THE RESULT.
It was not a disagreeable picture—that chubby, rosy cheeked little boy,
his white fat shoulders peeping out from the dress of crimson and black,
his fair curls blowing around his forehead, and his eyes raised
curiously to the doctor’s face. Willie had not expected to see a
stranger, and at sight of the tall figure, muffled above the chin, he
drew back timidly and half hid himself behind Mrs. Richards, whom he
intuitively knew to be the warmest ally he had among the three ladies
gathered in the hall.
As the doctor had said to Irving Stanley he disliked children, but he
could not help noticing Willie, and after the first greetings were over
he asked, “Whom have we here? whose child is this?”
Eudora and Asenath tried to frown, but the expression of their faces
softened as they glanced at Willie, who had followed them into the
parlor, and who, with one little foot thrown forward, and his fat hands
pressed together, stood upon the hearth rug, gazing at the doctor with
that strange look which had so often puzzled, bewildered, and fascinated
the entire Richards family.
“Anna wrote you that the maid she so much wanted had come to her at
last—a very lady-like person, who has evidently seen better days, and
this is her boy, Willie. He is such a queer little fellow, that we allow
him more liberties than we ought.”
It was Mrs. Richards who volunteered this explanation, while her son
stood looking down at Willie, wondering what it was about the child
which seemed familiar. Anna had mentioned Mrs. Hastings in her
letter—had said how much she liked her, had spoken of her boy, but the
_Hastings_ had been badly blotted, and as the Doctor was too much
absorbed in his own affairs to care for Anna’s waiting-maid, he had not
thought of her since, notwithstanding that ’Lina had tried many times to
make him speak of Anna’s maid, so as to calculate her own safety.
“So you’ve taken to petting a servant’s child, for want of something
better,” he said in answer to Mrs. Richards’ rather long speech
concerning Willie.
Ere Mrs. Richards could reply Anna made her appearance, and the
fastidious Doctor forgot the little fellow, who was coaxed from the room
by Pamelia, and taken to his mother.
The doctor was not in as good humor as men are supposed to be on the eve
of their marriage with heiresses. He had offered to accompany ’Lina to
Kentucky, but she had peremptorily declined his escort, and rather, as
it seemed to him, thrust herself upon a gentleman and lady who were
returning to Louisville. Several little things which she had done at the
last had displeased him, as showing less refinement than he had given
her credit for possessing, besides which he could not conceal from
himself the suspicion that Mrs. Ellsworth was heartily glad to be rid of
her, and had perhaps talked of going to Europe with her little girl as a
ruse, and that she was not a favorite with any one of his particular
friends. Still he meant to marry her, and after the late dinner was over
he went with Anna to inspect the rooms which Adah had fitted for his
bride. They were very pleasant, and he could find fault with nothing.
The carpet, the curtains, the new light furniture, the arm chair by the
window where ’Lina was expected to sit, the fanciful work basket
standing near, and his chair not far away, all were in perfect taste,
but still there was a load upon his heart, making him so silent and
moody, that Anna forebore talking to him much and did not even mention
_Adah_, though she had meant to tell him just what a treasure she was
and perhaps have him see her too. But the doctor was in no frame of mind
to talk of strangers, for thoughts of Lily were particularly haunting
him to-day.
It was a great mistake he made when he cast her off but it could not now
be helped. No tears, no regrets could bring back the dear little form
laid away beneath the grassy sod, and so he would not waste his time in
idle mourning. He would do the best he could with ’Lina. He did believe
she loved him. He was almost sure of it, and as a means of redressing
Lily’s wrongs he would be kind to her. Lily would bid him do so if she
could speak. She surely knew what he was doing; perhaps she was very
near to him; he somehow felt that she was, and more than once, he caught
himself turning suddenly with the fancy that Lily was behind him. The
doctor was not superstitious, but he began at last to feel that it would
be a relief to be freed from the Lily-laden atmosphere pervading Terrace
Hill, and rather joyfully he watched the sun as it passed the meridian,
and sank lower and lower in the west, for by that token he knew he had
not a much longer time to stay at home, as he would take the evening
train bound for Albany.
* * * * *
Slowly the twilight shadows crept over Terrace Hill and into the little
room where Adah was preparing for her accustomed walk to the office.
Willie was down with Pamelia, who, when she came up for him, had told
Adah as something of which she should be proud, that the doctor had
actually thrown Willie into the air and pronounced him a
splendid-looking child, “considering.”
