CALLS.
The next morning Miss Elinor felt better, and as time passed on and her
brother did not again visit his new tenants, she began to feel a little
more amiably disposed toward the strangers, and at last decided to call,
intending to go next to the brown house in the hollow, where she was a
frequent visitor. She accordingly started one afternoon for the white
house on the hill, where she was most cordially received. With the
ladylike manners of Mrs. Huntington she could find no fault, but she did
not like the expression of Adelaide’s eyes, nor the sneering manner in
which she spoke of the country and country people; neither did she fail
to see the basket which the young lady pushed hastily under the lounge
as Aunt Peggy ushered her into the sitting-room. On the table there were
scissors, needles and thread, but not a vestige of sewing was visible,
though on the carpet were shreds of cloth, and from beneath the lounge
peeped something which looked vastly like the wristband of a man’s
shirt.
“Pride and poverty! I’ll venture to say they sew for a living,” Miss
Elinor thought, and making her call as brief as possible, she arose to
go.
It was in vain that Adelaide urged her to stay longer, telling her “it
was such a treat to see some one who seemed like their former
acquaintances.”
With a toss of her head Miss Elinor declined, saying she was going to
visit a poor family in the hollow, a blind man and his daughter, and in
adjusting her furs she failed to see how both Adelaide and her mother
started at her words. Soon recovering her composure, the former asked,
who they were, and if they had always lived in Oakland?
“Their name is Warren,” said Miss Elinor, “and they came, I believe,
from some city in western New York, but I know nothing definite
concerning them, as they always shrink from speaking of their former
condition. Alice, though, is a sweet little creature—so kind to her old
father, and so refined, withal.”
Mechanically bidding her visitor good afternoon, Adelaide went to her
mother’s side, exclaiming:
“Who thought those Warrens would toss up in Oakland! Of course, when
they know that we are here, they’ll tell all about father and everything
else. What shall we do?”
“We are not to blame for your father’s misdeeds,” Mrs. Huntington
answered; and Adelaide replied:
“I know it, but people think you are a widow with a competence
sufficient to support us genteelly—they don’t suspect how late we sit up
nights, sewing, to make ends meet. Mercy! I hope the peeking old maid
didn’t see that,” she exclaimed, as her own eye fell upon the wristband.
Then, after a moment, she continued, “I know what I’ll do. I’ll go to
Alice this very night, and tell her how sorry we are for what has
happened, and I’ll ask her to say nothing about father’s having cheated
them and run away. She’s a pretty good sort of a girl, I guess, if I did
once to think her so proud.”
The plan seemed a feasible one, and that evening as Alice Warren sat
bending over a vest, which she must finish that night, she was startled
by the abrupt entrance of Adelaide Huntington, who, seizing both her
hands, said, with well-feigned distress:
“My poor Alice! I never expected to find you thus.”
In his arm-chair Mr. Warren was sleeping, but when the stranger’s shadow
fell upon him, he awoke, and stretching out his arms, he said:
“Who is it, Alice?—who stands between me and the fire?”
“It is I,” answered Adelaide, coming to his side, “the daughter of him
who ruined you. I have just learned that you were living here in the
same village with ourselves, and, at my mother’s request, I have come to
tell you how bitterly we have wept over my father’s sin, and to ask you
not to hate us for a deed of which we knew nothing until it was all
over.”
Then seating herself in a chair she continued to speak hurriedly,
telling them some truth and some falsehood—telling them how, for a few
months they had lived with a distant relative, a wealthy man, who gave
them money now for their support—telling them how her father’s disgrace
had affected her mother, and begging of them not to speak of it in
Oakland, where it was not known.
“I don’t know why it is,” she said, “but people have the impression that
mother is a widow; and though it is wrong to deceive them, I cannot tell
them my father ran away to escape a convict’s cell. It would kill my
mother outright, and if you will keep silent, we shall be forever
grateful.”
There was no reason why Mr. Warren should speak of his former clerk, and
he answered Adelaide that neither himself nor Alice had any wish to
injure her by talking of the past. Thus relieved of her fears, Adelaide
grew very amiable and sympathetic, saying she did not suppose they were
so poor, and pitying Alice, who must miss so much her pictures, her
flowers, her birds and her music.
“Come up and try my piano. You may practice on it any time,” she said,
when at last she arose to go.
“I never played much. I was not fond of it,” was Alice’s answer, while
her father rejoined quickly:
“Then you keep a piano. I did not know you had one.”
“Oh, yes, father bought it for me at auction, three years ago, and as he
was not owing any one then, our furniture was not disturbed.”
The blind man sighed, while Alice dropped a tear on the vest she was
making, as she thought of the difference between herself and Adelaide,
who paused as she reached the door, and asked if she knew Mr. Howland.
“I sew for his store,” said Alice, and Adelaide continued:
“Isn’t he a splendid man?”
Alice did not know whether he was splendid or not—she had never observed
his looks particularly, she said; but she knew he was very kind, and she
liked nothing better than to have him come there evenings, as he often
did.
