REVELATIONS.
The morning train from Albany had thundered through the town, and Mr.
Howland was about returning to the hollow, when hasty footsteps were
heard in the hall, and in a moment his sister stood before him. She had
traveled night and day since leaving Milwaukee, she said, but she didn’t
mind it at all, she was so impatient to be at home and tell him what she
had heard, and, without so much as untying her bonnet, Miss Elinor
continued:
“I told you all the time they were impostors—but men have so little
sense. I’m glad I ain’t a man, though if I were, no woman would ever
impose on me as that Adelaide has on you. Why, instead of taking music
lessons, as she pretends to do, she goes to Springfield after work, and
the satchel you more than once carried for her, had in it vests and
shirts, and mercy knows what—tell me that wasn’t a wristband I saw under
the lounge. I guess I know a wristband. They are just as poor as they
can be, and sew for Mr. Lincoln’s store in Springfield, for Mrs.
Lincoln’s cousin told me so. I met her in Milwaukee, and when she knew I
was from Oakland, she spoke of Adelaide, and asked me if I knew her. I
told her yes, and then she asked if she were married yet, saying she
hoped she was, for it seemed a pity that a stylish-looking girl like her
should be obliged to sew for a living. Of course I questioned her,
learning what I’ve told you, and, worse than all the rest, Adelaide made
this lady believe that she was going to marry a very wealthy man, who
had a most delightful home, with one incumbrance, which she should soon
manage to dispose of, and that incumbrance was a dried-up old maid
sister! Do you hear that, Richard Howland? A dried-up old maid sister.
That means me!” and the highly scandalized lady walked up and down the
room, upsetting, in her wrath, both her traveling basket and band-box,
which last in a measure diverted her attention, for no woman, whether
married or single, can think of anything else when her “best bonnet” is
in danger.
Picking up the box, and assuring herself that its contents were
unharmed, she continued:
“Why don’t you say something, Richard? Are you not surprised at what I
have told you?”
“Not particularly,” he answered, and coming to her side he repeated to
her the story he had heard from Adelaide’s own father, so long supposed
to be dead.
“The trollop! the jade!” ejaculated Miss Elinor. “I understand her
perfectly. She wished to keep up appearances, and make her father stay
away until she became your wife, and you couldn’t help yourself.
Dried-up old maid, indeed! I’ll teach her to call me names. But what of
Mr. Warren and little Alice? I’ll go to them at once,” and
notwithstanding her recent fatiguing journey, the energetic woman
started for the hollow, saying to her brother, who accompanied her, “I
am determined upon one thing, Richard. If Mr. Warren dies, Alice will
live with us and have the best chamber, too. Poor little creature, how
she must have suffered.”
They found both Mr. Warren and Alice asleep, but Miss Elinor’s kiss
awoke the latter, who uttered a cry of joy at the sight of her friend
and benefactress. The sick man, too, ere long, awoke, but only to doze
again, and as the day wore on he continued in a state of stupor, from
which it was difficult to rouse him. Just before the sun was setting,
however, consciousness returned, and he asked for Alice, who in a moment
was at his side. Winding his arm lovingly around her neck, he prayed
that the God of the fatherless would not forsake her when she should be
alone.
“I am going from you, Alice,” he said, “going to your mother, who has
waited for me all day, and the pain of death would scarce be felt did I
know what would become of you.”
“Tell him, Richard,” whispered Miss Elinor, and advancing to the
bedside, Mr. Howland said:
“Your daughter shall live with me when you are gone.”
“God bless you,” came feebly from the dying man, while the fair head
resting on his bosom was a moment uplifted, and Mr. Howland never forgot
the grateful, glad expression of the soft blue eyes which looked into
his face.
“I, too, will care for Alice so long as my life is spared,” said Mr.
Huntington, who had been there all the day, and again from the white
lips a faint “God bless you” came.
Slowly toward the western horizon sank the setting sun, and when at last
his farewell beams looked into that room of death, they shone on the
frosty hair and still white face of one who was no longer blind, for to
him the light of a better world had been revealed, and the eyes so long
in darkness here were opened to the glories of the New Jerusalem.
Every necessary care was bestowed upon the dead, and then, leaving the
orphaned Alice in Miss Elinor’s arms, with Mr. Howland standing near and
speaking to her an occasional word of comfort, Mr. Huntington started
for his home, walking slowly, sadly; for his heart was full of
sorrow—sorrow for the dead and sorrow for his only child, who had so
cruelly deceived him. What her motive was he could not guess, unless it
were that she dreaded the disgrace his presence might bring upon her,
and when he thought of this, he half resolved to leave her forever, but
love for his wife prevailed, and with an aching heart he kept on his
way.