That “considering” wounded Adah, for she felt the sneer at her position
which it implied, and with a faint smile, she dismissed Pamelia, and
then went to the closet for the over-shoes she would need in her damp
walk. But what was it which fell like a thunderbolt on her ear, riveting
her to the spot where she stood, rigid and immovable. Between the closet
and Anna’s room there was only a thin partition, and when the door was
open every sound was distinctly heard. The doctor had just come in, and
it was his voice, heard for the first time, which sent the blood
throbbing so madly through Adah’s veins, and made the sparks of fire
dance before her eyes. She was not deceived—the tones were too distinct,
too full, too well remembered to be mistaken, and stretching out her
hands in the dim darkness, she moaned faintly: “George! ’tis George!”
then sank upon the floor, powerless but not fainting, nor yet
unconscious of the terrible certainty that _George_ was so near to her
that but for the partition she might almost have touched him! She could
hear him now saying to Anna, “Are we alone? I wish to speak my farewell
words in private.”
“Yes, all alone,” Anna replied. “Mrs. Hastings has gone to the
Post-office. Was it any thing particular you wished to tell me?”
The Doctor either did not hear the name “Mrs. Hastings,” or did not
notice it, and again the familiar tones thrilled on Adah’s ear as he
replied, “Nothing very particular. I only wished to say a few words of
’Lina. I want you to like her, to make up, if possible, for the love I
ought to give her.”
“Ought to give her! Oh, brother, are you taking ’Lina without love?
Better never make the vow than break it after it is made.”
Anna spoke earnestly, and the doctor, who always tried to retain her
good opinion, replied evasively, “I suppose I do love her as well as
half the world love their wives before marriage, but she is different
from any ladies I have known; so different from, what poor Lily was.
Anna, let me talk with you again of Lily. I never told you all—but what
_is_ that?” he continued, as he indistinctly heard the choking, gasping,
stifled sob, which Adah gave at the sound of the dear pet name, which
used to make the blood thrill so ecstatically through her veins, and
which now, for a single moment, made her heart bound with sudden joy;
but only for a moment.
“Poor Lily,” said a hundred times, with a hundred fold more tenderness
than he was wont to say it, could not atone for the past; for the cruel
desertion, for the deception even of the _name_; and so the poor,
wounded heart grew still again as lead, while Anna answered, “It’s only
the rising wind. It sounds so always when it’s in the east. What of
Lily? Do you wish you were going after her instead of ’Lina?”
Could Anna have seen then into the darkness of the adjoining room, she
would have shrunk in terror from the figure, which, as she asked _that_
question, struggled to its knees, and creeping nearer to the door,
turned its white, spectral face toward her, listening eagerly for the
answer. Oh, why did the doctor hesitate a moment? Why did he suffer his
dread of losing Anna’s respect to triumph over every other feeling? He
had meant to tell her all, how he did love the gentle girl, who confided
herself to him—how he loved even her memory now far more than he loved
’Lina, but something kept the full confession back, and he answered,
“_I don’t know._ We must have money, and ’Lina is rich, while Lily was
very poor, and the only friend or relation she knew was one with whom I
would not dare have you come in contact, he was so wicked and reckless.”
This was what the doctor said, and into the brown eyes, now bloodshot
and dim with anguish, there came the hard, fierce look, before which
Alice Johnson once had shuddered, when Adah Hastings said,
“I should hate him!”
And in that dark hour of agony Adah felt that she did hate him. She knew
now that what she before would not believe was true. He had not made her
a lawful wife, else he had never dared to take another. She was a
degraded creature, Willie a child of sin, and he had made them so. It
was the bitterest dreg she had been forced to take, and for an instant,
she forgot the God she served, forgot every thing save the desire to
curse the man talking so calmly of her, as if her ruin were nought to
him. But anon, the still small voice she always obeyed spoke to her
tumultuous spirit, and the curse on her lips died away in the faint
whisper, “Forgive me, Father, and forgive him, too.”
She did not hear him now, for with that prayer, all consciousness
forsook her, and she lay on her face insensible, while at the very last
he did confess to Anna that _Lily was his wife_. He did not say
unlawfully so. He could not tell her that. He said,
“I married her privately. I kept it from you all until she died. I would
bring her back if I could, but I cannot, and I shall marry ’Lina.”
“But,” and Anna grasped his hand nervously, “I thought you told me once,
that you won her love, and then, when mother’s harsh letters came, left
her without a word. Was that story false?”
The doctor was wading out in deep waters, and in desperation he added
lie to lie, saying, huskily—
“Yes, that was false. I tell you I married her, and she died. Was I to
blame for that?”
“No, no, oh, no. I’d far rather it were so. I respect you more than if
you had left her. I am glad, so glad not that she died, but that you are
not so bad as I feared. Sweet Lily,” and Anna’s tears flowed fast to the
memory of the poor girl whose early grave she saw in fancy some where in
a beautiful Greenwood.