“Come here often!” exclaimed Adelaide, her voice indicating the pang
with which a feeling of jealousy had been brought to life.
Before Alice could reply there was a footstep outside, and the blind
man, whose quick ear caught the sound, said joyfully:
“He’s coming now.”
“I wish I had gone home before,” was the first thought of Adelaide, who
did not care to be seen there by Mr. Howland. It might lead to some
inquiries which she would rather should not be made. Still, there was
now no escape, and trusting much to the promise of the Warrens, she
stepped back from the door just as Mr. Howland opened it. He seemed
greatly surprised at finding her there, and still more surprised when he
learned that they were old acquaintances.
“It is kind in her not to desert them in their poverty,” he thought, and
his manner was still more considerate toward Adelaide, who, after
standing a few moments, made another attempt to go.
“Wait, Miss Huntington,” said he. “It was both raining and snowing when
I came in, and you will need an umbrella.”
This was just what Adelaide wanted, and taking a seat she waited
patiently until Mr. Howland signified his readiness to go. Then, bidding
Alice good night, she whispered to her softly:
“You never will say a word of father, will you?”
“Certainly not,” was Alice’s reply, and in another moment Adelaide was
in the street walking arm in arm with Mr. Howland, who began to speak of
the Warrens and their extreme poverty.
“It is evident they have seen better days,” he said, “but they never
seem willing to speak of the past. Did he meet with a reverse of
fortune?”
For a moment Adelaide was silent, while she revolved the propriety of
saying what she finally did say, and which was—
“Ye-es—they met with reverses, but as they are unwilling to talk about
it, I, too, had better say nothing of a matter which cannot now be
helped.”
“Of course not, if it would be to their detriment,” said Mr. Howland, a
painful suspicion entering his mind.
Hitherto he had regarded Mr. Warren as the soul of integrity, but
Adelaide’s manner, even more than her words, implied that there was
something wrong, and hardly knowing what he said, he continued:
“Was it anything dishonorable?”
“If you please, I would rather say nothing about it,” answered Adelaide.
“I don’t wish to do them harm, and I dare say they regret it more than
any one else.”
Mentally pronouncing her a very prudent, considerate girl, Mr. Howland
walked on in silence, feeling the while that something had been taken
from him. He had become greatly interested in the helpless old blind
man, and in his writing-desk at home was a receipt in full for the first
quarter’s rent, which would become due in a few days. But Mr. Howland
was a man of stern integrity, hating anything like fraud and deceit, and
if Mr. Warren had been guilty of either, he was not worthy of respect.
Alice, too, though she might not have been in fault, did not seem quite
the same, and now as he thought of her, there was less of beauty in the
deep blue of her eyes and the wavy tresses of her hair.
* * * * *
“Will you go in? It is a long time since you were here,” said Adelaide,
when at last they reached her mother’s door.
Her invitation was accepted, and the clock struck nine before Mr.
Howland rose to leave. Accompanying him to the door, Adelaide said,
jingly:
“I trust you will forget our conversation concerning those Warrens. You
know I didn’t really tell you anything.”
Mr. Howland bowed and walked away, wishing in his heart that she had
_not_ told him anything, or at least had not created in his mind a
suspicion against people he had hitherto liked so much. So absorbed was
he in his meditations that he did not at first observe the slender
figure which, wrapping its thin shawl close around it, came slowly
toward him, but when the girl reached him and the cold wind blew the
brown curls over her white face, he knew it was Alice Warren, and his
first impulse was to offer her his arm and shield her from the storm.
But Adelaide’s dark insinuations were ringing in his ears, and so Alice
went on alone, while the rain and the sleet beat upon her head and the
cold penetrated through her half worn shoes, chilling her weary feet,
and sending a shiver through her frame. But she did not heed it, or even
think of the driving storm, so eager was she to be at home, where she
could count the contents of the little box and see if with the money
received there was not enough to pay the quarter’s rent.
But the blind man, listening to the storm, knew how cold his darling
would be, and groping in the darkness, he added fresh fuel to the fire,
and then swept up the hearth, placing her chair a little nearer to his
own, so that it would seem pleasant to her when she came. Poor, helpless
man! He could not see—nay, he had never seen his child, but he could
fancy just how bright and beautiful she would look sitting at his side,
with the fire he had made shining on her hair, and when at last she
came, he clasped her little red hands between his own, rubbing, kissing,
and pitying them until he felt that they were warm. Then, seated in his
chair, he listened while she counted the silver coin, dropping it piece
by piece into his palm and bidding him guess its value by its size. It
was all counted at last, and very joyfully Alice said to her father:
“There is enough to pay our rent, and we have been comfortable, too,
thanks to Miss Elinor, who has saved us many a shilling by her timely
acts of charity.”
Miss Elinor had been to them a ministering angel, and however much she
might be disliked at the white house on the hill, she was loved and
honored at the brown house in the hollow, and that night when Alice
Warren sought her pillow, she breathed a prayer for the kind woman who
was to befriend her in more ways than one.