CHAPTER VI.PAY-DAY.
Miss Elinor sat alone in her pleasant parlor, bending over her bit of embroidery, and setting her needle into the dainty fabric in a manner plainly indicating a mind ill at ease. And for a lady of her temperament, Miss Elinor was a good deal disturbed. During the past week her brother had spent four evenings at the white house on the hill, and though she had unreservedly given him her opinion of the young lady Adelaide, he persisted in saying she was the most agreeable and intelligent girl in Oakland. It was in vain that she told him of the wristband, saying she had no doubt they sewed secretly for a living.
He only smiled incredulously, telling her, however, that he should like Adelaide all the better if he found she was skillful in shirt-making.
In short, Miss Elinor began to have some wellfoundedfears that she should yet have an opportunity of making the house uncomfortable, both to herself and the wife her brother might bring there and it was this reflection which made her so nervous, that pleasant March afternoon.
“I would rather he married little Alice Warren—blind father and all,” she thought, just as the door opened softly, and “little Alice Warren” stood within the room.
She had been to the store to see Mr. Howland, she said, and as he was not there she had come to the house, hoping to find him, for she would rather give the money into his hand and know there was no mistake.
“What money, child?” asked Miss Elinor, and Alice replied that “it was pay-day,” at the same time opening the little box and showing the pieces of money she had saved from her earnings.
Miss Elinor did not know of the receipt lying in her brother’s writing-desk, but she resolved that not a penny should be taken from that box, and bidding Alice be seated on a little stool at her feet, she told her to wait until her brother came. Then when she saw how languid and tired Alice seemed, she put her head upon her lap, smoothing the long brown curls until the weary girl fell asleep, dreamingthat it was her mother’s hand which thus so tenderly caressed her hair.
For half an hour she slumbered on, and then Mr. Howland came, treading carefully and speaking low, as his sister, pointing to the sleeping girl, bade him not to wake her.
“Look at her, though. Isn’t she pretty?” she whispered, and Mr. Howland, gazing upon the fair, childish face, felt that he had seldom seen a more beautiful picture.
In a few words Miss Elinor told why she was there, adding, in conclusion:
“But you won’t take it, of course. You are rich enough without it, and it will do them so much good.”
“I never intended to take it,” Mr. Howland replied, and going to his library, he soon returned with the receipt, which he laid within the box.
Just then a new idea presented itself to the mind of Miss Elinor. They would change the silver, she said, into a bill, which they could roll up with the receipt and put in Alice’s pocket while she slept. This plan met with her brother’s approval, and when at last Alice awoke, the box was empty, while Mr. Howland, to whom she told her errand, blushingdeeply to think he had found her sleeping, replied indifferently:
“Yes, I found it there, and I like your promptness.”
At that moment Miss Elinor left the room, and when she returned, she bore a basket of delicacies for the blind man, who, even then, was standing in the open door at home and listening anxiously for the footsteps which did not often linger so long. He heard them at last, and though they were far down the street, he knew they were Alice’s, and closing the door he passed his hands carefully over the tea-table, which he himself had arranged, feeling almost a childish joy as he thought how surprised Alice would be.
“Oh, father!” she exclaimed, when at last she came bounding in, “how could you fix it so nicely? and only think, Miss Elinor has sent you so many good things—here’s turkey, and cranberry sauce, and pie, and cheese, and jelly-cake, and white sugar—and everything. I mean, for once, to eat just as much as I want,” and the delighted girl arranged the tempting viands upon the table, telling her father, the while, how pleased Mr. Howland was at her promptness.
“He gave you a receipt, I suppose?” Mr. Warren said, and Alice replied:
“Why, no, I never thought of a receipt. I’m so sorry,” and in her confusion she hit her hand against the hissing teapot she had just placed upon the table.
The slight burn which she received, made her handkerchief necessary, and, in feeling for it, she touched the little roll which Miss Elinor had put in her pocket. Drawing it forth, and examining its contents, she experienced, for an instant, sensations similar to those which Benjamin’s brothers may be supposed to have felt when the silver cup was found in their possession.
“What does it mean?” she exclaimed, reading aloud the receipt and examining the bill, which amounted exactly to the quarter’s rent.
The blind man knew what it meant, and, bowing his white head upon his bosom, he silently thanked God who had raised them up friends in their sore need. Upon Alice the surprise produced a novel effect, moving her first to laughter and then to tears, and, notwithstanding her intention of “eating as much as she liked,” she forgot to taste many of the delicacies spread out so temptingly before her. In her estimation they were almost rich again, andnever, perhaps, came sleep to her more sweetly than on that night, when she knew that the contents of the little box was theirs to do with as they pleased.
Several evenings after this they were surprised by a call from Mr. Howland, who had not visited them before since the night he had found Adelaide Huntington there. Thoughts of Alice, however, as she lay sleeping on his sister’s lap, had haunted him. She was innocent of wrong, he was sure, and he had come to see her. It was hard, too, to believe there was aught of evil in that old man with the snow white hair and truthful looking face, and, after receiving their thanks for his generosity, he resolved to question them a little of the past, so he commenced by asking Alice if she had been intimately acquainted with Adelaide Huntington.
