GOING HOME.
The village hearse was waiting at Snowdon depot, and close beside it
stood the carriage from Terrace Hill; the one sent there for Adah, the
other for her husband, whose life-blood, so freely shed, had wiped away
all stains upon his memory, and enshrined him in the hearts of Snowdon’s
people as a martyr. He was the first dead soldier returned to them, his
the first soldier’s grave in their churchyard; and so a goodly throng
were there, with plaintive fife and muffled drum, to do him honor. His
major was coming with him, it was said—Major Stanley, who had himself
been found in a half-fainting condition watching by the dead—Major
Stanley, who had seen that the body was embalmed, had written to the
wife, and had attended to everything, even to coming on himself by way
of showing his respect. Death is a great softener of errors; and the
village people, who could not remember a time when they had not disliked
John Richards, forgot his faults now that he was dead.
It seemed a long time waiting for the train, but it came at last, and
the crowd involuntarily made a movement forward, and then drew back as a
tall figure appeared up on the platform, his uniform betokening an
officer of rank, and his manner showing plainly that he was master of
ceremonies.
“Major Stanley,” ran in a whisper through the crowd, whose wonder
increased when another, and, if possible, a finer-looking man, emerged
into view, his right arm in a sling, and his face pale and worn, from
the effects of recent illness. _He_ had not been expected, and many
curious glances were cast at him as, slowly descending the steps, he
gave his hand to Mrs. Worthington following close behind. They knew her,
and recognized also the two young ladies, Alice and Adah, as they sprang
from the car. Poor Adah! how she shrank from the public gaze, shuddering
as, on her way to the carriage, she passed the long box the men were
handling so carefully.
Summoned by Irving Stanley, she had come on to Washington, and while
there, had learned that Mrs. Worthington, Hugh, and Alice were all in
Georgetown, whither she hastened at once. Immediately after the
discovery of her parentage, she had written to Kentucky, but the letter
had not reached its destination, consequently no one but Hugh knew how
near she was; and he had only learned it a few days before the battle,
when he had, by accident, a few moments’ conversation with Dr. Richards,
whom he had purposely avoided. He was talking of Adah, and the
practicability of sending for her, when she arrived at the private
boarding-house to which he had been removed.
The particulars of that interview between the mother and her daughter we
cannot describe, as no one witnessed it save God; but Adah’s face was
radiant with happiness and her eyes beaming with joy when it was ended,
and she went next to where Hugh was waiting for her.
“Oh, Hugh, my noble brother!” was all she could say, as she wound her
arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his own, forgetting,
in those moments of perfect bliss, all the sorrow, and anguish of the
past.
Nor was it until Hugh said to her, “The doctor was in that battle, did
he escape unharmed?” that a shadow dimmed the sunshine flooding her
pathway that autumn morning.
At the mention of _him_, the muscles about her mouth grew rigid, and a
look of pain flitted across her face showing that there was yet much of
bitterness mingled in her cup of joy. Composing herself as soon as
possible she told Hugh that she was a widow, but uttered no word of
complaint against the dead, and Hugh, knowing that she could not sorrow
as other women have sorrowed over the loved ones slain in battle, drew
her nearer to him, and kissing her tenderly, said, “Your home shall be
with me and Golden Hair—who has promised to be my wife.”
Then he asked what Major Stanley’s plan was concerning the body of her
husband, and upon learning that it was to bury the doctor at home, he
announced his determination to accompany them, as he knew he should be
able to do so.
It was a great trial to Adah to face the crowd they found assembled at
the depot, but Irving, Hugh, and Alice all helped to screen her from
observation, and almost before she was aware of it she found herself
safe in the carriage, which effectually hid her from view. Slowly the
procession moved through the village, the foot passengers keeping time
to the muffled drum, whose solemn beats had never till that morning been
heard in the quiet streets. The wide gate which led into the grounds of
Terrace Hill was opened wide, and the black hearse passed in, followed
by the other carriages, which wound round the hill and up to the huge
building where badges of mourning were hung out for the only son, the
youngest born, the once pride and pet of the stately woman who watched
the coming of that group with tear-dim eyes, holding upon her lap the
little boy whose father they were bringing in, dead, coffined for the
grave. Not for the world would that high-bred woman have been guilty of
an impropriety, and so she sat in her own room, while Charlie Millbrook
met the bearers in the hall and told them where to deposit their burden.
