ADA MONTROSE
Aunt Charlotte, Anna, and myself were sitting in the parlor one
morning, about four weeks after our arrival in Boston, when the
door-bell rang, and the servant ushered in a young lady, who I
readily guessed was Ada Montrose, for there was about her an air of
languor, as if she had just arisen from a sick-bed. All doubt on
this point was soon settled by my aunt's exclaiming, as she hastened
to greet her, "Why, Ada, my child, this is a surprise. How do you
do?"
The voice which answered was, I thought, the sweetest and most
musical I had ever heard, and yet there was in it something which
made me involuntarily shudder. I do not know that I believe in
_presentiments_, but sure I am that the moment I heard the tones of
Ada Montrose's voice, and looked upon her face, I experienced a most
disagreeable sensation, as if, in some way or other, she would one
day cross my path. She was beautiful--_she_ beautiful, that it
seemed impossible to detect a single fault either in her features or
complexion, though there was in the former an expression which made
me feel, when her eyes were fixed upon me, much as the bird must when
charmed by the rattlesnake. Do what I would, I could not rid myself
of the idea that she was my _evil_ genius, though how in any way she,
a proud southern belle, could ever affect me, a plain schoolgirl of
fourteen, was difficult to tell. She was, as I afterwards learned,
twenty-two years of age, but being rather diminutive in size, and
affecting a great deal of childish simplicity, she passed for four or
five years younger; and, indeed, she herself gave her age as
eighteen--looking up to Anna, who was really two years her junior, as
a very ancient, matronly sort of person, who was supposed to remember
as far back as the flood.
Divesting herself of her warm wrappings, which she left upon the
floor, and shaking out her long curls, she informed my aunt that she
had come to spend the day, saying, by way of apologizing for not
having sent her word, that "she had ventured to come without an
invitation, she felt herself so perfectly at home."
Of course Aunt Charlotte was delighted, and after assuring her of the
fact, she suddenly remembered our presence, and introduced us to the
lady as "Mr. Lee's nieces from the country." Not an instant did the
large brownish black eyes rest on me, for I was of little importance
compared with Anna, who the Thursday night previous had made her
first appearance in society, where her sweet face and fresh,
unstudied manners had produced something of a sensation, which had
undoubtedly reached the ear of the reigning belle. What her thoughts
were as she scanned my sister from head to foot, I do not know; but
as I watched her, I fancied I could detect an expression of mingled
scorn and surprise that one so unassuming should awaken an interest
in those who were accustomed to pay her homage. When she had
satisfied herself with Anna's personal appearance, she gave me a
hasty glance, and then drawing from her reticule a fanciful mat which
she was crocheting, she leaned back among the soft cushions of her
chair, and commenced talking to my aunt in a very artless, childish
manner, never noticing us in the least, except once when she asked me
to pull the bell rope, which was much nearer to her than me. Several
times I fancied she seemed to be listening for something, and when at
last I heard Herbert's voice in the hall and saw the deepening flush
on her cheek, I was sure that she felt more than a common interest in
him.
In his usual good-natured, off-hand way he entered the room, tossing
into my lap a letter from brother Charlie, and telling Anna that her
_beau_ hadn't yet written; then, as his eye fell upon Ada, he started
back in evident surprise. Soon recovering himself, however, he said,
as he took the little snowflake of a hand, which she offered him--
"Why, Ad, who knew you were here?"
"Not you, or you would have come sooner, I reckon;" said she, looking
up in his face in a confiding kind of way, which brought a frown to
Anna's brow.
"Maybe I shouldn't have come so soon," he replied laughingly, at the
same time stealing a sidelong glance at Anna.
"Here, sit right down by me," said Miss Montrose, as she saw him
looking for a seat. "I want to scold you for not calling on me
oftener when I was sick. You don't know how neglected I felt. Why
didn't you come, hey?"
And she playfully pulled his hair, allowing her hand to remain some
time among his wavy locks. This was a kind of coquetry entirely new
to me, and I looked on in amazement, while Anna, more disturbed than
she was willing to acknowledge, left the room. When she was gone,
Ada said, letting her hand fall from Herbert's head to his arm, "Tell
me, is that the _Lee girl_, who attracted so much attention at Mrs.