* * * * *
Restless and impatient Adelaide had passed the day in wondering what had
happened to Mr. Howland, and why he was not at the party. She had
confidently expected him there, but he had disappointed her, and the
lace dress with which she hoped to impress him was worn for naught.
“Parties were bores, anyway,” she said, “and she hoped she should never
attend another so long as her name was Adelaide Huntington.”
In this unamiable mood she fretted until late in the afternoon, when old
Peggy, who had been sent on an errand to the village, returned, bringing
the news that Mr. Warren was not expected to live, and that she saw Mr.
Howland entering the door as she passed. Then lowering her voice to a
whisper, she continued:
“Right up against the window was a man’s head, which looked so like your
father that I stopped a little, hoping he would turn his face one side,
but he didn’t, and I came along.”
“My father,” repeated Adelaide, “isn’t within a hundred miles of here.”
Still the idea troubled her even more than the news of Mr. Warren’s
illness, and after old Peggy left the room, she turned to her mother
saying:
“Wouldn’t it be mean if father had come back and gone to see Mr.
Warren?”
“I suppose it would be right, though,” returned her mother, while
Adelaide continued:
“Right or wrong, nobody wants him turning up bodily just yet, for Mr.
Howland is so squeamish about a little deception that any chance of
winning him would be rather slim, if he knew father was not dead as he
believes him to be. If I secure him before he finds it out, he can’t
help himself, and I wish he’d either propose or let it alone. I declare,
mother, I think it is your duty as a prudent, careful parent to ask what
his intentions are. You can tell him there is a great deal of talk about
his coming here so much, and unless he is serious, you prefer that he
should discontinue his visits, hinting, of course, that you fear my
affections are already too deeply enlisted for my future happiness
should he not be in earnest. Say, mother, will you tell him this when he
comes again?”
Mrs. Huntington at first refused, but Adelaide’s entreaties finally
prevailed, and it was decided that when Mr. Howland next visited them he
should be questioned concerning his intentions.
“Oh, I hope he’ll come to-night,” said Adelaide, and feeling confident
that he would, she made some changes in her dress, smoothed her glossy
hair, and then, just as it was growing dark, lay down upon the lounge,
building castles of the future, and wondering if she should be Adelaide
Huntington one year from that day.
As she lay thus, she heard the gate open and shut—a heavy footstep was
coming up the walk, and thinking it must be Mr. Howland she assumed a
half reclining posture, which she fancied was careless and graceful, and
then awaited the appearance of her expected visitor. He did not ring,
and she heard his step in the hall. Nearer and nearer he came, his hand
was on the knob, and as the door swung back the large black eyes, which
turned at first so eagerly in that direction, flashed their surprise and
anger, not on Richard Howland, but on William Huntington, who keenly
felt the coldness of his welcome.
“Father,” she exclaimed, “where did you come from?”
“I came from Mr. Warren’s,” he answered. “He is dead, but I have been
forgiven, and can once more walk the earth a free and fearless man.
Adelaide,” he continued, and in the tone of his voice and gleam of his
eye there was something which made the guilty girl tremble, “I have
heard that of you which fills me with grief. Oh, my child, how could you
so shamefully deceive me?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, in well-feigned surprise, for she would
not admit anything until she knew how far she was implicated.
Very briefly her father repeated to her what he had heard from Mr.
Warren, and then awaited her answer. At first she thought to deny the
charge, but she dared not give the lie to one then lying dead not far
away, so she remained silent, trying in vain to frame some excuse with
which to appease her father, and also to find some way of again binding
Alice to secrecy, so that Mr. Howland should never hear of her
falsehoods. He would, perhaps, excuse her deception with regard to her
father when she told him, as she should do, that she had done it for the
sake of her mother, who could not endure to have the matter known, and
if the rest were kept from him, all might yet end well.
At that moment she remembered what Peggy had said, and with a faint
voice she asked:
“Does any one know this but yourself?”
“Mr. Warren’s daughter knows it,” he returned. “And the young
man—Howland is his name—knows it, too, for he was there all night and
heard my conversation with Alice.”
“Mr. Howland!” Adelaide fairly screamed, and in the terrified expression
of her face the motive for her conduct was revealed to her father, who
rather enjoyed than otherwise the passionate tears of anger and
mortification which she shed at finding herself thus betrayed to one
whom she had loved as well as such as she could love.
“I understand you perfectly,” said Mr. Huntington, advancing toward her
as she lay weeping on the lounge, “and your punishment is just; for a
child who can abuse its father as you have abused me, ought never to be
the wife of a man like Mr. Howland. I will not reproach you further with
your guilt,” he continued, “for your sin has found you out, and I leave
you to your own reflections.”