In the same room where we first saw him on the night of his return from
Europe they left him, and went their way, while to Dixon and Pamelia was
accorded the honor of first welcoming Adah, whom they treated with as
much deference as if she had never been with them in any capacity save
that of mistress. She had changed since they last saw her—was
wonderfully improved, they said to each other as they left her at the
door of the room, where Mrs. Richards, with her two older daughters, was
waiting to receive her. But if the servants were struck with the air of
dignity and cultivation which Adah acquired during her tour in Europe,
how much more did this same air impress the haughty ladies who had felt
a little uncertain as to _how_ they should receive her. Any doubts,
however, which they had upon this subject were dispelled the moment she
entered the room, and they saw at a glance that it was not the timid,
shrinking Adah Gordon with whom they had to deal, but a woman as wholly
self-possessed as themselves, and one with whose bearing even their
critical eyes would find no fault. She would not suffer them to
_patronize_ her; they must treat her fully as an equal or as nothing,
and with a new-born feeling of pride in her late son’s widow, Mrs.
Richards arose, and putting Willie from her lap, advanced to meet her,
cordially extending her hand, but uttering no word of welcome. Adah took
the hand, but her eyes never sought the face of her lady mother. They
were riveted with a hungry, wistful, longing look on _Willie_, who,
clinging to his grandmother’s skirts, peered curiously at her, holding
back at first, when, unmindful of Asenath and Eudora, who had not yet
been greeted, she tried to take him in her arms.
“Oh, Willie, darling, don’t you know me! I am poor mam-ma,” and Adah’s
voice was choked with sobs at this unlooked for reception from her
child.
He had been sent for from Anna’s home to meet his mother, because it was
proper; but no one at Terrace Hill had said to him that the mamma for
whom Anna taught him daily to pray, was coming. _She_ was not in his
mind; and as eighteen months had obliterated all memories of the girlish
creature he once knew as mother, he could not immediately identify that
mother with the lady before him.
It was a sad disappointment to Adah, and without knowing what she was
doing, she sank down upon the sofa, and involuntarily laying her head in
Mrs. Richards lap, cried bitterly, her tears bringing answering ones
from the eyes of all three of the ladies, for they half believed her
grief, in part, was for the lifeless form in the room below.
“Poor child, you are tired and worn. It is hard to lose him just as
there was a prospect of perfect reconciliation with us all,” Mrs.
Richards said, softly smoothing the brown tresses lying on her lap, and
thinking even then that _curls_ were more becoming to her
daughter-in-law than braids had been, but wondering why, now she was in
mourning, Adah had persisted in wearing them.
“Pretty girl, pretty _turls_, is you _tyin_?” and won by her distress,
Willie drew near, and laid his baby hand upon the curls he thought so
pretty.
“That’s mamma, Willie,” Asenath said; “the mamma Aunt Anna said would
come some time—Willie’s mamma. Can’t he kiss her?”
The child could not resist the face which, lifting itself up, looked
eagerly at him, and he put up his little hands for Adah to take him,
returning the kisses she showered upon him, and clinging to her neck,
while he said, “Is you mam-ma sure? I prays for mam-ma—God take care of
her, and pa-pa too. He’s dead. They brought him back with a _dum_. Poor
pa-pa, Willie don’t want him dead;” and the little lip began to quiver.
Never since she knew she was a widow had Adah felt so vivid a sensation
of something akin to affection for the dead, as when her child mourned
so plaintively for papa; and the tears which now fell like rain were not
for Willie alone.
“Mrs. Richards has not yet greeted us,” Asenath said; and turning to her
at once, Adah apologized for her seeming neglect, pressing both her and
Eudora’s hands more cordially than she would have done a few moments
before.
“Where is Anna?” she asked; and Mrs. Richards replied,
“She’s sick. She regretted much that she could not come up here to-day;”
while Willie, standing in Adah’s lap, with his chubby arm around her
neck, chimed in,
“You don’t know what we’ve dot. We’ve dot ’ittle baby, we has.”
Adah knew now why Anna was absent, and why Charlie Millbrook looked so
happy when at last he came in to see her, delivering sundry messages
from his Anna, who, he said, could scarcely wait to see her _dear
sister_. There was something genuine in Charlie’s greeting, something
which made Adah feel as if she were indeed at home, and she wondered
much how even the Richards race could ever have objected to him, as she
watched his movements and heard him talking with his stately mother.