There was a knock at the door, and Jim appeared, inquiring if the doctor
would have the carriage brought round. It was nearly time to go, and
with the whispered words to Anna, “I have told you what no one else must
ever know,” the doctor descended with his sister to the parlor, where
his mother was waiting for him. The opening and shutting of the door
caused a draught of air, which, falling on the fainting Adah, restored
her to consciousness, and struggling to her feet, she tried to think
what it was that had happened. She remembered it soon, and with a
shudder listened to know if George was still in the adjoining chamber.
All was quiet there. He had gone, and tottering into the room, she knelt
by the chair where she knew he had sat. Then, as the last expiring throe
of her love for him swept over her, she essayed to wind her trembling
arms around the chair, as she would once have twined them about him.
“Oh, George! George!” she gasped, calling him still George, for, she
almost hated that other name.
“Oh, George, I did love you so much,” and she laid her poor, tired head
upon the chair as if it had been his lap. “I loved you so much, but it
is over now, or it soon will be. I feel its death struggles at my heart.
You are worse than I believed. You have made me an outcast, and Willie
——” The sentence ended with the wailing cry—“My boy, my boy! that such a
heritage should be yours.”
Adah could not pray then, although she tried, but the fitting words
would not come, and with her head still resting on his chair, she looked
the terrible reality in the face, and saw just where she stood.
Heretofore the one great hope, that she was really a wife, had buoyed
her up when everything else was dark. Like a drowning person grasping at
a straw, she had clung to that, even against her better judgment, but
now it was swept away, and with it the semblance of a name. He had
deceived her even there, and she had accepted the _Hastings_ as
something tangible. He was a greater villain than she had imagined a man
could be, and again her white lips essayed to curse him, but the rash
act was stayed by the low words whispered in her ear, “Forgive as ye
would be forgiven.”
“If it were not for Willie, I might, but oh! my boy, my boy disgraced,”
was the rebellious spirit’s answer, when again the voice whispered, “And
who art thou to contend against thy God? Know you not that I am the
Father of the fatherless.”
There were tears now in Adah’s eyes, the first which she had shed.
“I’ll try,” she murmured, “try to forgive the wrong, but the strength
must all be thine,” and then, though there came no sound or motion; her
heart went out in agonizing prayer, that she might forgive even as she
hoped to be forgiven.
She did not ask that the dead love might ever return again. She had no
desire for that, but she asked to feel kindly towards him, that the
resentful feeling might be removed, that God would show her what to do
and where to go, for she could not stay there now, in his home, whither
he would bring his bride ere many days were gone. She must go away, not
to Spring Bank, not anywhere where he or ’Lina could ever find her. She
would far rather die. But Willie! what would she do with him, her
tender, innocent boy?
“God tell me what to do with Willie?” she sobbed, starting suddenly as
the answer to her prayer seemed to come at once. “Oh can I do that?” she
moaned; “can I leave him here?”
At first her whole soul recoiled from it, but when she remembered Anna,
and how much she loved the child, her feelings began to change. Anna
would love him more when she knew he was poor Lily’s and her own
brother’s. She would be kind to him for his father’s sake, and for the
sake of the girl she had professed to like. Willie should be bequeathed
to Anna. It would break her heart to leave him, were it not already
broken, but it was better so. It would be better in the end. He would
forget her in time, unless sweet Anna told him of her, as perhaps she
might. Dear Anna, how Adah longed to fold her arms about her once and
call her sister, but she must not. It might not be well received, for
Anna had some pride, as her waiting-maid had learned.
“A waiting-maid!” Adah repeated the name, smiling bitterly as she
thought, “A waiting-maid in his own home! Who would have dreamed that I
should ever come to this, when he painted the future so grandly? Be
still, my heart, or I shall hate him yet, and I’m going to forgive him.”
Then there came over her the wild, yearning desire to see his face once
more, to know if he had changed, and why couldn’t she? They supposed her
gone to the office, and she would go there now, taking the depot on the
way. She would go closely veiled, and none would suspect her errand.
Rising mechanically, she donned her cloak and hood, and stealing down
the stairs which led from Anna’s room into the garden, she was soon out
beneath the starry sky, inhaling the cool night air, so grateful to her
heated brain.
