understand him, and whom Hugh
could not love as brothers should love sisters.
He knew how impatiently she was waiting now to know the result of that
interview, and just how much opposition he should meet when he announced
his intention of keeping Adah. But Hugh was master of Spring Bank; his
will was all powerful, and not an entire world could move him when once
he was determined. Still contention was not agreeable, and he oftentimes
yielded a point rather than dispute. But this time he was firm. Without
any intention of wronging Adah, he still felt as if in some way he had
been instrumental to her ruin, and now when she came to him for help, he
would not cast her off, though the keeping her would subject him to a
multitude of unpleasant remarks, surmises and suspicions from the people
of Glen’s Creek, to say nothing of his mother’s and ’Lina’s displeasure.
Added to this was another objection, a serious one, which most men would
have weighed carefully before deciding to burden themselves with two
additional individuals. Though the owner of Spring Bank, Hugh was far
from being rich, and many were the shifts and self denials he was
obliged to make to meet the increased expense entailed upon him by his
mother and sister. John Stanley had been accounted wealthy, but at his
death there was nothing left, save a few acres of nearly worn out land,
the old dilapidated house, and a dozen or more negroes. With good
management this was amply sufficient to supply Hugh’s limited wants, and
he was looking forward to a life of careless ease, when his mother from
New England wrote, asking for a home. Hugh did not know then as well as
he did now what it would cost to keep a young lady of his sister’s
habits. He only knew that his home was far different from the New
England one he remembered so well, but such as it was he would share it
with his mother and sister, and so he had bidden them welcome,
concealing from them as far as possible the trouble he oftentimes had to
meet the increased demand for money which their presence brought. This
to a certain extent was the secret of his patched boots, his threadbare
coat and coarse pants, with which ’Lina so often taunted him, saying he
wore them just to be stingy and mortify her, when in fact necessity
rather than choice was the cause of his shabby appearance. He had never
told her so, however, never said that the unfashionable coat so
offensive to her fastidious vision was worn that she might be the better
clothed and fed. Yet such was the case, and now he was deliberately
adding to his already heavy burden. But Hugh was capable of great self
sacrifices. He could manage somehow, and Adah should stay. He would say
that she was a friend whom he had known in New York; that her husband
had deserted her, and in her distress she had come to him for aid; for
the rest he trusted that time and her own appearance would wear away any
unpleasant impressions which her presence might create.
All this he explained to Adah, who assented tacitly thinking within
herself that she should not long remain at Spring Bank, a dependant upon
one on whom she had no claim. She was too weak now, however, to oppose
him, and merely nodding to his suggestions laid her head upon the arm of
the lounge with a low cry that she was sick and warm. Stepping to the
door Hugh turned the key and summoning the group waiting anxiously in
the adjoining room, bade them come at once, as Mrs. Hastings appeared to
be fainting. Great emphasis he laid upon the _Mrs._ and catching it up
at once ’Lina repeated, “_Mrs. Hastings!_ So am I just as much.”
“Ad,” and the eyes which shone so softly on poor Adah flashed with
gleams of fire as Hugh said to his sister, “not another word against
that girl if you wish to remain here longer. She has been unfortunate.”
“I guessed as much,” sneeringly interrupted ’Lina.
“Silence!” and Hugh’s foot came down as it sometimes did when chiding a
refractory negro. “She is as true, yes, truer than you. He who should
have protected her has basely deserted her. And I shall care for her.
See that a fire is kindled in the west chamber, and go up yourself when
it is made and see that all is comfortable. Do you understand?” and he
gazed sternly at ’Lina, who was too much astonished to answer, even if
she had been so disposed.
That Hugh should take in a beggar from the streets was bad enough, but
to keep her, and worse yet to put her in the best chamber, where
ex-Governor Russ had slept; and where was nailed down the carpet,
brought from New England—was preposterous, and Hugh was certainly crazy.
But never was man more sane than Hugh; and seeing her apparently
incapable of carrying out his orders he himself sent Hannah to build the
fire, bidding her, with all a woman’s forethought, be careful that the
bed was aired, and clothes enough put on. “Take a blanket from my bed,
if necessary,” he added, as Hannah, bewildered with the “carryin’s on,”
disappeared up the staircase, a long line of smoke streaming behind her.
When all was ready, Hugh went for Adah, and taking her in his arms
carried her to the upper chamber, where, the fire was burning brightly,
casting cheerful shadows upon the wall, and making Adah smile
gratefully, as she looked up in his face, and murmured,
“God bless you, Mr. Worthington! Adah will pray for you to-night, when
she is alone. It’s all that she can do.”
They laid her upon the bed. Hugh himself arranging her pillows, which no
one else appeared inclined to touch.
Family opinion was against her, innocent and beautiful as she looked
lying there—so helpless, so still, with her long-fringed lashes shading
her colorless cheek, and her little hands folded upon her bosom, as if
already she were breathing the promised prayer for Hugh. Only in Mrs.