“Yes, Major Stanley came,” he said, in reply to her question, and Adah
was glad it was put to _him_, for the blushes dyed her cheek at once,
and she bent over Willie to hide them, while Charlie continued, “Captain
Worthington came, too. He was in the same battle with the doctor, was
wounded rather seriously, and has been discharged, I believe.”
“Oh,” and Mrs. Richards seemed quite interested, asking where the young
men were, and appearing disappointed when told that, after waiting a few
moments in hopes of seeing the ladies, they had returned to the hotel,
where Mrs. Worthington and Alice were stopping.
“I fully expected the ladies here; pray, send for them at once,” she
said, but Adah interposed.
“Her mother would not willingly be separated from Hugh, and as he of
course would remain at the hotel, it would be useless to think of
persuading Mrs. Worthington to come to Terrace Hill.”
“But Miss Johnson surely will come,” persisted Mrs. Richards.
Adah could not explain then that Alice was less likely to leave Hugh
than her mother, but she said, “Miss Johnson, will not leave mother
alone,” and so the matter was settled.
It was a terribly long day to Adah, and she was glad when towards its
close Alice was announced as being in the reception room. She had driven
round, to call on Mrs. Richards, and after that take Adah with her to
the cottage, where Anna, she knew, was anxious to receive her. At first
Mrs. Richards demurred, fearing it would be improper, but saying, “My
late son’s wife is of course her own mistress, and can do as she likes.”
Very adroitly Alice waived all objections, and bore Adah off in triumph.
“I knew you must be lonely up there,” she said, as they drove slowly
along, “and there can be no harm in visiting one’s sick sister.”
Anna surely did not think there was, as her warm, welcoming kisses fully
testified.
“I wanted so much to see you to-day,” she said, “that I have worked
myself into quite a fever; but knowing mother as I do, I feared she
might not sanction your coming;” then proudly turning down the blanket,
she disclosed the red-faced baby, who, just one week ago, had come to
the Riverside Cottage.
“Isn’t he a beauty?” she asked, pressing her lips upon the wrinkled
forehead. “A boy, too, and looks so much like Charlie, but—” and her
soft, blue eyes seemed more beautiful than ever with the maternal love
shining from them. “I shall not call him Charles, nor yet _John_, though
mother’s heart is set on the latter name. I can’t. I loved my brother
dearly, and never so much as now that he is dead, but my baby-boy must
not bear his name, and so I have chosen _Hugh_, _Hugh Richards_. I know
it will please you both,” and she glanced archly at Alice, who
blushingly kissed the little boy named for her promised husband.
They talked of Hugh awhile, and then Anna spoke of Irving Stanley,
expressing her fears that she could not see him to thank him for his
kindness and forbearance to her erring brother.
“He must be noble and good,” she said, then turning to Adah, she
continued. “You know him well. Do you like him?”
“Yes,” and Adah’s face was all ablaze, as the simple answer dropped from
her lips.
For a moment Anna regarded her intently, then her eyes were withdrawn
and her white hand beat the counterpane softly, but nothing more was
said of Irving Stanley.
The next day near the sun-setting, they buried the dead soldier, Mrs.
Richards and Adah standing side by side as the body was lowered to its
last resting place, the older leaning upon the younger for support, and
feeling as she went back to her lonely home and heard the merry laugh of
little Willie in the hall that she was glad her son had married the
young girl, who, now that John was gone forever, began to be very dear
to her as his wife, the Lily whom he had loved so much. In the dusky
twilight of that night when alone with Adah, she told her as much,
speaking sadly of the past, which she regretted, and wishing she had
never objected to receiving the girl about whom John wrote so lovingly.
“Had I done differently he might have been living now, and you have been
spared much pain, but you’ll forgive me. I’m an old woman. I am breaking
fast, and soon shall follow my boy, but while I live I wish for peace,
and you must love me, Lily, because I was his mother,” and the hand of
her who had conceded so much, rested entreatingly upon the bowed head of
the young girl beside her. There was no acting there, Adah knew, and
clasping the trembling hand she involuntarily whispered,
“I will love you, my _mother_.”
“And stay with me, too?” Mrs. Richards continued, her voice choked with
the sobs she could not repress, when she heard herself called mother by
the girl she had so wronged. “Anna is gone, my other daughters are old.
