MEETING OF ALICE AND HUGH.
Could ’Lina have seen Hugh that morning as he emerged from a fashionable
tailor’s shop, she would scarcely have recognized him, so greatly was he
improved by the entire new suit in which he had been indulging, and
which gave him so stylish an appearance that Hugh for a moment felt
uncomfortable, and was glad that one whole hour must elapse before the
cars from Cincinnati were due as he could thus become a little
accustomed to himself and not be so painfully conscious. The hour passed
rapidly away, and its close found Hugh waiting at the terminus of the
Lexington and Cincinnati Railroad. A moment more, and the broad platform
was swarming with passengers, conspicuous among whom were an old lady
and a young, both dressed in black, both closely veiled and both entire
strangers, as was evinced by their anxiety to know what they were next
to do, or where to go.
“These are ours,” the young lady said, pointing to a huge pile of
trunks, distinctly marked “A. J.,” and Hugh drew so near to her that her
long black veil swept against his coat, as she held out her checks in
her ungloved hand.
Hugh noticed the hand, saw that it was very small and white and fat, but
the face he could not see, and he looked in vain for the magnificent
hair about which even his mother had waxed eloquent, and which was now
put plainly back, so that not a vestige of it was visible. Still Hugh
felt sure that this was Alice Johnson, so sure that when he had
ascertained the hotel where she would wait for the Frankfort train, he
followed on, and entering the back parlor, the door of which was partly
closed, sat down as if he too were a traveller, waiting for the train.
It never occurred to Hugh that he was acting the part of an
eaves-dropper, so anxious he was to see Alice without being seen, and
taking up an old paper, he pretended to be greatly interested in its
columns, which, for any information he gleaned from them, might as well
have been bottom side up.
Meantime, in the room adjoining, Alice divested herself of her dusty
wrappings, and taking out her combs and brushes, began to arrange her
hair, talking the while to Densie, her nurse, reclining on the sofa. How
the tones of that voice thrilled on Hugh’s ear like some forgotten
music, heard he knew not when or where, and how still he sat, when at
last the conversation turned upon his mother and ’Lina, about whom Alice
talked freely, never dreaming of Hugh’s proximity.
It would seem that Alice’s own luxuriant tresses suggested her first
remark, for she said to Densie, “That Miss Worthington had beautiful
hair, so glossy, and so wavy, too. I wonder she never curls it. It looks
as if she might.”
A smile fitted over Hugh’s face as he thought of the tags, and wondered
what Alice would say could she see Ad early in the morning, with a red
silk handkerchief, tied round her head by way of covering what he called
tags, “It would take a steam engine to make Ad’s hair curl,” he said to
himself, while Alice continued, “I did not like her eyes; they were too
much like coals of fire, when they flashed angrily on that poor Lulu,
who evidently was not well posted in the duties of a waiting-maid. If
mother had not so decided, I should shrink from being an inmate of Mrs.
Worthington’s family. I like her very much, but I am afraid I shall not
get on with ’Lina.”
“I know you won’t. I honor your judgment,” was Hugh’s mental comment,
while Alice went on.
“And what she told me of her brother was not calculated to impress me
favorably.”
Nervously Hugh’s hands grasped each other, and he could distinctly hear
the beating of his heart as he leaned forward so as not to lose a single
word.
“She seemed trying to prepare me for him by telling how rough he was;
how little he cared for etiquette; and how constantly he mortified her
with his uncouth manners.”
The perspiration fairly dripped from Hugh’s flushed face, as with
clenched fist and a muttered curse upon his white lips he listened while
Alice went on.
“Mother never dreamed he was such a man. Indeed, he was prepossessed in
his favor, remembering his distress when he lost his little sister, who
was mysteriously abducted by her father, and as mysteriously returned.
He was a fine, handsome boy, mother said, and she thought I would like
him. Bad as he may be, he is evidently a favorite with his negroes, for
Lulu resented what her mistress said of him, and, in her peculiar way,
told me it was false.”
“Heaven bless Lulu!” Hugh mentally exclaimed. “I’ll set her free the day
that she’s eighteen; but Ad, oh, must it go on thus? Will she always be
a thorn to me?”
Alice did not hear the sigh of pain or see the mournful look which stole
over Hugh’s face. She did not even suspect his presence, and she
continued to speak of Spring Bank, wondering if Hugh would be there
before his mother returned, half hoping he would not, as she rather
dreaded meeting him, although she meant to like him if she could.
