THE WHITE HOUSE ON THE HILL.
“Miss Huntington, brother,” Miss Elinor said, and Mr. Howland bowed low
to the lady thus presented to him by his sister on his arrival home.
She had been waiting for him nearly an hour, and she now returned his
greeting with an air more befitting a queen than Adelaide Huntington—for
she it was; and by some singular co-incidence she had come to rent a
house of Mr. Howland just as Alice Warren had done but two or three
weeks before. The failure which had ruined Mr. Warren had not affected
Mrs. Huntington further than the mortification and grief she naturally
felt at the disgrace and desertion of her husband, from whom she had
never heard since he left her so suddenly on the night of the
party—neither had she ever met with Mr. Warren, although she had written
him a note, assuring him that in no way had she been concerned in the
fraud. Still her position in the city was not particularly agreeable,
and after a time she had removed to Springfield, Mass., where she took
in plain sewing—for without her husband’s salary it was necessary that
she should do something for the maintenance of her family. Springfield,
however, was quite too large for one of Adelaide’s proud, ambitious
nature. “She would rather live in a smaller place,” she said, “where she
could be _somebody_. She had been trampled down long enough, and in a
country village she would be as good as any one.”
Hearing by chance of Oakland and its democratic people, she had
persuaded her mother into removing thither, giving her numerous
directions as to the manner in which she was to demean herself.
“With a little management,” she said, “no one need to know that we have
_worked_ for a living—we have only left the city because we prefer the
country,” and old Peggy, who still served in the capacity of servant,
was charged repeatedly “never to say a word concerning their former
position in society.”
In short, Adelaide intended to create quite a sensation in Oakland, and
she commenced by assuming a most haughty and consequential manner toward
both Mr. Howland and his sister.
“She had come as _ma’s_ delegate,” she said, to rent the white house on
the hill, which they had heard was vacant. Possibly if they liked the
country, they should eventually purchase, but it was doubtful—people who
have always lived a city life were seldom contented elsewhere. Still,
she should try to be happy, though of course she should miss the
advantages which a larger place afforded.
All this and much more she said to Mr. Howland, who, hardly knowing
whether she were renting a house of him or he were renting one of her,
managed at last to say:
“Your mother is a widow, I presume?”
Instantly the dark eyes sought the floor, and Adelaide’s voice was very
low in its tone as she answered:
“I lost my father nearly a year since.”
“I wonder she don’t dress in mourning, but that’s a way some folks
have,” Miss Elinor thought, while her brother proceeded to say that Mrs.
Huntington could have the white house on the hill, after which Adelaide
arose to go, casually asking if the right or left hand street would
bring her to the hotel, where she was obliged to spend the night, as no
train, after that hour, went up to Springfield.
For a moment Mr. Howland waited, thinking his sister would invite the
stranger to stop with them, but this Miss Elinor had no idea of doing;
she did not fancy the young lady’s airs, and she simply answered:
“The right hand street—you can’t mistake it;” frowning slightly when her
brother said:
“I will accompany you, Miss Huntington.”
“I dislike very much to trouble you. Still I hardly know the way alone,”
and Adelaide’s dark eyes flashed brightly upon him as she accepted his
offer.
Mr. Howland was not a lady’s man, but he could be very agreeable when he
tried, and so Adelaide now found him, mentally resolving to give her
mother and old Aunt Peggy a double charge not to betray their real
circumstances. Mr. Howland evidently thought her a person of
consequence, and who could tell what might come of her acquaintance with
him? Stranger things had happened, and she thought that if she ever
should go to that handsome house as its mistress, her first act would be
to send that stiff old maid away.
With such fancies as these filling her mind, Adelaide went back next day
to Springfield, reported her success, and so accelerated her mother’s
movements that scarcely a week elapsed ere they had moved into the white
house on the hill, a handsome little cottage, which looked still more
cozy and inviting after Adelaide’s hands had fitted it up with tasteful
care. It was a rule with Mrs. Huntington to buy the best, if possible,
and as her husband had always been lavish with his money, her furniture
was superior to that of her neighbors, many of whom really stood in awe
of the genteel widow, as she was thought to be, and her stylish,
aristocratic daughter. They were supposed to be quite wealthy, or at
least in very easy circumstances, and more than one young girl looked
enviously at Adelaide, as day after day she swept through the streets,
sometimes “walking for exercise,” she said, and again going out to shop;
always at Mr. Howland’s store, where she annoyed the clerks excessively
by examining article after article, inquiring its price, wondering if it
would become her, or suit ma, and finally concluding not to take it “for
fear every shoemaker’s daughter in town would buy something like it, and
that she couldn’t endure.”
Regularly each week she went to Springfield, to take music lessons, she
said, and lest something should occur making it necessary for her to
stay all night, Aunt Peggy usually accompanied her to the depot, always
carrying a well-filled satchel, and frequently a large bundle, whose
many wrappings of paper told no tales, and were supposed by the
credulous to cover the dressing-gown, which Adelaide deemed necessary to
the making of her morning toilet.
“It was very annoying,” she said, “to carry so much luggage, but the
friends with whom she stopped were so particular that she felt obliged
to change her dress, even though she merely stayed to dinner.”
And so the villagers, looking at the roll of music she invariably
carried in her hands, believed the tale, though a few of the nearest
neighbors wondered when the young lady practiced, for it was not often
that they heard the sound of the old-fashioned instrument which occupied
a corner of the sitting-room. Finally, however, they decided that it
must be at night, for a light was always seen in Mrs. Huntington’s
windows until after the clock struck twelve. As weeks went by, most of
those whom Adelaide considered _somebodies_, called, and among them Mr.
Howland. By the merest chance she learned that he was coming and though
she pretended that she was surprised to see him, and said she was just
going out, she was most becomingly dressed in her nicely-fitting merino,
which, in the evening, did not show the wear of four years. The little
sitting-room, too, with its furniture so arranged as to make the best of
everything, seemed homelike and cheerful, causing Mr. Howland to feel
very much at ease, and also very much pleased with the dark-eyed girl he
had come to see. She was very agreeable, he thought, much more so in
fact than any one he had met in Oakland, and at a late hour, for one of
his early habits, he bade her good night, promising to call again soon,
and hear the new song she was going to learn the next time she went to
Springfield.
In dignified silence his sister awaited his return, and when to her
greeting, “Where have you been?” he replied, “Been to call on Miss
Adelaide,” the depth of the three winkles between her eyebrows was
perceptibly increased, while a contemptuous Pshaw! escaped her lips.
Miss Elinor was not easily deceived. From the first she had insisted
that Adelaide “was putting on airs,” and if there was one thing more
than another which that straightforward, matter-of-fact lady disliked,
it was pretention. She had not yet been to see Mrs. Huntington, and now,
when her brother, after dwelling at length upon the pleasant evening he
had spent, urged her to make the lady’s acquaintance, she replied rather
sharply, that she always wished to know something of the people with
whom she associated. For her part, she didn’t like Miss Adelaide, and if
her brother had the least regard for her feelings, he wouldn’t call
there quite as often as he did.
“Quite as often,” Mr. Howland repeated, in much surprise. “What do you
mean? I’ve only been there once,” and then in a spirit which men will
sometimes manifest when opposed, particularly if in that opposition a
lady is involved, he added, “but I intend to go again—and very soon,
too.”
“Undoubtedly,” was his sister’s answer, and taking a light, the
indignant woman walked from the room, thinking to herself that, if ever
_that_ girl came there to live—she’d no idea she would—but if she did,
she—Miss Elinor Howland would make the house a little too uncomfortable
for them