Remembering her promise, Alice seemed much embarrassed, and answered hastily:
“We were never intimate,” while at the same time she glanced toward her father, whose voice trembled slightly as he rejoined:
“I had business transactions with Adelaide’s father, but our families seldom met.”
The next moment he was talking of something else—his manner plainly indicating that any further allusion to the Huntingtons was not desired.
“There is something wrong, or they would not be so unwilling to talk of their former life,” Mr. Howland thought, and, with his suspicions strengthened, he soon took his leave, stopping by the way to call on Adelaide, whose eyes beamed a joyous welcome as he entered the parlor, in which she received his frequent calls.
Her mother was in the way in the sitting-room, she thought, and whenever she had reason for expecting him, she made a fire in the parlor, shutting up the stove and turning down the lamp until the ringing of the bell announced his arrival; then, while old Peggy hobbled to the door, she opened the draught and turned up the lamp, so that by the time Mr. Howland was ushered in, everything looked cheerful and inviting. By this means, too, she escaped another annoyance, that of being urged to play; for, if Mr. Howland did not see the piano, he was not as likely to ask her to sing, and she had already nearly exhausted her powers of invention in excuses for her indifferent playing and the style of her music.
Ma insisted upon her taking old pieces, she said, but by and by, when she had a new piano, she should do differently.
Fortunately for her, Mr. Howland was not amusical man and was thus more easily deceived. On the evening of which we are speaking, after listening a while to her sprightly remarks, he suddenly changed the conversation by saying he had been to see Mr. Warren.
“And he told me,” said he, “that he once did business with your father.”
Turning her face away to hide its startled expression, Adelaide asked hastily:
“What else did he tell you?”
“Nothing,” returned Mr. Howland. “He would not talk of the past.”
“I should not suppose he would,” quietly rejoined Adelaide—then, after a moment, coming to his side, she continued, “Mr. Howland, I wish you would promise never to mention that subject again, either to me or those Warrens. It can do no good, and a knowledge of the truth might injure some people in your estimation. Promise me, will you?”
Her hand was laid imploringly upon his arm, her handsome, dark eyes looked beseechingly into his, and as most men under similar circumstances would have done, he promised, while Adelaide mentally congratulated herself upon the fact that his business never took him to the city where she had formerly lived, and where the name of Huntingtonhad scarcely yet ceased to be a by-word in the street. Mr. Howland was much pleased with her, she knew, and if they could manage to keep up appearances a little longer, he might be secured. One thing, however, troubled her. Pay-day was near at hand, but alas for the wherewithal to pay.
It was not in her mother’s purse, nor yet in any other purse whence they could procure it. Still Adelaide trusted much to her inventive genius, and when she bade Mr. Howland good night, chatting gayly as she accompanied him to the door, he little dreamed how her mind was distracted with ways and means by which to dupe him still more effectually.
Three weeks passed away, and then, as Miss Elinor sat one evening with her brother, she asked him if Mrs. Huntington’s rent were not that day due.
“Possibly, though I have not given it a thought,” Mr. Howland answered, his voice indicating that he neither deemed it essential for himself to be particular, or his sister to be troubled, about Mrs. Huntington’s rent.
As far as dollars and cents were concerned, Miss Elinor was not troubled, though she did think itdoubtful whether Adelaide would be as prompt as Alice had been. But when, as if to verify a proverb not necessary to be repeated here, Adelaide came to the door almost before her brother had ceased speaking, she began to think her suspicions groundless, and her manner was quite conciliatory toward the young lady, who, after throwing back her veil of dotted lace and fidgeting a while in her chair, managed to say:
“It is very humiliating to me, Mr. Howland, to tell you what ma says I must. She fully expected that the agent who does her business would have sent her money ere this, but as he has not, she cannot pay you to-day. Shall we pack up our things at once?” she continued, playfully, as she saw the expression on Mr. Howland’s face.
“Perhaps you had better,” he answered in the same strain, continuing in a more sober tone. “Tell your mother not to be concerned about the rent. It does not matter if it is not paid until the end of the year.”
Adelaide drew a relieved breath, while Miss Elinor dropped her embroidery and involuntarily gave vent to a contemptuous “Umph!”
The sound caught Adelaide’s ear, and thinking to herself, “Stingy old thing—afraid they will loseit, I dare say,” she made her call as brief as possible.
Nodding to her civily as she arose to go, Miss Elinor turned to her brother, saying:
“You know, Richard, you are to go with me to-night to call on Jenny Hayes.”
But Richard did not know it, and as his distressed sister saw him going down the walk with Adelaide Huntington on his arm, she muttered:
“I’d like to see the man who could make such a fool of me as that girl has made of him!”
A wish not likely to be verified, considering that she had already lived forty-five years without seeing the man.
CHAPTER VII.THE UNKNOWN DELIVERER.