G----'s party?"
There was a look of gratified pride on Herbert's face as he answered,
"Yes--the same--don't you think her pretty?"
They had probably forgotten my presence--Ada most certainly had, or
else she did not care; for she replied, "Pretty enough for some
tastes, I suppose, but she lacks polish and refinement. Is she at
all related to you?"
"My stepfather's niece, that's all," replied Herbert, while Ada
quickly rejoined in a low tone, "Then, of course, _I_ shan't have to
cousin her."
"Probably not," was Herbert's answer, which I interpreted one way and
Ada another.
Her next remark was a proposal that Herbert should that afternoon
take her out to ride; but to this he made some objection; whereupon
she pretended to be angry, leaning back on the sofa and muttering
that "she didn't believe he cared a bit for her, and he might as well
confess it at once."
Here the dinner bell rang, and offering his arm to the pouting
beauty, Herbert led her to the dining-room, where she was soon
restored to good humor by my aunt, who lavished upon her the utmost
attention, humoring every whim, and going so far as to prepare for
her _four_ different cups of black tea, which had been ordered
expressly for her, and to which she objected as being too hot, or too
cold--too weak or too strong. It took but a short time to show that
she was a _spoiled baby_, good-natured only when all the attention
was lavished upon her, and when her wishes were paramount to all
others.
Dinner being over, Herbert did not, as was his usual custom, return
to the parlor; but taking his hat he went out into the street, in
spite of his mother's whispered effort to keep him at home. This, of
course, vexed the little lady, and after thrumming a few notes upon
the piano, she announced her intention of returning home, saying that
"she wished she had not come." At this moment the door-bell rang,
and some young ladies came in to call upon Anna. They seemed
surprised at finding Ada, there, and after inquiring for her health,
one of them said, "Do tell us, Ada, who that gentleman was that came
and went so slyly, without our ever seeing him? Mrs. Cameron says he
was from Georgia, and that is all we know about him. Who was he?"
Ada started, and turning slightly pale, replied, "What do you mean?
I've seen no gentleman from Georgia. Where was he? and when was he
here?"
"As much as three weeks or more ago," returned Miss Marvin. "He
stopped at the Revere House, and Mrs. Cameron, who boards there, got
somewhat acquainted with him."
"Mrs. Cameron!" repeated Ada, turning alternately red and white.
"And pray what did she say?"
I fancied there was a spice of malice in Miss Marvin's nature; at
least, she evidently wished to annoy Ada, for she replied, "She said
he was _ugly looking_, though quite _distingué_; that he came in the
afternoon, while she was in the public parlor talking with a lady
about _you_ and your engagement with Mr. Langley!"
"The hateful old thing!" muttered Ada, while Anna turned white as
marble, and Miss Marvin continued--"When the lady had gone he begged
pardon for the liberty, but asked her if she knew you. Of course,
she told him she did, and gave him any further information which she
thought would please him."
"Of course she did--the meddling widow!" again interrupted Ada; after
which Miss Marvin proceeded--"Mrs. Cameron didn't mean to do anything
wrong, for how could she guess that 'twould affect him in any way to
know you were engaged?"
"And she told him I was engaged! It isn't so. I ain't," exclaimed
Ada, while the angry tears dropped from her glittering eyes.
"What does that mean then?" asked Miss Marvin, laughingly, pointing
at the ring on Ada's finger.
Her first impulse was to wrench it from her hand and cast it from
her, but she remembered herself in time, and growing quite calm, as
if to attribute her recent agitation to a different cause, she said:
"I wish people would attend to their own affairs, and let mine alone.
Suppose I am engaged--is that a reason why Mrs. Cameron should
discuss the matter with strangers? But what else did she say? And
where is the gentleman now?"
"Gone home," answered Miss Marvin, glancing mischievously at her
companions. "He went the next morning, and she said he looked very
much disturbed, either at your illness or your engagement, the former
probably, and that is why I think it strange that he didn't stop to
see you; though maybe he did."