Poor Hugh! How he winced and trembled, and wished he was away. How madly
the hot blood poured through his swollen veins, and how fast the pain
increased about his temples, while little sparks of fire danced before
his eyes. Alice should have her wish, he said bitterly. She should not
find Spring Bank encumbered with its hateful owner. ’Lina should not
find him there when she returned, she should never blush again for him,
for he would go away. With a stifled, noiseless moan, Hugh rose to leave
the room, glancing once toward the narrow opening in the folding-doors.
Then, as if petrified with what he saw, he stood riveted to the spot,
his quivering lips apart, his head bent forward, and his eyes almost
black, so strangely bright they grew.
Alice’s long, bright hair, was arranged at last, and the soft curls fell
about her face, giving to it the same look it had worn in childhood—the
look which was graven on Hugh’s heart, as with a pencil of fire; the
look he never had forgotten through all the years which had come and
gone since first it shone on him; the look he had never hoped to see
again, so sure was he that it had been quenched by the waters of Lake
Erie. Alice’s face was turned fully toward him. Through the open window
at her back the August sunlight streamed, falling on her chestnut hair,
and tinging it with the yellow gleam which Hugh remembered so well. For
an instant the long lashes shaded the fair round cheek, and then were
uplifted, disclosing the eyes of blue, which, seen but once, could never
be mistaken, and Hugh was not mistaken. One look of piercing scrutiny at
the face unconsciously confronting him, one mighty throb, which seemed
to bear away his very life, and then Hugh knew the grave had given up
its dead.
She was not lost for she stood there before him. She whose memory had
saved him oftentimes from sin. She, for whom he would almost lay him
down and die. _She, the Golden Haired._ Changed, it is true, from a
lovely child of thirteen to a far more lovely woman, but not past his
recognition. The golden locks his hands had touched but once, and that
when the mad waves were dashing over them, had put on a richer, darker
tinge, and fell in heavier masses about her brow and neck. The face,
too, with its piquant nose, was more mature; only the eyes were wholly
unchanged. In them, the same truthful loving light was shining, and the
curve of the silken lashes was just the same as when they drooped coyly,
beneath the compliment which the tall youth had paid them.
Golden Hair had come back, but, alas, prejudiced against him. She hoped
he might be gone. She would be happier if he never crossed her path.
“And I never, never will,” Hugh thought, as he staggered from the room
and sought a small outer court, whose locality he knew, and where he
could be alone to think.
The throbbing in his head had increased in violence, and what before
were gleams of fire dancing before his eyes, were now like rings of
blood, of which the sultry air seemed full. How sick and faint he was
sitting there in that dingy court, with his head upon his hands, half
wishing he might die, and so trouble no one any more. He felt that the
dearest treasure he had ever possessed was wrested from him—that in
losing Golden Hair’s good opinion he had lost all that made life
desirable.
“Oh, Adaline,” he murmured, “what made you so cruel to me? I would not
have served you so.”
There was a roll of wheels before the door, and Hugh knew by the sound
that it was the carriage for the cars. She was going. They would never
meet again, Hugh said, and she would never know that the youth who tried
to save her life was the same for whose coming they would wait and watch
in vain at Spring Bank—the Hugh for whom his mother would weep awhile;
and for whose dark fate even Ad might feel a little sorry. She was not
wholly depraved—she had some sisterly feeling, and his loss would waken
it to life. They would appreciate him after he was gone, and the poor
heart which had known so little love throbbed joyfully, as Hugh thought
of being loved at last even by the selfish ’Lina.
Fiercely the August sun poured down into that pent up court, creating a
drowsiness which Hugh did not care to shake off. Unconsciousness was
welcome at any price, and leaning his aching head against the damp,
mouldy wall, he fell at last into a heavy sleep.
Meantime Alice and Densie proceeded on their way to the Big Spring
station, where Col. Tiffton was waiting for them, according to his
promise. There was a shadow in the colonel’s good-humored face, and a
shadow in his heart. His idol, Nellie, was very sick, while added to
this was the terrible certainty that he alone must pay a $10,000 note on
which he had foolishly put his name, because Harney had preferred it. He
was talking with Harney when the cars came up, and the villain, while
expressing regret that the colonel should be compelled to pay so much
for what he never had received, had said with a relentless smile, “But
it’s not my fault, you know I can’t afford to lose it.”
From that moment the colonel felt he was a ruined man, but he would not
allow himself to appear at all discomposed.
