CHAPTER X.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 methat 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 difficultto 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 thefrosty 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, “andshe 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 notdead 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 assumeda 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 concerningthe 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 oflife. 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 strongman’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.
CHAPTER XI.NATURAL CONSEQUENCES.
It is summer again—“the leafy month of June”—and in the spacious, well-kept grounds of Richard Howland hundreds of roses are blossoming, but none so fair and beautiful to the owner of these grounds as the rose which blossoms within the house—the brighthaired, gentle Alice, who, when the grief-laden clouds of adversity were overshadowing her life, did not dream that she could ever be as happy as she is in her new home. The grass-grown grave in the quiet valley is not neglected, nor he who rests there forgotten, but though her tears fall often on the sod, she cannot wish the blind man back in a world which was so truly dark to him.
And Alice has learned to be happy in her luxurious home—happy in the tender love which Miss Elinor ever lavishes upon her, and happy, too, in the quiet brother-like affection of him who seemsto her the embodiment of every manly virtue. He does not talk often with her, for Richard Howland deals not so much in words as deeds, but in a thousand little ways he tells her he is glad to have her there. And this is all he tells her, so that neither she nor his more discerning sister dream how sweet to him is the music of the childish voice, which often in the gathering twilight sings some song of the olden time; nor do they know, when returning home at night, how wistfully he glances toward the window where Alice is wont to sit, and if they did know it, they could not fathom his meaning, for when the golden hair and bright young face is there, he always turns aside, lingering without, as if within there were no maiden fair, whose eyes of blue played wilder notes upon his heart-strings than the dark, proud orbs of Adelaide had ever done. Even he does not know he loves her, so quietly that love has come—creeping over him while he slept—stealing over him when he woke—whispering to him in the dingy counting-room, and bidding him cast frequent glances at the western sky, to see if it were not time that he were home. He only knows that he is very happy, and that his happiness is in some way connected with the childish form which flits before him like a sunbeam,filling his home with light and joy. It had never occurred to him that she might sometime go away, and leave in his household a void which no other one could fill, and when one day, toward the last of June, his sister said to him, “Alice has received a letter from an old friend of her mother, asking her to take charge of the juvenile department of a young ladies’ seminary in B——,” he started as if he had been smitten with a heavy blow.
“Alice teach school!” he exclaimed. “Alice go away from—me—from you, I mean. Preposterous! She don’t, of course, think of accepting the offer?”
“Yes, she does. I’d no idea she had so much decision,” and Miss Elinor’s scissors cut quite a hole in the embroidery on which she has worked ever since we knew her. “I remonstrated when she told me she should return an affirmative answer, but it did no good. She never intended long to burden people on whom she had no claim, she said. She would rather be independent, and though she was very happy here, she felt it her duty to earn her own living, now that an opportunity was presented.”
“Earn her own living,” repeated Mr. Howland, “just as though she cost anybody anything. Thereis some other reason, and if I didn’t know you as well as I do, I should be inclined to think the fault was with you. Maybe you do sometimes scold her, Elinor?” and he fixed his eyes inquiringly upon his sister’s face.
Miss Elinor had striven hard to restrain the tears which thoughts of parting with her favorite induced, and thus far she had succeeded, but when she heard her brother’s remark, they burst forth at once.
“Mescold Alice?” was all she could articulate, as with a deeply injured air she left the room, while her brother, seizing his hat, hurried off to the store, where he remained the entire day, trying to think how it would seem to him when he knew that Alice was gone.
It didn’t seem at all, either to him or to his clerks, for never before had he been so irritable and cross, finding fault with the most trivial matters; chiding the cash-boy for moving too fast, and the head clerk for moving too slow; refusing to trust the widow Simpson, whom he had trusted all his life, and making himself so generally disagreeable that the young men in his employ were not sorry when, about five o’clock, they saw him start for home.
“I’m glad he’s gone, anyway, dern him!” muttered Check, who had been, perhaps, the greatest sufferer, and with a most contemptuous whistle he looked after the retreating figure of his master.