Very rapidly the spring passed away, and the soft, sunny skies of June had more than once tempted the blind man and his daughter into the open fields, or the woods which lay beyond. Their favorite resort, however, was a retired spot on the bank of the river, where, shut out from human eyes, they could speak together of the past, the present, and what the future might bring. Here, one pleasant afternoon, they came, and while Mr. Warren talked of his childhood and his early home, Alice sat sewing at his feet, until growing somewhat weary, she arose and began to search for wild flowers upon the mossy bank. Suddenly espying some beautiful pond lilies floating upon the surface of the water, she exclaimed:
“Oh, father, father, these must be white lilies just like those you used to gather when a boy.”
“Where, where?” the blind man asked, and his face shone with the intense longing he felt to hold once more within his hand the fair blossoms so interwoven with memories of his boyhood.
“They are here on the river,” Alice replied, “and I can get them, too, by going out upon that tree which has partly fallen into the stream.”
“Don’t, Alice—don’t! There may be danger,” Mr. Warren said, shuddering even while he spoke with an undefinable fear.
But Alice was not afraid, and springing lightly upon the trunk of the tree she ventured out—farther, and farther still, until the lilies were just within her reach, when, alas, the branch against which she leaned was broken, and to the ear of the blind man sitting on the grass there came the startling cry of “Father!” while a heavy splash in the deep, dark water, told that Alice was gone.
In wild agony the distracted man ran to the water’s edge and unhesitatingly waded in, shrieking, as he did so:
“My child! my child! Is there no eye to pity, no arm to save?”
Yes, there was an eye to pity, and it raised up an arm to save; for, rushing from a clump of alders which grew not far away, there came a rough, hard-featuredman, who, catching up Mr. Warren as if he had been a child, bore him back to the grassy bank, then boldly plunging into the river, he seized the long tresses of the drowning girl, just as they were disappearing for the third and last time. Wringing the water from her brown hair, the stranger folded his light burden gently to his bosom, and bending over her still, white face, looked earnestly to see if she were dead. There was yet life, he hoped, and swimming to the shore, he laid the unconscious maiden upon the grass, resting her head in the lap of her father, who cried:
“Is she dead—oh, tell me, is she dead!”
But the stranger made him no reply, save to take his hand and lay it on the little heart which was beating faintly. Then with rapid footsteps he walked away, half pausing once as he heard the poor old man call after him imploringly.
“Don’t leave me all alone, for I am blind, and Alice’s heart will stop beating, I’m afraid. It has stopped beating! She’s dead! oh, she’s dead!” he screamed, as in the distance he heard the tramping footsteps going from him fast.
Still though he knew it not, they went for him, and Mr. Howland, whom chance had led that way, was surprised in his walk by the sudden appearanceof a man with uncovered head and dripping garments, who bade him hasten to the river bank, where a young girl, he feared, was drowned.
“I am going for a physician,” he said, and he sped away, while Mr. Howland hurried on to the spot where Alice still lay insensible, and whiter than the lilies for which she had risked her life. Over her bent the poor old man, his tears falling like rain upon her face, and himself whispering sadly:
“It’s darker now than midnight—they are all gone from me—wife, daughter, all; oh, Alice, Alice, my bright, my beautiful one. Why did God take you from me when I needed you so much?”
“She may not be dead,” said Mr. Howland, and touched with the grief of the stricken man, his own tears dropped on Alice’s face.
But they did not rouse her, and with a terrible fear at his heart, he lifted her lightly in his arms, saying to her father:
“My house is nearer than any other—we must go there.”
Dizzy and faint with excitement, Mr. Warren arose to his feet, but to walk was impossible, and sinking back upon the grass, he cried:
“Leave me here and care for her. You can send for me by and by.”
This seemed the only alternative, and Mr. Howland started for home, meeting ere long with several of the villagers who had been alarmed by the stranger. A few of them kept on to the river, while others accompanied Mr. Howland to the house, where crowds of people were soon assembled, and where every possible means were used for Alice’s recovery. But they seemed in vain, and when at last the poor old father reached the door he knew by the death-like silence pervading the room, that the physician had said, “no hope.”
“Lead me to her, somebody—lead me to Alice,” he whispered, and taking his outstretched arm, Mr. Howland led him to the couch where Alice lay, her wavy hair clinging in damp masses to her forehead, and her long eyelashes resting upon her marble cheek.
Quickly the trembling fingers sought the heart, but alas! they felt no motion, and more than one turned away to weep as they saw the look of bitter anguish settling down upon the father’s face. There was yet one test more, and laying his ear upon the bosom of his child, the blind man listenedintently, while the lookers-on held their breath in agonizing suspense.
Suddenly through the room there rang the wild, glad cry, “I hear it—she lives, she lives!” and with renewed courage the people returned to their labor, which this time was successful, for she who had been so near to death, came slowly back to life, and when the sun went down, its last parting rays shone on the bowed head of one who from his inmost soul was thanking God for not having written him “childless.”