* * * * *
Apart in the ladies’ room at Snowdon depot, a veiled figure sat, waiting
apparently for the cars, just as others were. She was the only female
present, and no one had noticed her particularly when she came in, for
the gentlemen walking up and down the room only glanced at her, and then
gave her no further thought. And there she sat, Dr. Richards’ deserted
wife, waiting to look on his face once more ere she fled she knew not
whither. He came at last, Jim’s voice speaking to his horses heralding
his approach. Adah could not see him yet, but she knew just when his
feet struck the platform as he sprang from the carriage, and shivered as
if it were a blow aimed at her heart.
The group of rough-looking men gathered about the office did not suit
his mood, and so he came on to the ladies’ apartment, just as Adah knew
he would. Pausing for a moment on the threshold, he looked hastily in,
his glance falling upon the veiled figure sitting there so lonely and
motionless. She did not care for him, she would not object to his
presence, so he came nearer to the stove, poising his patent leathers
upon the hearth, thrusting both hands into his pockets, and even humming
to himself snatches of a song, which Lily used to sing, up the three
flights of stairs in that New York boarding-house.
Poor Adah! How white and cold she grew, listening to that air, and
gazing upon the face she had loved so well. It was changed since the
night when, with his kiss warm on her lips, he left her forever;
changed, and for the worse. There was a harder, a more reckless,
determined expression there, a look which better than words could have
done, told that _self_ alone was the god he worshipped. Adah doubted if
he could have won her love with that look upon his face, and ’Lina
Worthington was not envied the honor in store for her. It was a bitter
struggle to sit there so quietly, to meet the eye before which she was
wont to blush with happiness, to know that he was looking at her,
wondering it might be, who she was, but never dreaming it was Lily.
Once, as he walked up and down the room, passing so near to her that she
might have touched him with her hand, she felt an almost irresistible
desire to thrust her thick brown veil aside, and confronting him to his
face, claim from him what she had a right to claim, his name and a
position as his wife. Only for Willie’s sake, however for herself she
did not wish it. He was not worthy, and forcing back the wild impulse,
she sat with throbbing heart and bloodless lips watching him, as he
still walked up and down, his brows knit together as if absorbed in some
unpleasant thought.
It was a relief when at last the roll of the cars was heard, and
buttoning his coat still closer around him, he went out upon the
platform and stepped mechanically into the car.
Quickly Adah, too, passed through the rear door out into the street, and
with a piteous moan for her ruined life, kept on her way till the
post-office was reached.
There was a letter for Anna in the box, and thrusting it into her pocket
Adah took her way back to Terrace Hill.
The family, including Anna, were spending the evening in the parlor,
where there were callers, and thus none thought of or noticed Adah as
she passed through the hall and crept up to her room.
Willie was asleep; and as Pamelia, who brought him up, had thoughtfully
undressed and placed him in bed, there was nothing for Adah to do but
think. She should go away, of course; she could not stay there longer;
but how should she tell them why she went, and who would be her medium,
for communication?
“Anna,” she whispered; and lighting her little lamp, she sat down to
write the letter which would tell Anna Richards who was the waiting-maid
to whom she had been so kind.
Adah was very calm when she began that letter, and as it progressed, she
seemed turning into stone, so insensible she was to what, without that
rigidity of nerve, would have been a task more painful than she could
well endure.
“Dear Anna,” she wrote. “Forgive me for calling you so this once, for
indeed I cannot help it. I am going away from you; and when, in the
morning, you wait for me to come as usual, I shall not be here. I could
not stay and meet your brother when he returns. Oh, Anna, Anna, how
shall I begin to tell you what I know will grieve and shock your pure
nature so dreadfully?
“I love to call you Anna now, for you seem near to me; and believe me,
while I write this to you, I am conscious of no feeling of inferiority
to any one bearing your proud name. I am, or should have been, _your
sister_; and Willie!—oh, my boy, when I think of him, I seem to be going
mad!
“Cannot you guess?—don’t you know now who I am? God forgive your
brother, as I asked him to do, kneeling there by the very chair where he
sat an hour since, talking to you of _Lily_. I heard him, and the sound
of his voice took power and strength away. I could not move to let you
know I was there, and I lay upon the floor till consciousness forsook
me; and then, when I woke again, you both were gone.
“I went to the depot, I saw him in his face to make assurance sure, and
Anna, I,—oh I don’t know what I am. The world would not call me a wife,
though I believed I was; but they cannot deal thus cruelly by Willie, or
wash from his veins his father’s blood, for I—,who write this, I who
have been a servant in the house where I should have been the mistress,
am _Lily_—wronged, deserted Lily—and Willie is your brother’s child! His
father’s looks are in his face. But when I came here I had no suspicion,
for he won me as _George Hastings_; that was the name by which I knew
him, and I was _Adah Gordon_. If you do not believe me, ask him when he
comes back if ever in his wanderings he met with Adah Gordon, or her
guardian, Mr. Redfield. Ask if he was ever present at a marriage where
this Adah gave her heart to one for whom she would then have lost her
life, erring in that she loved the _gift_ more than the _giver_; but God
punishes idolatry, and he has punished me, so sorely, oh so sorely, that
sometimes my fainting soul cries out, ‘’tis more than I can bear.’”
