ADAH’S JOURNEY.
The night express from Rochester to Albany was crowded. Every car was
full, and the clamorous bell rang out its first summons for all to get
on board, just as a frightened-looking woman, bearing in her arms a
sleeping boy, 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
chin quivered, 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 a
vacant seat, only a gentleman’s shawl was piled upon it, and 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 and
give some token that she was welcome. But no, his eyes were only intent
on the darkness without; he had no care for her, though he knew she was
there. He had seen the shrinking figure with its sleeping burden, as it
came in, and the selfishness which was so much a part of his whole
being, prompted him to cover the seat as far as possible with his long
limbs, while leaning his elbow upon the window stool, he seemed absorbed
in something outside, peering into the foggy darkness, for it was a
rainy winter’s night, as persistently as if there were standing before
him no half-fainting form, ready to sink down at his feet.
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 undefinable sensation crept over
him when he heard the timid footfall, and the rustling of female
garments as _Adah Hastings_ drew near with her boy in her arms.
He heard its faint breathings, and half turned his head just as Adah
passed on, her weary sigh falling distinctly on his ear, but failing 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 from
her eyes. She did not look up at him. She only knew that a gentleman had
risen and was bending over her; that a hand, 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 in every look and action. Why had he cared for her?
What was there about her to win attention from such as he? Nothing; his
kindness was natural; it sprang from the great warm heart, shining out
from the eyes, seen beneath the _glasses_ which he wore!
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 he would not resort to meanness for the sake
of his own ease; so when he saw how pale and tired Adah was, he rose at
once to offer his seat. He did not then observe her face, or dress, or
manner. He only saw she was a delicate woman, travelling alone, and that
was enough to elicit his attention. He heard her sweet, low voice as she
tried to thank him, and felt intuitively that she was neither coarse nor
vulgar. 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;
but, 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, holding him closer to her
bosom. “There’s something the matter with his ear. Do children ever die
with the ear-ache?” and the eyes, swimming in tears, sought the face of
Irving Stanley as eagerly as if on his decision hung little Willie’s
life.
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 and walked down the car in quest of
another seat.
“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 quietly, 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
whose little child was suffering from the ear-ache.
“By the way, doctor,” he added, “you ought to know the remedy for such
ailments. Suppose you prescribe in case it returns.”
“I know but little about babies or their aches” the Dr. answered, just
as a scream of pain reached his ear, accompanied by a suppressed effort
on the mother’s part to soothe her suffering child.
Irving Stanley felt the sneer implied in the doctor’s words, and it kept
him silent for a time, while scream after scream filled the car, and
roused every sleeping occupant to ask what was the matter. Some, and
among them the doctor, _cursed_ the child thus disturbing their
slumbers; some wished it anything but complimentary wishes; some felt
and evinced real sympathy, while nearly all glanced backward at the dark
corner where the poor mother sat bending over her infant, unmindful of
the many curious looks cast upon her. The pain must have been
intolerable, for the little fellow, in his agony, writhed from Adah’s
lap and sank upon the floor, 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
experienced 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, until at last the outcries ceased and
Willie lay quietly in his 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,
awhile.”
And Adah yielded to that voice, and leaning 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, but Irving Stanley he knew was not one whose acts
could be questioned by him; so he contented himself with saying, “You
must be fond of young ones.”
“Fond of children,” Irving replied, laying great stress on the word
_children_. “Yes, I am, very; and even if I were not, pity would prompt
me to take this one from his mother, who is so tired, besides being very
pretty, and that you knows goes far with us men.
“You don’t like children, I reckon,” Irving continued, 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.
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, in which thoughts of _Lily_ were strangely mingled with
thoughts of the dark-haired ’Lina, his bride elect, waiting for him in
New York. The Dr. was more than half tired of his engagement, and ere
returning to the city, he was going to Terrace Hill to have a long talk
with _Anna_, to tell her frankly of his fears that ’Lina never could be
congenial to them, and perhaps he would tell her the _whole_ of Lily’s
story.
But how should he commence a tale which would shock his gentle sister so
terribly? He did not know, and while devising the best method, he forgot
the two little feet which in their bright-colored hose were stretched
out until they rested entirely upon his lap, while the tiny face was
nestled against Irving Stanley’s fatherly bosom, where it lay for hours,
until Adah, waking from her refreshing slumber, came forward to relieve
him.
“You had better not go on this morning. You ought to rest,” Irving 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,” and taking Willie in his arms he conducted Adah to
the nearest hotel.
There were but a few moments ere he must leave, and standing by her
side, 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,” and he placed it in her hand.
At a glance Adah read the name, knowing now who had befriended her. It
was Irving Stanley, 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, and while she was
struggling to overcome it, Irving’s time expired and he must go if he
would not be left. Taking her hand he said good-bye, while she tried
again to thank him for his great kindness to her; but she did not tell
her name, and as Irving would not ask it, he left her without the
knowledge, thinking of her often as he went his way to New York, and
wondering if they would ever meet again.
* * * * *
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—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—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 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 10 o’clock that night, would deposit him at
Snowdon. There were no children to disturb him, for Adah, unconscious of
his proximity, was in the rear car—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 so sanguine.
“I can find employment somewhere—God will direct me,” she whispered
softly, drawing her veil over her tired face, and thinking, she scarcely
knew why, of Irving Stanley.
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.