Alice was not in the yard—nor in the parlor—nor in the house. He knew it by that indefinable feeling which we experience when the one we love the best is absent.
“She had gone to walk by the river,” Miss Elinor said, when questioned, asking him in the same breath why he didn’t come home to dinner.
“I was not hungry,” he replied. “The prospect of losing Alice has taken my appetite away. Do you think she would stay with us, if I were to adopt her as my daughter?”
Miss Elinor didn’t think anything. She had not quite forgiven his unjust remark in the morning, and failing to obtain satisfaction from her, he started in quest of Alice, who, he was sure, would listen favorably to his plan of adoption. The tree where she and her father sat on that afternoon when she had come so near to death, was her favorite resort, and here he now found her, thinking of the coming time when she would be gone. It had cost her a struggle to decide the matter, but it was best, she thought; she could not always be dependent,and that very night she would answer “Yes.” But she wondered why she should feel so sad, or why the thought of leaving Mr. Howland should make her pain harder to bear.
“I shall miss both him and his sister so much,” she unconsciously said aloud, “I shall miss them both, but him the most.”
“Why then do you go?” came to her startled ear, and Richard Howland stood before her.
Springing to her feet she blushed and stammered out something about the watch-dog Ponto, whom she should miss. But it would not do. Mr. Howland was not to be deceived, and in her telltale face he knew the watch-dog Ponto meant himself.
“Alice,” said he, “sit down with me upon the bank, and tell me why you wish to leave us.”
Alice obeyed, but neither of them spoke until Mr. Howland, growing suddenly very bold, wound his arm around her waist, and drew her to his side. It was the first time in his life he had ever found himself in a position like this, and though it was very novel—very strange—he liked it. He forgot, too, all about the adoption, and bending low, so that in case of an emergency his lips could touch her cheek, he whispered:
“Alice—”
But what else he said the murmuring river never told, neither the summer air which lifted the shining tresses falling over his arm, nor yet the little bird, which from the overhanging bough looked archly down upon them, shutting its round, bright eye with a knowing look as if it understood that scene. It did understand, and the sight of them sitting there thus brought to mind the dainty nest up in the maple tree, where its own loved mate was waiting, and when at last the maiden lifted up her head, it plumed its wings for flight and flew away, singing as it flew.
“She’s won—she’s won.”
That night Alice, instead of Mr. Howland, was missing from the table, and when Miss Elinor sought her in her room, she was surprised at the abruptness with which the young girl threw her arms around her neck and whispered:
“I am happy—oh, so happy.”
Then, with the twilight shadows gathering around, Alice told her story to the wondering lady, who in her joy forgave her brother for his unjust insinuation, and folding the orphan girl lovingly in her arms, she told her how gladly she should welcome her as a sister. It was known ere longall over town that the wealthy Mr. Howland was to wed the blind man’s daughter, and the rude brown rafters of the cottage in the hollow never witnessed so fierce a storm of passion and of tears as on the night when first to Adelaide came tidings that the man she so much loved had given himself to another. To William Huntington, however, the news brought joy and gladness. He had recovered from his broken limb, but his health did not improve, and now he seldom left his home. Still he did whatever he could do for his family, and the little yard in front of his house was filled with flowers, which he tended with the utmost care, and sold in small bouquets to such of the villagers as wished to buy. When he heard that Alice was to be a bride ere the summer days were gone, he set apart his choicest flowers, watching them with jealous care, and experiencing a childish delight in thinking how he would form a rare bouquet, worthy of her to whom it should be given.
There was no reason why the marriage should be delayed, Mr. Howland said, and so one balmy night, when the harvest moon was in its infancy, St. Luke’s Church was filled to overflowing, and the same man, who, over Hugo Warren’s grave, had read the burial service, now spoke the solemnwords which made one flesh of two. And when the rite was ended and Alice was a bride, from the three towers of Oakland there rang a merry peal, for Mr. Howland was greatly honored by the citizens who thus would keep his wedding night.