So saying, he passed on in quest of his wife, whose welcome to the
repentant man was far more cordial than that of his daughter had been.
Adelaide was, indeed, sorely punished, for all hope of winning Mr.
Howland was gone, and, as the days wore on, she experienced more and
more that the way of the transgressor is hard.
The story of Mr. Huntington’s existence and return to his family
circulated rapidly, and with it, hand in hand, went the rumor of the
wrong he had once done to the blind man, who by the people of Oakland
was honored more in death than he had been in life, for they came in
crowds to his funeral, gazing pityingly at the white face of the dead,
and then staring curiously at the dark-browed stranger who was said to
be William Huntington. Adelaide was not there, for Miss Elinor, a little
given to gossip, it may be, had kindly remembered her, and numerous were
the exaggerated stories afloat concerning the deception she had
practiced both upon her father and the villagers. Like most people she
had one so-called friend who dutifully kept her informed with regard to
all that was said concerning her, and completely overwhelmed with shame
and mortification, she resolved to keep herself secluded at home, where
she vented her disappointment in harsh language and bitter tears,
particularly when, on the day succeeding the funeral, she heard that
Miss Elinor had taken Alice to live with her.
But little did Miss Elinor care for her anger. The world to her was
brighter now than it had been for many years, and with something of a
mother’s love, her heart went out toward the orphan to whom she had
given a home. Adelaide, however, was not forgotten, and the good lady
was certainly excusable if, when riding with her protege, she did
frequently order Jim to take them round to High Street, bidding him
drive slowly past the house of the Huntingtons. But if in this way she
thought to obtain a glimpse of Adelaide, she was mistaken, for the young
lady was never visible, though, safely hidden behind the curtain, she
herself seldom failed to see the carriage and the little figure in
black, who she instinctively felt would some day be her rival.
The bitterest drop of all in Adelaide’s cup of mortification was the
knowledge that Mr. Howland had once thought to make her his wife, for he
told her so in a letter written three weeks subsequent to Mr. Warren’s
death. It is true he had never committed himself by words, but he had
done so by actions, and honor demanded an explanation. So he wrote at
last, and though it was a most polite and gentlemanly note, its contents
stung her to her inmost soul, and casting it into the fire she watched
it as it turned to ashes, feeling the while as if her own heart were
charred and blistered with its load of guilt and shame. There were no
more trips to Springfield now, for concealment of labor was no longer
necessary, and the satchel Miss Elinor taunted her brother with having
carried so often, lay useless upon the closet shelf.
“I’ll die before I’ll do that—father may support us,” Adelaide had said
when her mother suggested that they take in sewing from Mr. Howland’s
store.
And Mr. Huntington did do his best toward maintaining his family, but
popular opinion was against him. He had defrauded his employer once—he
might do so again—and so all looked upon him with distrust, making it
sometimes very hard for him to procure even the common necessaries of
life. His health, too, had become impaired, both by exposure and the
mental anguish he had so long endured, and night after night his labored
breathing and hacking cough smote painfully on the ear of his wife,
whose love no circumstances could destroy.
One morning, toward the middle of February, he left them as usual, but
he was soon brought back with a broken limb, which he had received from
a fall upon the ice. For him to work was now impossible, and Adelaide no
longer objected when her mother proposed that Peggy should be sent for
sewing to Mr. Howland, who gave it to her readily, manifesting much
concern for Mr. Huntington, whom Peggy represented as being in a most
deplorable condition.
Two or three days afterward, as he was leaving the store, he received a
message from the sick man, who wished to see him, and in a short time he
stood at the bedside of Mr. Huntington, who told, in a few words, why he
had been sent for.
They could not keep that house—they must rent a cheaper one, and if no
tenant for the brown house in the hollow had been obtained, would Mr.
Howland let him have it? He would try hard when he got well to pay the
rent, and the strong man’s eyes filled with tears, just as little Alice
Warren’s had done when words similar to these escaped her lips.
Yes, he could have it, Mr. Howland said, and the sum he asked for it was
just what Mr. Warren had paid; then fearing lest Adelaide by chance
should enter the room, he hastened away, pondering upon the changes
which a few short weeks had brought to the haughty girl, who, when she
heard of her father’s arrangement, flew into a violent rage, declaring
she would kill herself before she’d live in that little shanty.
But neither her wrath nor her tears could shake her father’s
determination, and when the first April sun had set, and the warm spring
moon had risen, wretched, hopeless and weary, Adelaide Huntington crept
up to her bed beneath the rafters, covering her head with the sheet,
lest she should see the white-haired, sightless specter, which, to her
disordered fancy, seemed haunting that low-roofed dwelling.