It was thought advisable that Alice should remain where she was for a day or two, and they carried her into a large, pleasant chamber, overlooking the town, Miss Elinor constituting herself the nurse, and ever and anon bending down to kiss the lips of the young girl who had so narrowly escaped a watery grave.
Meanwhile, in the parlors below, both Mr. Warren and Mr. Howland were making inquiries for the stranger, who, after giving the alarm, had suddenly disappeared. No one had seen him since, and of those who had seen him before, none knew who he was or whence he came.
“If I could have heard the sound of his voice, I should know him anywhere,” said Mr. Warren,while Adelaide Huntington, who had not been there long, and who, for some reason, did not like to hear much of the stranger, suggested that it might have been some foot traveler, who, not caring for thanks, had gone on his way.
This seemed probable and satisfactory to all, save Mr. Warren, who replied:
“If he would come back, I’ve nothing in the wide world to offer him; but an old man’s blessing might be of some avail, and that he should have, even though he were my bitterest enemy, and had done me terrible wrong.”
There was a deep flush on Adelaide’s cheek as Mr. Warren said these words, and turning quickly away, she walked to the window to hide the emotions which she knew were plainly visible upon her face. She seemed greatly excited, and far more interested in the accident than her slight friendship for the Warrens would warrant, and when she learned that Alice was to remain, she, too, insisted upon staying all night, provided she could be of any assistance. But Miss Elinor declined her offer, and at a late hour she started for home, managing to steal away when Mr. Howland did not see her. She evidently did not wish to have him accompany her, and for a few succeeding days she avoided himgoing to his house but once, and that on the morning when Alice was taken home in the carriage. There was something preying upon her mind—something, too, whose nature neither Mr. Howland nor his far-seeing sister could divine, though the former fancied he had discovered it, when, a little more than a week after the accident, she came to him with her face all wreathed in smiles and handed him the entire amount of money then due for the rent.
That provoking agent had attended to them at last, she said, and she was so glad, for it was very mortifying to be owing any one.
“Andthisis what has been troubling you of late?” said Mr. Howland, who was greatly pleased at seeing her appear like herself again.
“Then you noticed it,” Adelaide replied, coloring crimson, and adding hastily: “We have recently been much annoyed and perplexed, but for the future our agent will be prompt, and so shall we.”
Whether the agent referred to was prompt or not, there seemed for several weeks to be plenty of money at the white house on the hill—so much so, in fact, that Adelaide did not, as usual, go to Springfield to take her accustomed lesson, whileold Peggy, whose shabby dress was beginning to create some gossip among the villagers, presented quite a respectable appearance in her new gingham and muslin cap. About this time, too, there was sent by mail to Mr. Warren the sum of twenty-five dollars, and as there was no word of explanation accompanying it, he naturally felt curious to know from whom it came.
“Miss Elinor sent it, I am sure. It is exactly like her,” said Alice, who was now entirely well, and that afternoon, when her work was done, she went up to see Miss Howland, whom she found suffering from a severe headache, and in ministering to her wants she entirely forgot to speak of the money. The next day Miss Elinor was much worse, and for many weeks was confined to her bed with a lingering fever, which left her at last so nervous and low that her physician advised a journey to the West as the surest means of restoring her health. Her only sister was living in Milwaukee, and thither Mr. Howland, who began to be seriously alarmed, tried to persuade her to go. For a time Miss Elinor hesitated, and only consented at last on condition that her brother promised not to engage himself to Adelaide Huntington during her absence.
Bursting into a laugh, Mr. Howland assured herthat she need have no fears of finding her station, as mistress of his house, filled on her return, for though Adelaide might possibly some day bear the name of Howland, he could wait a while, and would do so for his sister’s sake.
With this promise Miss Elinor tried to be satisfied, and after giving him many charges not to neglect the blind man, she started for Milwaukee in company with some friends who, like herself, were westward bound.
CHAPTER VIII.THE PARTY DRESS.
It was now the first of December. Miss Elinor had been gone from home nearly three months, and during this time Mr. Howland had spent one-half of his evenings at least with Adelaide Huntington, who marvelled that he did not ask her to be his wife. But the promise made to his sister must be kept, and so, night after night, he came and went, while Adelaide experienced fresh pangs of fear lest her deception should be discovered ere Mr. Howland was secured.
About this time there were rumors of a large party to be given by Mrs. Hayes, the most fashionable lady in Oakland, and knowing well how the beauty of her person would be enhanced by a party dress, Adelaide resolved to leave no means unspared for the procuring of such a dress.
She had always observed, she said, that Mr. Howland was unusually attentive when she lookedunusually well, and there was no knowing what would happen if she eclipsed all the ladies who might be present at the party, and then, as day after day went by, she grew impatient because no letter came from one who, at the post-office, was designated as ma’s provoking agent, but who at home, with none but mother to hear, was called by a different name. Fretting, however, was of no avail—the provoking agent did not write, and her purse contained only seven dollars.
“If I could get the dress,” she said, “I might possibly manage the rest,” and then, as she remembered the dainty fabric which Alice Warren had worn upon that memorable Christmas Eve, she started to her feet exclaiming, “That’s a good idea,” and ere her mother had time to question her she was on her way to the brown house in the hollow.