"No, he didn't," chimed in Miss Marvin's sister, "for don't you know
she said he went to the theater?"
All this time my interest in the unknown Georgian had been
increasing, and at this last remark I forgot myself entirely, and
started forward, exclaiming, "Yes, he was there, I saw him and spoke
with him too."
The next moment I sank back upon the ottoman, abashed and mortified,
while Ada gave me a withering glance, and said scornfully, "_You_
spoke to him! And pray, what did you say?"
An explanation of what I said, would, I knew, oblige me to confess
the fainting fit, of which I was somewhat ashamed, and so I made no
reply; nor was any expected, I think, for without waiting for my
answer, Ada said to Miss Marvin, "Mrs. Cameron, of course, learned
his name, even if she had to ask it outright."
"Yes, she made inquiries of the clerk, who wouldn't take the trouble
of looking on the book, but said he believed it was _Field_, or
something like that," returned Miss Marvin.
As if uncertainty were now made sure, Ada turned so white that in
some alarm her young friends asked what they should do for her; but
she refused their offers of aid, saying, "it was only the heat of the
room, and she should soon feel better."
"And is it the heat of the room which affects _you_, Miss Lee?" asked
one of the girls, observing for the first time the extreme pallor of
Anna's face.
"Only a headache," was her answer, as she pressed her hand upon her
forehead.
She was fearfully pale, and I knew it was no common thing which had
thus moved her, and when not long afterwards the young ladies left
us, I was glad, for I felt that both she and Ada needed to be alone.
The moment they were gone Anna left the parlor, while I, frightened
by the agonized expression of her face, soon followed her; but the
door of our room was locked, and it was in vain I called on her to
admit me, for she only answered in a voice choked with tears, "Go
away, Rosa; I would rather be alone."
So I left her and returned to the parlor, where I found Ada weeping
passionately, while my aunt, who had not been present during the
conversation which had so affected her, was trying in vain to learn
the cause of her grief.
"Nothing much," was all Ada would say, except that "she wanted to go
home."
In the midst of our excitement, Herbert came in. He had repented of
his ungracious refusal to ride with Ada, and now the carriage stood
at the door, but she refused, saying petulantly, when urged by my
aunt to go, that "if she couldn't ride when she wanted to, she
wouldn't ride at all."
"Where's Anna? she'll go, I know," said Herbert, glancing around the
room, and adding in a low tone, which reached my ear only, "and I'd
far rather she would."
When I explained to him that she had a headache, and did not wish to
be disturbed, he exclaimed, "What ails all the girls to-day?
Anything the matter with you, Rose? If there isn't, put on your
bonnet and I'll show you the city, for I'm resolved upon riding with
somebody."
As my aunt made no objection, I was soon ready and seated by the side
of Herbert, in the light vehicle, which he drove himself. I think he
exerted himself to be agreeable, for I never saw him appear so well
before, and in my heart I did not blame my poor sister for liking
him, as I was sure she did, while at the same time I wondered how he
could fancy Ada Montrose. As if divining my thoughts, he turned
suddenly towards me and said, "Rosa, how do you like Ada?"
Without stopping to reflect, I replied promptly, "_Not at all_."
"Frankly spoken," said he, and then for several minutes he was
silent, while I was trying to decide in my own mind whether or not he
was offended, and I was about to ask him, when he turned to me again,
saying, "We are engaged--did you know it?"
I replied that I had inferred as much from the conversation which I
had heard between her and Miss Marvin, saying further, for his manner
emboldened me, that "I was surprised, for I did not think her such an
one as he would fancy."
"Neither is she," said he, again relapsing into silence. At last,
rousing up, he continued, "I must talk to somebody, and as you seem
to be a sensible girl, I may as well make a clean breast, and tell
you all about it. Ada came up here from Georgia last spring, and the
moment mother saw her, she picked her out for her future
daughter-in-law. I don't know why it is, but mother has wanted me to
get married ever since I began to shave. I believe she thinks it
will make me steady; but I am steady enough now, lor I haven't drank
a drop in almost a year. I should, though, if Ada Montrose was my
wife. But that's nothing to the point. Mother saw her and liked
her. _I_ saw her and liked her well enough at first; for she is
beautiful, you know, and every man is more or less attracted by that.