“Wait awhile,” he said; “do nothing till my Nell lives or dies,” and
with a sigh as he thought how much dearer to him was his youngest
daughter than all the farms in Woodford, he went forward to meet Alice,
just appearing upon the platform.
The colonel explained to Alice why she must go to Spring Bank, adding by
way of consolation, that she would not be quite as lonely now Hugh was
at home.
“_Hugh_ at home!” and Alice shrank back in dismay, feeling for a moment
that she could not go there.
But there was no alternative, and after a few tears which she could not
repress, she said, timidly,
“What is this Hugh? What kind of a man, I mean?”
She could not expect the colonel to say anything bad of him, but she was
not prepared for his frank response.
“The likeliest chap in Kentucky. Nothing dandified about him, to be
sure. Wears his trouser legs in his boots as often as any way, and don’t
stand about the very latest cut of his coat, but he’s got a heart bigger
than an _ox_—yes, big as _ten_ oxen! I’d trust him with my life, and
know it was safe as his own. You’ll like Hugh— Nell does.”
The colonel never dreamed of the comfort his words gave Alice, or how
they changed her feelings with regard to one whom she had so dreaded to
meet.
“There ’tis; we’re almost there,” the colonel said at last, as they
turned off from the highway, and leaning forward Alice caught sight of
the roofs and dilapidated chimneys of Spring Bank. “’Tain’t quite as
fixey as Yankee houses, that’s a fact, but we that own niggers never do
have things so smarted up,” the colonel said, guessing how the contrast
must affect Alice, who felt so desolate and homesick as she drew up in
front of what, for a time at least, was to be her home.
At a single glance she took in every peculiarity, from the mossy,
decaying eaves, where the swallows were twittering their songs, to the
group of negroes ranged upon the piazza, staring curiously at her as she
alighted, followed by Densie Densmore. Where was Hugh? Surely he should
be there to greet her, and with a return of something like the olden
terror Alice looked nervously in all directions, as if expecting some
vampyre to start out and seize her. But only Aunt Eunice, in trim white
cap and black silk apron, appeared, welcoming the strangers with a
motherly kindness, which went to Alice’s heart.
Aunt Eunice saw that she looked very tired, and asked if she would not
go at once to her room and lie down. Glad to be alone, Alice followed
her through the hall and up the stairs to the pleasant chamber in which
Hugh had been so interested.
“You are tired and homesick, too, I guess,” Aunt Eunice said, “but
you’ll get over it by and by. Spring Bank is a pleasant place, and if
Hugh could he’d make it a handsome one. He has the taste.”
“Where is Hugh?” Alice asked.
Aunt Eunice would not say he had gone to Lexington for the sake,
perhaps, of seeing her, so she replied,
“He went to town this morning, but he’ll be back pretty soon. He has
done his best to make it pleasant for you. _You’ll like Hugh._ There,
try to go to sleep,” and kind Aunt Eunice bustled from the room just as
Densie entered it, together with Aunt Chloe. The old negress was
evidently playing the hostess to Densie, for she was talking quite loud,
and all about “Mas’r Hugh.” “Pity he wasn’t thar, ’twould seem so
different; ’tain’t de same house without him. _You’ll like Mas’r Hugh_,”
and she, too glided from the room.
Was this the password at Spring Bank, “You’ll like Mas’r Hugh?” It would
seem so, for when at last Hannah brought up the waffles and tea, which
Aunt Eunice had prepared, she sat down her tray, and after a few
inquiries concerning Alice’s head, which was now aching sadly, she, too,
launched forth into a panegyric on Mas’r Hugh, ending, as the rest had
done, “You’ll like Mas’r Hugh.”
Alice began to believe she should, and with a silent thanksgiving that
the great bugbear of Spring Bank was likely to prove so harmless, she
waited and listened for any sounds which might herald Hugh’s approach.
But the summer evening waned and the summer night closed quietly around
Spring Bank, without bringing its master home. One by one the negroes
went to their cabins, and when at last the clock struck twelve, Aunt
Eunice, who had been waiting for her boy, lighted her tallow candle and
stole noiselessly to her room, where by the open window she sat for a
long, long time, listening to the howl of Rover, who, sat upon the steps
and filled the air with his lonely cries. Aunt Eunice was not
superstitious, but Rover’s howl sounded painfully in her ear, and when
at last she crept slowly to her pillow there was a dread fear at her
heart lest something had befallen Hugh.