For a few weeks past Mr. Warren had been seriously ill, and though Alice worked both early and late, she could not procure for him the little comforts which he needed and missed so much. Miss Elinor’s words, Do not neglect the blind man, had been forgotten, and many a weary night had the blind man’s daughter bent with aching head and tearful eyes over the piece of work which herincreased cares had not permitted her to finish during the day. They were indeed drinking the bitter cup of poverty, and the sick man in his sleep was moaning sadly for wine, which he said would make him strong, when Adelaide Huntington entered the humble room. Glancing hurriedly at the scanty fire and empty wood-box, she thought:
“They must be wretchedly poor—I dare say I can get it for almost nothing.”
Then seating herself by Alice’s side, she told at once the object of her visit. She had never forgotten the beautiful lace dress which Alice had worn on the night of her party, and if there was one thing more than another which she coveted, it was that. In short she wished to know if Alice had it now, and if so, would she sell it, telling no one that it had ever belonged to her.
At the first mention of the dress, Alice’s tears began to flow, for it was almost the only relic of the past which she possessed, and now, laying her head in Adelaide’s lap she sobbed out:
“Oh, Adelaide, my mother bought it for me, and can I let it go?”
“You know which you need the most, that or the money,” was Adelaide’s cold reply, while from his pillow the sick man faintly murmured:
“Something to make me well.”
This was enough, and wiping her tears away, Alice took from her trunk the dress, sighing deeply as she recalled the night when first and last she wore it.
“I did not know it was so exquisitely beautiful,” was Adelaide’s mental comment as Alice shook out the soft, fleecy folds, but she did not say so. On the contrary she depreciated its value, saying, it had turned yellow, was rather old-fashioned, and a second-hand article at most, besides being quite too short for her in its present condition.
In this manner she paved the way to the price which she finally offered, and which Alice at first refused to take. Four dollars seemed so little for what had cost so much. But Alice’s necessities were great, and when Adelaide offered her another dollar to change the dress as it would have to be changed for her, she yielded, promising to have it in readiness and bring it home on the night of the party. After trying it on and giving numerous directions as to the changes she wished to have made, Adelaide arose to go, saying nothing concerning the pay. With a beating heart Alice saw her about to leave, and though it cost her a mightyeffort to do so, she at last conquered her pride and catching Adelaide’s shawl as she was passing out, she said with quivering lips:
“If you only will pay me part to-day! Father is sick, and we are so poor,” and the little blue veined hands were clasped beseechingly together.
“There’s a dollar, if that will do you any good,” said Adelaide, thrusting a bill into Alice’s hand, and then hurrying away.
She had no intention of cheating Alice out of her pay, but she hated to part with her money, and on her way home she thought of so many things which she must have, that she began at last to wonder if Alice would not just as soon take something from the house, bread, or potatoes, or soap—she heard old Peggy boasting of having made a barrel full, and soap was a very useful article—she’d ask Alice when she brought the dress! and, feeling a good deal of confidence in her plan, she stopped at Mr. Howland’s store, where she spent a portion of her remaining six dollars for white kids, satin ribbon, blonde lace and so forth.
As she was leaving the store, she met Mr. Howland, who accompanied her to the door, casually asking if she knew how Mr. Warren was getting along.
“It is some time since I was there,” he said, “and I think of going round to-night. As he is sick, they may perhaps be suffering.”
“Oh, no, they are not,” Adelaide quickly rejoined, “I have just been to see them myself. Mr. Warren is no worse, and they are doing very well. I gave Alice some work, too, paying her in advance.”
“So, on the whole, you think I had better spend the evening with you,” said Mr. Howland, playfully interrupting her, as he saw that one of his clerks was desirous of speaking to him.
“Most certainly I do,” she answered laughingly, as she passed into the street.
And so that night, while her father slept, poor Alice Warren trimmed her little lamp, and with a heavy heart sat down to work upon the costly garment, every thread of which seemed interwoven with memories of the mother, who had bought it for her. Occasionally, too, she lifted up her head, and listened for the footsteps which now but seldom came that way, for only once had Mr. Howland been there since her father’s illness, and brushing away a tear, she sighed:
“He does not care for such as we.”
That afternoon she had heard the rumor thatthe proud Miss Huntington was to be his wife, and though the idea that she, little Alice Warren, could ever be aught to him, had never entered her mind, the news affected her painfully, and as she sat alone that night, the world seemed darker, drearier than it had ever been before, while the future home of Richard Howland’s bride looked very pleasant to her.
“Alice,” came faintly from her father, and in a moment Alice was at his side. “Alice, are you sewing to-night?”
“Yes, father, I am sewing.”
“But I thought you finished the vest this afternoon. What are you doing now?”