Worthington’s heart was there a chord of sympathy. She couldn’t help
feeling for the desolate stranger; and when, at her own request, Hannah
placed Willie in her lap, ere laying him by his mother, she gave him an
involuntary hug, and touched her lips to his fat, round cheek. It was
the first kiss given him at Spring Bank, and it was meet that it should
come from her.
“He looks as you did, Hugh, when you were a baby,” she said, while Chloe
rejoined,
“De very spawn of Mar’s Hugh, now. I ’tected it de fust minit. Can’t
cheat dis chile,” and, with a chuckle which she meant to be very
expressive, the fat old woman waddled from the room, followed by Hannah,
who was to sleep there that night, and who must first return to her
cabin to make the necessary preparations for her vigils.
Hugh and his mother were alone, and turning to her son, Mrs. Worthington
said, gently,
“This is sad business, Hugh; worse than you imagine. Do you know how
folks will talk?”
“Let them talk,” Hugh growled. “It cannot be much worse than it is now.
Nobody cares for Hugh Worthington; and why should they, when his own
mother and sister are against him, in actions if not in words?—one
sighing when his name is mentioned, as if he really were the most
provoking son that ever was born, and the other openly berating him as a
monster, a clown, a savage, a scarecrow, and all that. I tell you,
mother, there is but little to encourage me in the kind of life I’m
leading. Neither you nor Ad have tried to make anything of me or have
done me any good; but somehow, I feel as if she would,” and he pointed
to the now sleeping Adah. “At all events, I know it’s right to keep her,
and I want you to help me, will you? That is, will you be kind to her;
and when folks speak against her, as they may, will you stand for her as
for your own daughter? She’s more like you than Ad,” and Hugh gazed
wonderingly from one to the other, struck, for the first time, with a
resemblance, fancied or real, between the two.
Mrs. Worthington did not heed this last, so intent was she on the first
of Hugh’s remarks. Choking with tears she said,
“You wrong me, Hugh; I do try to make something of you. You are a dear
child to me, dearer than the other; but I’m a weak woman, and ’Lina
sways me at will.”
A kind word unmanned Hugh at once, and kneeling by his mother, he put
his arms around her, and begging forgiveness for his harsh words, asked
again a mother’s care for Adah.
“Hugh,” and Mrs. Worthington looked him steadily in the face, “is Adah
your wife, or Willie your child?”
“Great guns, mother!” and Hugh started to his feet as quick as if a
bombshell had exploded at his side. “No by all that’s sacred, no! Upon
my word; you look sorry instead of glad! Are you sorry, mother, to find
me better than you imagined it possible for a bad boy like me to be?”
“No, Hugh, not sorry. I was only thinking that I’ve sometimes fancied
that, as a married man, you might be happier; and when this woman came
so strangely, and you seemed so interested, I didn’t know, I rather
thought——”
“I know,” and Hugh interrupted her. “You thought maybe, I raised Ned
when I was in New York; and, as a proof of said resurrection, Mrs. Ned
and Ned junior, had come with their baggage. But it is not so, she does
not belong to me,” and going up to his mother he told her all he knew of
Adah, adding, “Now will you be kind to her for my sake? and when Ad
rides her highest horse, as she is sure to do, will you smooth her down?
Tell her Adah has as good right here as she, if I choose to keep her.”
There was a faint remonstrance on Mrs. Worthington’s part, her argument
being based upon what folks would say, and Hugh’s inability to take care
of many more.
Hugh did not care a picayune for _folks_, and as for Adah, if his mother
did not wish her there, and he presumed she did not, he’d get her
boarded for the present with Aunt Eunice, who, like himself, was
invincible to public opinion, she needed just such a companion. She’d be
a mother to Adah, and Adah a daughter to her, so they needn’t spend
further time in talking, for he was getting tired.
Mrs. Worthington was much more easily won over to Hugh’s opinion than
’Lina, who, when told of the arrangement, raised a perfect hurricane of
expostulations and tears. They’d be a county talk, she said; nobody
would come near them, and she might as well enter a nunnery at once;
besides, hadn’t Hugh enough on his hands already without taking more?
“If my considerate sister really thinks so, hadn’t she better try and
help herself a little?” retorted Hugh in a blaze of anger. “I’ve only
paid two hundred and fifty dollars for her since she came here, to say
nothing of that bill at Harney’s due in January.”
’Lina began to cry, and Hugh, repenting of his harsh speech as soon as
it was uttered, but far too proud to take it back, strode up and down
the room, chafing like a young lion.
“Come, children, it’s after midnight, let us adjourn until to-morrow,”
Mrs. Worthington said, by way of ending the painful interview, at the
same time handing a candle to Hugh, who took it silently and withdrew,
banging the door behind him with a force which made ’Lina start and
burst into a fresh flood of tears.
“I’m a brute, a savage,” was Hugh’s not very self complimentary
soliloquy, as he went up the stairs. “What did I want to twit Ad for?
What good did it do, only to make her mad and bother mother? I wish I
could do better, but I can’t. Confound my badness!” and having by this
time reached his own door, Hugh entered his room, and drawing a chair to
the fire always kindled for him at night, sat down to think.