Across the grassy meadow, up the wooded hill, and down into the hollow, floated the music of those bells, awakening an answering note of joy in every heart save that of the wretched Adelaide, who, grinding her teeth together, fled to her lonely garret and stuffed cotton in her ears, so as to shut out the hateful sound, which told her of her rival’s happiness. Anon, and from the rocky heights which overlooked the town, and from the village green, there shone a lurid light. Bonfires had been kindled by the workmen from the factory and shop, and among the boys who danced around the blazing fire, none threw his hat so high or cut so many antics as did the little Check, who in his bran-new suit, the gift of Mr. Howland, forgot his grievances on that memorable day when his master tried to see how it would seem, to live without Alice Warren.
From her window Adelaide looked out upon the scene, shedding bitter tears of envy and of rage, then, wishing she had never seen the light of dayshe sought her solitary pillow and cried herself to sleep, while the song and the dance moved joyously on, and the gentle bride, in her robes of white, looked lovingly up to him who was her all in all. Nor were the inmates of the brown house in the hollow forgotten by Alice in her prosperity. From Mr. Huntington she had received a beautiful bouquet; it was all, save his blessing, that he had to give, he said, and Alice prized it the more when she knew how carefully he had watched each opening bud, shielding it alike from storm and noonday heat.
“I will remember him for this,” she thought, and many a timely gift found its way to the brown cottage where it was sorely needed, for as the fall advanced Mr. Huntington grew worse, and to the other labors of his family was added the task of ministering to him and providing for his wants.
As yet, no rent for the cottage had been paid, and Miss Elinor, when she remembered the ugly name which Adelaide had called her, secretly wished she might be turned into the street. But her brother was more forgiving, and when Alice’s birthday came, he gave her the brown house in the hollow, telling her playfully that she must collect the rent of her own property!
“And Iwoulddo it too,” spoke up Miss Elinor, who, nevertheless, was just as sure then of what Alice intended to do as she was next morning when she saw upon her sister’s writing-desk a receipt in full for the rent, and heard Alice bid a servant take it, with sundry other things, to the brown house in the hollow as a Christmas gift from her.
Surely it is more blessed to give than to receive, and the prayer which the sick man breathed for Alice Howland was worth far more to her than the paltry sum which she had lost by doing what she did. Adelaide, too, was softened, for the pangs of poverty were beginning to be keenly felt, and when the servant turned to go, she said to him, with quivering lip:
“Tell Mrs. Howland thatIthank her.”
Another year has nearly gone, and from the windows of the cottage there shines a glimmering light, while gathered round the hearth three lonely women sit. They are now indeed alone—the bed in the corner is empty—the husband and father is gone. When the last May flowers were blooming, and the voice of spring was on the hills, strong men carried him out into the open air, and in the village churchyard, not far from Hugo Warren’s grave, they laid the weary one to rest. WilliamHuntington had saved the life of Richard Howland’s wife, and for this reason his family were not neglected, though Miss Elinor took good care that not enough assistance should be given to them “to keep the trollop, Adelaide, from working.”
In Richard Howland’s home all is joy and gladness, and though the curtains of one room are dropped, and the blinds are closely shut, it is only because the fussy old nurse will have it so, and not because the young mother is in any danger now. In the crib there sleeps a sturdy boy, and the bottom of his cambric petticoat is trimmed with the veritable embroidery which we have often seen in the hands of Miss Elinor, who is the baby’s aunt.
She had fully expected that it would bear her name, but it proved a Betsey Trotwood affair, and when the Christmas bells are ringing, and the star of Bethlehem gleams on the walls of the old stone church, she will stand as sponsor for the little boy, to whom in memory of the blind man now singing to the praise of Bethlehem’s child, will be given the name of “Hugo Warren.”
THE ENDOFALICE AND ADELAIDE.
THE ENDOFALICE AND ADELAIDE.
THE END
OF
ALICE AND ADELAIDE.