Alice hesitated. She could not tell him she had sold her party dress, neither would she tell him a lie, so she finally said:
“Adelaide came here while you slept, and I am fixing a dress for her to wear to Mrs. Hayes’ party. She gave me a dollar for it, too, and to-morrow I shall buy you the wine which Dr. Martin says you need, and maybe I’ll get you some oranges, too. Would you like some oranges, father?”
“Yes, yes,” the tremulous voice replied, and the childish old man cried, as he thought that to-morrow he would have the wine and the oranges, too.
The morrow came, and with it came the delicacies so long desired. But the sick man scarcely tasted them; “some other time he might want them more,” he said, and with a feeling of disappointment Alice put them away, while her father, turning wearily upon his pillow, prayed that the deep, dark waters, through which he instinctively felt that he must ere long pass, might not be suffered to overflow.
But to Alice there came no forebodings like these. She only knew her father was very sick, and she fancied that the luxuries to which he had been accustomed would make him well again.
So with untiring patience she worked on, thinking how the money which Adelaide was to pay her should be expended for her father’s comfort.
Alas for the poor little girl, who, just as it was growing dark on the night of the party, folded carefully the finished dress, and then stole softly to her father’s bedside, to see if he were sleeping. He was very—very pale, and on his face there was a look like that of her dead mother.
But Alice was not alarmed. She had never thought it possible for him to die, so quiet, so gentle, so uncomplaining he seemed.
“Father” she said, “can you stay alone while Icarry Adelaide her dress? She is to pay me more than that dollar, and I will buy you ever so many nice things.”
“By and by,” he whispered, “it is early yet,” and drawing Alice to him, he talked to her of her mother, who, he said, seemed very near to him that night—so near that he could almost feel her soft hand clasp his own, just as it used to do in the happy days gone by. And while he talked the darkness in the room increased—the clock struck six, and releasing his daughter Mr. Warren bade her go.
“He felt better,” he said, “and was not afraid to stay alone.”
“You must sleep till I return. I shall not be gone long,” were Alice’s parting words, and going out, she walked rapidly in the direction of Mrs. Huntington’s.
In a very unamiable mood Adelaide met her at the door, chiding her for her delay, and saying:
“I began to think you were never coming.”
“Father has been worse, and I could not work so fast,” was Alice’s meek reply, as she followed Adelaide into the sitting-room, helping her try on the dress, which the petulant young lady declared:
Didn’t fit within a mile! It was too high in theneck—too long in the waist—too short in the skirt, and must be fixed before it was decent to wear!
“Oh, I can’t leave father so long,” said Alice, in dismay, as she thought how much there was to be done.
“I’ll risk him,” returned Adelaide. “Any way, when I hire anything done I expect it to suit me, or I don’t pay, of course.”
This remark was well-timed, for Alice could not go back without the money, and with a heavy heart she sat down to her task. But the tears blinded her eyes, and so impeded her progress that the clock struck eight before her work was done.
“Now, put these flowers in my hair, and tie my sash just as yours was tied,” said the heartless Adelaide, as she saw Alice about to put on her bonnet.
In a box which stood upon the table lay the bead purse, and glancing at that Alice did whatever was required of her, nor scarcely felt a pang when at last the toilet was completed, and Adelaide Huntington stood before her arrayed in the selfsame dress which she had worn but two short years ago.
“I meant you should dress me all the time,” said Adelaide, glancing complacently at herself inthe mirror. “I meant you should dress me—mother knows so little about such matters, and then, too, she is sick up stairs with a violent headache, but I do not need you any longer—what are you waiting for?” she continued, as Alice made no movement to go.
“I am waiting for the money which I want so much to-night,” answered Alice.
“Ah, yes, the money,” said Adelaide, making a feint to examine the purse, which she knew was empty.
Alice knew it, too, all too soon, and sinking down upon a little stool she cried aloud:
“What shall we do? The wood is almost gone, and I baked the last cake to-night. Oh, father, father, what will you do to-morrow?”
Adelaide Huntington was not hard-hearted enough to be unmoved by this appeal, and forgetting entirely the soap, she glided from the room to which she soon returned, bringing a basket of food for Alice, whom she comforted with the assurance that she should be paid as soon as possible.
“I’d no idea they were so poor,” said Adelaide to herself, as the door closed upon Alice. “I wish he would send the money so I could pay the debt and have it off my mind.”
Just then the village omnibus stopped at the door, and Adelaide ran for a moment to show her mother how she looked, then gathering up the folds of her rich lace skirt, and throwing on her shawl, she entered the carriage and was soon riding toward the scene of gayety, while Alice Warren was hurrying home, a nameless terror creeping into her heart, and vaguely whispering that the morrow, for which she had been so anxious, might bring her a sorrow such as orphans only know.
CHAPTER IX.THE FIGURE ON THE HEARTHSTONE.
For a while after Alice left him, Mr. Warren lay perfectly quiet, trying to number the minutes, by counting each tick of the clock, and wondering if it were not time for Alice to return. While thus engaged he fell asleep, and when at last he woke there was a death-like faintness at his heart; his lips were dry and parched, and he felt a strong desire for water with which to quench his burning thirst.