We are lonely in this great house. We need somebody young to cheer our
solitude, and you will stay, as _mistress_, if you choose, or as a
petted youngest daughter.”
This was an unlooked for trial to Adah. She had not dreamed of living at
Terrace Hill. But Adah had never consulted her own happiness, and as she
listened to the pleading tones of the woman who surely had _some heart_,
some noble qualities, she felt that ’twas her duty to remain there for a
time at least, and so she replied at last,
“I expected to live with my own mother, but for the present my home
shall be here with you.”
“God bless you, darling,” and the proud woman’s lips touched the fair
cheek, while the proud woman’s hand smoothed again the soft short curls,
pushing them back from the white brow, as she murmured, “You are very
beautiful, my child, just as John said you were.”
It was hard for Adah to tell Mrs. Worthington that _she_ could not make
one of the circle who would gather around the home fireside, but she did
at last, standing firmly by her decision, and saying in reply to her
mother’s entreaties, “It is my duty. They need me more than you, who
have both Hugh and Alice.”
Adah was right, so Hugh said, and Alice, too, while Irving Stanley said
nothing. He must have found much that was attractive about the little
town of Snowdon, for he lingered there long after there was not the
least excuse for staying. He did not go often to Terrace Hill, and when
he did, he never asked for Adah, but so long as he could see her on
Sundays when, with the Richards’ family, she walked quietly up the
aisle, her cheek flushing as she passed him, and so long as he
occasionally met her at Mrs. Worthington’s rooms, or saw her riding in
the Richards carriage, so long was he content to stay. But there came a
time when he must go, and then he asked for Adah, and in the presence of
her mother-in-law invited her to go with him to her husband’s grave. She
went, taking Willie with her, and there, with that fresh mound between
them, Irving Stanley told her what the dying soldier had said, and asked
if it should be so.
“Not now, not yet,” he continued, as Adah’s eyes were bent upon that
grave, “but by and by, will you do your husband’s bidding and be my
wife?”
“I will,” and taking Willie’s hand Adah put it with hers into the broad,
warm palm which clasped them both, as Irving whispered, “Your child
shall be mine, and never need to know that I am not his father.”
It was arranged that Alice should tell Mrs. Richards, as Adah would have
no concealments. Accordingly, Alice asked a private interview with the
lady, to whom she told everything as she understood it. And Mrs.
Richards, though weeping bitterly, generously exonerated Adah from all
blame, commended her as having acted wisely, and then added, with a
flush of pride:
“Many a woman would be glad to marry Irving Stanley, and it gives me
pleasure to know that to my son’s widow the honor is accorded. He is
worthy to take John’s place, and she, I believe, is worthy of him. I
love her already as my daughter, and shall look upon him as a son. You
say they are in the garden. Let them both come to me.”
They came, and listened quietly, while Mrs. Richards sanctioned their
engagement, and then, with a little eulogy upon her departed son, said
to Adah, “You will wait a year, of course. It will not be proper
before.”
Irving had hoped for only six months’ probation, but Adah was satisfied
with the year, and they went from Mrs. Richards’ presence with the
feeling that Providence was indeed smiling upon their pathway, and
flooding it with sunshine.
The next day Major Stanley left Snowdon, but not until there had come to
Hugh a letter, whose handwriting made Mrs. Worthington turn pale, it
brought back so vividly the terror of the olden time. It was from
Murdoch, and it enclosed for Mrs. Worthington the sum of five hundred
dollars, “I have no reason for thinking you rich,” he wrote, “and should
she need more I will try to send it as some atonement for the past.”
Then, after speaking of his fruitless search for Adah, and his hearing
at last that she was found and Dr. Richards dead, he added, “As there is
nothing left for me to do, and as I am sure to be playing mischief if
idle, I have joined the army, and am training a band of contrabands to
fight as soon as the government comes to its senses, and is willing for
the negroes to bear their part in the battle.”
The letter ended with saying that he should never come out of the war
alive, simply because it would last until he was too old to live any
longer.
It was a relief for Mrs. Worthington to hear from him, and know that he
probably would not trouble her again, while Adah, whose memories of him
were pleasanter, expressed a strong desire to see him.
“We will find him by and by, when you are mine,” Irving said playfully
and drawing her into an adjoining room, where they could be alone, he
said his parting words, and then with Hugh went to meet the train which
took him away from Snowdon.