They say, too, that she is wealthy, and though I would as soon marry
a poor girl as a rich one, provided I liked her, I shall not deny but
her money had its influence with me, to a certain extent. And then,
too, it was fun to get her away from the other young men who flocked
around her, like bees round a honey jar. But, to make a long story
short, we got engaged--Heaven only knows how; but engaged we were,
and then"---- Here he paused, as if nearing a painful subject, but
soon resuming the thread of his story, he continued: "And then I
stopped writing to Anna, for I would not be dishonorable. Do you
think she felt it?"
The question was so unexpected, that I was thrown quite off my guard,
and replied, "Of course, she did; who wouldn't feel mortified to have
their letters unanswered?"
"'Twas wrong, I know," said he. "I ought to have been man enough to
tell her how it was, and I did begin more than a dozen letters, but
never finished them. Do you think Anna likes me now, or could like
me, if I was not engaged, and she knew I'd never get drunk again?"
Could he have seen her when first she learned that his affections
were given to another, he would have been sufficiently answered, but
he did not, and it was not for me, I thought, to enlighten him; so I
replied evasively, after which he continued, "As soon as I was
engaged to Ada, she began to exact so much attention from me, acting
so silly, and appearing so ridiculous that I got sick of it, and now
my daily study is how to rid myself of her; but I believe I've
commenced right. Can I make a confidante of you, and feel sure
you'll not betray me to any one, unless it is Anna?"
I hardly knew how to answer, for if it was anything wrong which he
meditated, I did not wish to be in the secret, and so I told him; but
it made no difference, for he proceeded to say, "I shall never marry
Ada Montrose, never; neither would it break her heart if I shouldn't
for she's more than half tired of me now."
I thought of the dark stranger, and felt that he was right, but I
said nothing, and he went on: "Sometimes I thought I'd go up to
Meadow Brook, tell Anna all about it, ask her to marry me, and so
settle the matter at once; but then I did not know but she might have
grown up raw, awkward, and disagreeable, so I devised a plan by which
I could find out. Mother would burn her right hand off, I believe,
to save me from a drunkard's grave, and when I wish to win her
consent to any particular thing, all I have to do is to threaten her
with the wine cup."
"Oh, Herbert! how can you?" I exclaimed, for I was inexpressibly
shocked.
"It's a way I've got into," said he, laughing at my rueful face.
"And when I suggested that Anna should spend the winter here, I
hinted to the old lady that if she didn't consent, I'd go off with a
party of young men on a hunting excursion. Of course she yielded at
once, for she well knew that if I joined my former boon companions, I
should fall."
"And so we are indebted to you for our winter in Boston," said I,
beginning to see things in a new light.
"Why no, not wholly," he answered; "mother consented much easier than
I supposed she would. The fact is, she's changed some since she was
at Meadow Brook. She's joined the Episcopal Church, and though that
in my estimation don't amount to much, of course, she has to do
better, for it wouldn't answer for a professor to put on so many
airs."
As the daughter of a deacon, I felt it incumbent upon me to reprove
the thoughtless young man, but it did no good, for he proceeded to
say, "It's all true, and there's only one denomination who are
sincere in what they profess, and that's the Methodist. They carry
their religion into their whole life, while the Episcopalians,
Presbyterians, and Baptists sit on different sides of the fence, and
quarrel like fun about High Church and Low, Old School and New, close
communion and open communion, and all that sort of thing. I tell
you, Rose, if I am ever converted--and mother thinks I will be--I
shall be a roaring Methodist, and ride the Circuit at once!"
I was unused to the world, and had never heard any one speak thus
lightly of religion; but I knew not what to say, so I kept silence,
while he continued, "But I am rambling from my subject. Mother _is_
a different woman, if she does _read_ her prayers; and as she has
never known a word about my writing to Anna, she consented to her
coming, without much trouble, saying she would try to make it
pleasant for her, and proposing that you too should accompany her,
and go to school. You can't imagine how delighted I was to find Anna
what she is, and from the moment I met her in the parlor, Ada
Montrose's destiny, so far as I am concerned, was decreed; that is,
if I can secure your sister; and I think I shall have no difficulty
in so doing, for notwithstanding her affected coolness, it is easy to
see that I am not indifferent to her."