“Alice,” he said feebly, “Alice, is that you? are you here?” but to his call there came no answer, and throughout the room there was heard no sound save the steady ticking of the clock.
Why then did the blind man raise himself upon his elbow and roll his sightless eyes around the silent apartment. Did he hear aught in the deep stillness? He thought he did—ay, he was sure he did, and again he called:
“Alice, Alice, are you here?”
But Alice made him no reply, and as the minutes went by, the sick man grew delirious, talking of the past, which seemed present with him now. Then, as reason for a moment returned, he moaned:
“Oh, Alice, will you never come? The fire is going out and I am growing cold. Oh, must I die alone at last?”
No, not alone; for, crouched upon the hearthstone, there sat a human form. It was the figure of a man—a dark, hard-featured man; and often, as the wailing cry came from the humble bed, it bowed its head upon its hands and wept. Carefully, stealthily through the door it had come while Mr. Warren slept, and the deep black eyes, which glowed at first like coals of living fire, grew dim with tears as, glancing hurriedly around the room, they saw how poor it was.
“Isn’t there somebody here with me?” the sick man said at last, as his quick ear caught the sound of breathing. “Speak, isn’t there somebody here?” he continued, while the figure on the hearthstone glided noiselessly to the bedside, where it stood erect, gazing pitifully upon the white, worn face which, with the lamp-light shining on it, seemed of a deathly hue.
It was a strange sight, that statue standing there so silently, and that blind old man trying in vain to penetrate the darkness and learn who it was that stood there beside him. Raising himself at last in bed, and stretching out his arm, he touched a hand colder even than his own, for guilt and fear had chilled the blood of him who remained immovable, while the trembling fingers passed nervously over the face, through the hair, down the side, until they reached the left hand, from whose fore-finger a joint was gone. That missing joint, though we have made no mention of it heretofore, was well remembered by Hugo Warren, and it needed but this proof to tell him who was there.
“William Huntington,” he hoarsely whispered, and falling back upon his pillow, he wiped the drops of perspiration from his face, for the presence of that man, coming to him thus, awakened all the bitter memories of the past. “William Huntington,” he gasped, “why are you here on this night of all others, when my lost wife seems present with me, and my ruined hopes pass in sad review before my mind. Say, have you come to add the last drop in the brimming bucket?”
There was a moment’s silence, and then, fallingupon his knees, William Huntington made answer to the man he had so wronged.
“I did not come to insult you, but rather to seek the forgiveness which I know I do not merit. Only say that you forgive me, Mr. Warren—let me once hold your hand in token of reconciliation, and then do with me what you will. A life within a felon’s cell is preferable far, to the remorse which I have carried with me for two long, dreary years. Say, will you not forgive me?” he continued, and the strong man’s voice was choked with tears.
“Forgive you, William,” Mr. Warren replied, “I might perhaps forgive you, were my fortune all you wrested from me, but when I think of my lost Helen, my heart is turned to steel, for you killed her, William Huntington—you killed my precious wife.”
“Yes, yes, it was my base act which killed her, it is true, still I have made you some amends. I saved your daughter’s life, you know, else I had never dared to seek your face again,” said Mr. Huntington, interrupting him.
“You saved Alice’s life?” the excited man rejoined, and the hand which had withdrawn itself beneath the bed-clothes now came forth again, feeling eagerly for the bowed head, on which it restedforgivingly, while he continued, “It was you, then who took her from the river, and laid her in my arms—you who saved me from a darker night than any I have ever known. Yes, William, because you did this good to me, you are forgiven, fully, freely forgiven—but why have you not told of it before? Where have you been, and did your family know aught of this?”
“My family know aught of this?” repeated Mr. Huntington. “Can it be I am deceived?” and then, with the shaking hand still resting on his head, he told how he had wandered far and wide, seeking rest and finding none, for ever present to his mind was a white-haired, sightless man, weeping, o’er his pale, dead wife.
In the far off California land he had dug for gold, vainly hoping by this means some time to make amends for the ruin he had wrought. At last, as the burden of remorse grew heavier to bear, he sought his home to see once more the faces of his wife and child, hoping, too, that the forgiveness he so much desired might be obtained.
“I found them here,” said he—“found my wife and Adelaide working hard and secretly, lest the world should know how poor they were. I met my daughter first, and Heaven forgive me if I do herwrong, I thought she was not glad to see me. I questioned her of you, and learned that you were here, too, and very poor. You were fully determined, she said, to revenge yourself on me should I ever be found, and she urged me not to let my presence here be known, until she had tried to procure for me your forgiveness. My wife did not seem to understand your feelings, for she had never seen you, and she wished me to remain; but my daughter’s fears and my own dread of a convict’s fate prevailed, and trusting to Adelaide’s promise that she would eventually obtain your pardon for me, I left them again and became a second time a wanderer. I intended to take the cars at West Oakland, and was following the course of the river, when, pausing for a moment to rest, I saw you approaching, and hid behind the alders, one moment resolving to throw myself at your feet, and again fearing to do so, for guilt had made me cowardly and weak. The rest of that day’s incidents you know. I saved your daughter’s life, but I dared not speak, lest I should be betrayed. My wet clothes made it necessary for me to return to the house, where I told what I had done, and asked if this would not atone. My wife said yes, but Adelaide was fearful still. She would see you herself,she said, and she did see you that very day, but you refused. ‘The law must take its course,’ you said, ‘even though I saved a hundred lives.’”
