THE FLIGHT.
One bright morning about the middle of January, Herbert announced his
intention of going to Worcester with Anna, who, he said, wished to
visit the Lunatic Asylum, and as a young physician of his
acquaintance had just commenced practising there, it would be a good
opportunity for them to go over the building. To this my aunt made
no objection, merely proposing that Ada, too, should go. Afterwards
I remembered the peculiar look in Herbert's eye, as he replied, "Oh
fie! mother, Ada's nerves are not strong enough to endure it. She
can go with me some other time."
Accordingly, when breakfast was over, Anna went up to her room to
make the necessary preparations for her ride, while I stood by and
gave her whatever assistance she needed. I observed that every
article which belonged to her was put in its proper place, but I gave
it no further heed, though I did wonder why she kissed me so often,
turning back even after she had reached the door to bid me another
good-by. Slowly the day passed away and night came on, dark, cold,
and stormy. Even now, as I write, I can recall to mind the gloom
which pervaded my spirits, as I listened to the sound of the sleet
and hail, which drove past the window, where I had watched so long
for their return. Seven, eight, nine, ten, was rung from more than
one church dome, and then we gave them up, for the shrill whistle of
the last train on which they would be likely to come, had long since
sounded in our ears.
"They must have stayed somewhere; don't you think so?" said my aunt,
addressing her husband, who, man-like, was not in the least alarmed,
but sat conning his evening paper, nearer asleep than awake.
"Of course they have," said he, looking up at his wife's inquiry. "I
wouldn't come in this storm, if I were in their places."
That night I watered my pillow with tears, scarcely knowing why I
wept, save that I felt oppressed with a sense of desolation, as if
Anna was gone from me forever. The next day came and went, but it
brought no tidings of the missing pair, and half unconscious of what
she was doing, my aunt went from room to room, sometimes weeping and
again brightening up, as she enumerated the many things which might
have prevented their return. At evening, Ada came in, and my aunt
immediately began urging her to spend the night. This she did
willingly, seeming very anxious concerning the absence of Herbert,
and feeling, I was sure, a little suspicious that I might know more
of his whereabouts than I chose to tell, for once, when we were
alone, she turned towards me and very haughtily asked, if "I had any
idea where they were!"
"None, whatever," said I, and she continued--
"Has it never occurred to you that this Anna Lee manifested
altogether too marked a preference for a gentleman whom she knew to
be engaged?"
"The preference was mutual," I replied. "Herbert liked Anna, and
Anna liked Herbert."
"And they have gone off to consummate that liking by a marriage,"
interrupted Ada.
"I do not know that they have," I returned; "but such a termination
of affairs would not surprise me."
She was very pale, and there were tears in her eyes, but I thought
they arose more from a sense of mortification than from any real love
which she bore for Herbert Langley, and so I did not pity her as I
should otherwise have done. The next morning at breakfast both she
and my aunt (particularly the latter) looked weary and worn, as if
neither had slept at all during the night. My uncle, on the
contrary, seemed to be unmoved. He probably had an opinion of his
own, but whatever it was he kept it to himself, merely saying that if
the eastern mail brought no letter he would go in quest of them
himself. I know I could not study in my present excitement, and so I
asked permission to remain at home. Stationing myself at the window,
I watched anxiously for the return of Herod, who, as usual, had been
sent to the office. He came at last, bringing his pocket full of
letters, two of which were for me, one postmarked Meadow Brook, and
the other Albany! With a trembling hand I tore open the latter,
which was in my sister's handwriting. Glancing at the signature, my
fears were confirmed, for there stood the name of "Anna Langley" in
Herbert's bold dashing hand!
"_She_ had refused to write it thus," he said, in a postscript, "and
so he had done it for her."
The letter contained no apology from either for what they had done,
but merely informed me of the fact that instead of stopping in
"Worcester, they had gone straight on to Albany, which they reached
about six o'clock, going to the Delevan House, where in less than an
hour they were husband and wife; Herbert's old comrade, Tom Wilson,
accompanying them, and being a witness of the ceremony. What
affected me more unpleasantly than all the rest, was the derisive
manner in which Herbert spoke of Ada.
"Give her my love," he said, "and tell her not to feel too badly.
I'd like well enough to marry her, too, but under the present laws a
man can't have two wives, unless he joins the Mormons. Maybe I shall
do that sometime, and then I'll remember _her_!"
Of his mother he wrote differently, and though there was no cringing,
no acknowledgment of wrong, he spoke of her kindly and respectfully,
saying, "he hoped she would love his Anna for his sake."
Of course I could not tell Ada what he said of her, neither was it
necessary, for guessing the truth from my face, she came up softly
behind me, and looking over my shoulder, read every word until she
came to the message intended for her. Then stamping her little foot,
she exclaimed passionately, "The villain, to insult me thus! As if
_I_, sprung from the best blood in Georgia, would stoop to become a
rival of that low-born country girl. No! By this act Herbert
Langley has shown that he is all unworthy of me, and I rejoice in my
escape, while I give him much joy with his highly refined and
polished bride."