It was in vain for me to argue that he was doing Ada a great wrong,
for he insisted upon saying that he was not. "She hadn't soul
enough," he said, "to really care for any one, and even if she had,
he would far rather commit suicide at once, than be yoked to her for
life; she was so silly, so fawning, so flat!"
It was nearly dark when we reached home, and as the lamps were not
yet lighted in the parlor, I went immediately to my room, where I
found Anna lying upon the sofa, with her face buried in the cushions.
I knew she was not asleep, though she would not answer me, until I
had thrice repeated her name. Then lifting up her head, she turned
towards me a face as white as ashes, while she said, motioning to a
little stool near her, "Sit down by me, Rosa, I must talk to some
one, or my heart will break."
Taking the seat, I listened while she told me how much she had loved
Herbert Langley--how she had struggled to overcome that love when she
thought he had slighted her, and how when she saw him daily in his
own home, it had returned upon her with all its former strength,
until there came to her the startling news that he was engaged to
another. "I cannot stay here," said she. "I am going home. I have
written to mother--see," and she pointed to a letter which lay upon
the table, and which she bade me read. It was a strange, rambling
thing, saying that "she should die if she stayed longer in Boston,
and that she was coming back to Meadow Brook."
"You can't send this, Anna," said I, at the same time tossing it into
the grate, where a bright coal fire was burning.
At this bold act of mine she expressed no emotion whatever, but
simply remarked, "I can write another or go without writing."
"And you indeed love Herbert so much?" I said.
"Better than my life--and why shouldn't I?" she replied. "He is all
that is noble and good."
"Suppose he proves to be a drunkard?" I queried, looking her steadily
in the face, while she answered simply, "And what then? Would that
be harder to endure than a life without him?"
I know not whether the spirit of prophecy was upon me, or whether I
felt a dim foreshadowing of my sister's wretched future, but from
some cause or other, I proceeded to picture to her the sorrows of a
drunkard's home and the utter degradation of a drunkard's wife, while
she listened shudderingly, saying when I had finished, "God save me
from such a fate!"
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and Herbert's voice was
heard at the door, asking for admittance. He had often visited us in
our room, and now, without consulting Anna's wishes, I bade him
enter, going out myself and, leaving them alone. What passed between
them I never knew, but the supper table waited long for Herbert, and
was finally removed, my aunt thinking he had gone out, "to see Ada,
perhaps," she said, and then she asked me how I liked her, telling me
she was to be Herbert's wife, and that she hoped they would be
married early in the spring.
I made her no direct reply, for I felt I was acting a double--nay, a
treble part, in being thus confided in by three, but I could not well
help it, and I hoped, by betraying neither party, to atone in a
measure for any deceit I might be practising. After that night there
was a great change in Anna, who became so lively and cheerful that
nearly all observed it, while Herbert's attentions to her, both at
home and abroad, were so marked as to arouse the jealousy of Ada,
who, while she affected to scorn the idea of being supplanted by
"that awkward Lee girl," as she called her, could not wholly conceal
her anxiety lest "the Lee girl" should, after all, win from her her
betrothed husband. Something of this she told my aunt, who, knowing
nothing of the true state of affairs, and having the utmost
confidence in her son's honor, laughed at her fears, telling her once
in my hearing, though she was unaware of my proximity, that, "however
much Herbert might flirt with Anna, he had been too well brought up
to think of marrying one so far beneath him."
"But he does think of it--I most know he does," persisted Ada,
beginning to cry; "and I wish you'd send her home, won't you?"
I did not hear my aunt's reply, but with Ada, my own heart echoed,
"send her home," for much as I liked Herbert, I shrank from the
thought of committing my gentle sister's happiness to his keeping,
and secretly I resolved upon writing to my father and acquainting him
with the whole; but, alas! I deferred it from day to day, until it
was too late.