Then followed more particulars so that there should be no doubt, and
then the half crazed Adah took up the theme nearest to her heart, her
boy, her beautiful Willie. She could not take him with her. She knew not
where she was going, and Willie must not suffer. Would _Anna_ take the
child? Would she love him for his father’s sake? Would she shield him
from scorn, and when he was older would she sometimes tell him of the
mother who went away that _he_ might be spared shame?
“I do not ask that the new bride should ever call him hers,” she wrote;
“I’d rather she would not. I ask that you should give him a mother’s
care, and if his father will sometimes speak kindly to him for the sake
of the olden time when he did love the mother, tell him—Willie’s father,
I mean—tell him, oh I know not what to bid you tell him, except that I
forgive him, though at first it was so hard, and the words refused to
come; I trusted him so much, loved him so much, and until I had it from
his own lips, believed I was his wife. But that cured me; that killed
the love, if any still existed, and now, if I could, I would not be his,
unless it were for Willie’s sake. Don’t deem me too proud when I say,
that to be his wife would be to me more terrible than any thing which I
yet have borne, except it were for Willie. I say this because it’s
possible your kind heart would prompt you at once to bring back your
erring brother, and persuade him at the last to do me justice. But I
would not have it so. Shield Willie; nurture him tenderly; teach your
mother to love him, and if you so desire it, I will never cross his
path, never come near to him, though at a distance, if Heaven wills it,
I shall watch my child.
“And now farewell. God deal with you, dear Anna, as you deal with my
boy.”
Calmly, steadily, Adah folded up the missive, and laying it with the
other letter, busied herself next in making the necessary preparations
for her flight. Anna had been very liberal with her in point of wages,
paying her every week, and paying more than at first agreed upon; and as
she had scarcely spent a penny during her three months’ sojourn at
Terrace Hill, she had, including what Alice had given to her, nearly
forty dollars. She was trying so hard to make it a hundred, and so send
it to Hugh some day; but she needed it most herself, and she placed it
carefully in her little purse, sighing over the golden coin which Anna
had paid her last, little dreaming for what purpose it would be used.
She would not change her dress until Anna had retired, as that might
excite suspicion; so with the same rigid apathy of manner she sat down
by Willie’s side and waited till Anna was heard moving in her room. The
lamp was burning dimly on the bureau, and so Anna failed to see the
frightful expression of Adah’s face as she performed her accustomed
duties, brushing Anna’s hair, and letting her hands linger caressingly
amid the locks she might never touch again.
It did strike Anna that something was the matter; for when Adah spoke to
her, the voice was husky and unnatural. Still, she paid no attention,
and the chapter was read as usual, after which Adah bade her good night
and went to her own room. Anna slept very soundly, and when toward
morning a light footstep glided across her threshold she did not hear
it, neither did she know when two letters were laid softly on her
pillow, where she could not fail to find them when she awoke, nor yet
was she aware of the blessings breathed over her, as kneeling by her
side Adah prayed out her farewell. Not wept. She could not do that, even
when it came to leaving Willie. Her tears were frozen into stone, and
the mighty throes of anguish which seemed forcing her heart from its
natural position were of no avail to moisten the feverish lids, drooping
so heavily over the swollen eyes. A convulsive prayer, in which her
whole soul was embodied, a gasping sob of bitter, bitter pain, and then
Adah put from her the little soft, warm, baby arm which Willie had
unconsciously thrown across her neck when she laid her face by his. She
dared not look at him again lest the sight should unnerve her, and with
a decision born of desperation, she left her sleeping boy and hurried
down the stairs into the gloomy hall, where not a sound was audible as
her feet pressed the soft thick carpet on her passage to the outer door.
The bolt was drawn, the key was turned, and just as the clock struck
three, Adah stood outside the yard, leaning on the gate and gazing back
at the huge building looming up so dark and grand beneath the starry
sky. One more prayer for Willie and the mother-auntie to whose care she
had left him, one more straining glance at the window of the little room
where he lay sleeping, and she resolutely turned away, nor stopped again
until the Danville depot was reached, the station where, in less than
five minutes after her arrival, the night express stood for an instant,
and then went thundering on, bearing with it another passenger, bound
for—she knew not, cared not whither.