All my Lee temper, which is considerable, was roused, and turning
towards the lady, I exclaimed, "My sister, Miss Montrose, is as good
as you, aye, or as Herbert Langley either, and the news of her
marriage with him will carry sorrow to our home at Meadow Brook,
where they will say she has literally thrown herself away."
"Very likely," returned Ada, sarcastically. "It is quite probable
that a _poor laborer_ will object to his daughter's marrying into one
of the first families in Boston."
"He isn't a poor laborer," I replied, "and even if he were, he
_would_ object to his daughter's marrying a drunkard, for such
Herbert Langley has been and such he will be again."
A deep groan came from the white lips of my aunt, and for the first
time since Ada's outbreak, I remembered that she was there. She did
not reprove me angrily, but in trembling tones she said, "Rose,
Herbert is _my_ child, _my_ boy, and it becomes not a girl of your
age to speak thus of him in the presence of his mother."
I was humbled, and winding my arms about her neck, I asked
forgiveness for the harsh words I had spoken; and she forgave me, for
she meant to do right, and if sometimes she erred, it was owing more
to a weakness of the flesh than an unwillingness of the spirit. In
the midst of our excitement _Tom Wilson_ was ushered in. He had
returned in the same train which brought the letter, and had come to
give us any further information, which we might be desirous of
knowing.
"When will Herbert come home?" was my aunt's first question, her
whole manner indicating how much interest she felt in the answer.
"Not very soon," returned Tom. "He is tired of the city, he says,
and besides that he wishes to avoid the unpleasant remarks his
elopement will necessarily occasion."
"More like he wishes to avoid introducing his bride into society,
which he knows has no wish to receive her," muttered Ada.
Tom paid no attention to this spiteful speech, but continued, "He has
drawn his money from the ---- Bank, and with it he intends purchasing
a farm in the western part of New York."
"An admirable plan," again interrupted Ada. "That Lee girl is just
calculated for a farmer's wife."
Taken alone there was nothing particularly disagreeable in the three
words "_that Lee girl_;" but spoken by Ada Montrose they sounded
insultingly, and every time she uttered them, I felt my blood boil,
for _I_, too, was a _Lee girl_, and I was sure she included me in the
same contemptuous category. As Herbert had said, I did not think the
disappointment would break her heart. She was too angry for that,
and I believe now, as I did then, that most of her feeling arose from
the mortification of knowing that a "poor country girl," as she
called Anna, was preferred to herself. For half an hour or more Tom
Wilson and my aunt conversed together, she asking him at least a
dozen times "if he did not think Herbert could be induced to return."
At last, with quivering lips and flushed cheeks, as if it cost her
pride a great effort, she said, "Of course I mean _Anna_, too, when I
speak of Herbert's return. She is his wife, you say, and though I
might, perhaps, wish it otherwise, it cannot now be helped, and if he
only would come back to me, I should love her for his sake."
In my heart I blessed her for these words, and mentally resolved to
leave no argument untried, which might bring the fugitives back. But
it could not be. Herbert was decided, he said. He meant to be a
farmer and live in the country, adding what he knew would silence his
mother sooner than aught else he could say, "that temptations for him
to drink were far greater in the city than in the country, and it was
for this reason partly that he preferred living in the latter place."
And so my aunt yielded the point; but from the day of her son's
desertion, there was in her a perceptible change. Far oftener was
she found in the house of prayer, and less frequently was she seen in
places of amusement, while more than once I heard her in secret
asking that her wayward boy might be shielded from the great
temptation. Alas! for thee, poor Herbert Langley, sleeping in thine
early grave! There were prayers enough, methinks, to save thee; for
at the old Meadow Brook home, thou wert remembered in the early morn,
and not forgotten when at eve, my father knelt him down to pray.
Why, then, didst thou fall ere thy sun had reached the meridian of
manhood? Was it because in thine early training there was an error
which no after exertions could repair? We answer, Yes. The fault
was there, and little know they what they do, who set before their
sons the poisonous cup, and bid them, by their own example, drink and
die. How many young men, from the higher walks of life, now sleeping
in the dishonored grave of a drunkard, might at this moment be
filling some honorable position, had it not been for the wine or beer
drinking habit acquired in childhood by their own firesides, and at
their father's table? Look to it, then, you around whose
hearthstones promising sons are gathered, and if in the coming years
you would escape the sleepless nights, the bitter tears, and the
broken hearts of those whose children walk in the path, which, sooner
than all others, leadeth down to death, teach them, both by precept
and by practise, to "touch not, taste not, handle not," for therein
alone lieth safety.