“Never! so help me Heaven!” Mr. Warren exclaimed. “Such words as those never passed my lips, and till this moment I knew not who it was that saved my child. Forgive me, William, but she lied, that girl Adelaide. There was treachery in her voice when she sat at my feet and asked me not to tell of your misdeeds, lest disgrace should fall on her. People thought her mother was a widow, she said, and she would rather they should not know that you ran away to escape a prison home.”
“Oh, Adelaide, my child, my child, why did you thus deceive me?” the wretched father groaned, while Mr. Warren continued:
“I never tried to find you, William, or sought to do you harm; but go on and tell me where you have been since that time.”
“I remained at home a day or two, hiding from the sight of men,” Mr. Huntington replied, “and then one night I went away, thinking to make for my family a home in the distant West, where you would never find me. But no spot could be home to me with that load upon my mind, so at last I determined to see you myself, and beg for your forgiveness.They think me far away, my wife and Adelaide, for I only paused a moment at their door. Looking through the half-closed blind I saw your daughter there, and knowing that you must be alone I hastened on, entering your dwelling while you slept, and now it remains for you to do with me what you will.”
“Nothing, William, I shall do nothing—only raise me up, my breath is going from me,” Mr. Warren gasped.
The faintness he had experienced once before had returned again, brought on by the excitement of what he had heard, and Mr. Huntington, when he saw the corpse-like pallor stealing over his face, feared that he was dying. He was not afraid of death, but the world, he knew, was a suspicious one, and he would rather the man he had so wronged should not die alone with him. Just then he heard without, a footstep coming near, and thinking it must be Alice, he hurried to the door, exclaiming:
“Be quick! your father, I fear, is dying!”
In a moment the person thus addressed stood at Mr. Warren’s bedside, and when the fainting man came back to consciousness he whispered softly:
“God bless you, Mr. Howland, for coming here again.”
It was Richard Howland who stood there side by side with one whom he readily recognized as the stranger who had saved the life of Alice Warren. He had started for the party, going through the hollow as the shortest route, and was passing Mr. Warren’s gate, when the words, “Be quick! your father, I fear, is dying,” arrested his attention, bringing him at once into the presence of the blind man whom he had so long neglected.
“I did not know you were so ill,” he was about to say, when Alice entered the room.
“Father,” she cried, bounding to his side, “are you worse?” and then, as her eyes fell upon Mr. Huntington, the hot blood stained her face and neck, for she knew who he was, and marveled much that he was there.
“Alice,” said Mr. Warren, “I have forgiven William Huntington because he saved your life, though he dared not let us know it then, for Adelaide had said I thirsted for revenge. He has suffered much, my child, and you, I am sure, will sanction my forgiveness.”
It was in vain that Alice attempted to speak, so astonished was she at what she had heard, and, misinterpreting her silence, Mr. Huntington advanced toward her, saying, imploringly:
“Hear, me, young lady, and you will perhaps be willing to forgive.”
Then very rapidly he repeated in substance the story he had told her father, touching as lightly as possible on Adelaide’s duplicity, but still making the matter plain to Alice and clear to him, who, with clasped hands and wildly beating heart, listened breathlessly to the strange tale he heard. Richard Howland was undeceived at last, and the girl he had almost loved was revealed to him in her true character, as an artful, designing woman. The father, who he supposed was dead, stood there, a living, breathing man, identical, he was sure, with the agent of whom he had often heard, and, worse than all, the people against whom she had breathed her dark insinuations, were innocent of evil; the wrong was on the other side, and he had been her dupe; had even thought it possible to call that girl his wife. His wife! how he loathed the very idea now that he knew her guilt, and how his conscience smote him for having ever wronged in thought the helpless old blind man and his gentle, fair-haired daughter. They had suffered, too, from his neglect, but he could make amends for that, and his heart went out in pity toward Alice as he contrasted her former life with her present dreary lot. The partywas forgotten, and while Adelaide, in a most impatient mood, watched each fresh arrival, he, for whom she watched in vain, smoothed the tumbled pillow, bathed the burning brow, or brought the cooling draught, and then spoke words of comfort to the weeping Alice, who read upon his face, and that of Mr. Huntington, a confirmation of her fears.
But not that night did Mr. Warren die, though the physician, for whom Mr. Huntington was sent, would give no hope. The disease had assumed a most alarming form, he said, and Mr. Howland’s hand rested pityingly on the bowed head of the young girl who was soon to be an orphan. The morning came, and then, as it was necessary for him to go home for a time, he left both father and child to the care of Mr. Huntington, promising to send down one of his domestics, and to return himself ere long.