Hugh Worthington

Could ’Lina have seen Hugh that morning as he emerged from a fashionable tailor’s shop, she would scarcely have recognized him, so greatly was he improved by the entire new suit in which he had been indulging, and which gave him so stylish an appearance that Hugh for a moment felt uncomfortable, and was glad that one whole hour must elapse before the cars from Cincinnati were due as he could thus become a little accustomed to himself and not be so painfully conscious. The hour passed rapidly away, and its close found Hugh waiting at the terminus of the Lexington and Cincinnati Railroad. A moment more, and the broad platform was swarming with passengers, conspicuous among whom were an old lady and a young, both dressed in black, both closely veiled and both entire strangers, as was evinced by their anxiety to know what they were next to do, or where to go.

“These are ours,” the young lady said, pointing to a huge pile of trunks, distinctly marked “A. J.,” and Hugh drew so near to her that her long black veil swept against his coat, as she held out her checks in her ungloved hand.

Hugh noticed the hand, saw that it was very small and white and fat, but the face he could not see, and he looked in vain for the magnificent hair about which even his mother had waxed eloquent, and which was now put plainly back, so that not a vestige of it was visible. Still Hugh felt sure that this was Alice Johnson, so sure that when he had ascertained the hotel where she would wait for the Frankfort train, he followed on, and entering the back parlor, the door of which was partly closed, sat down as if he too were a traveller, waiting for the train. It never occurred to Hugh that he was acting the part of an eaves-dropper, so anxious he was to see Alice without being seen, and taking up an old paper, he pretended to be greatly interested in its columns, which, for any information he gleaned from them, might as well have been bottom side up.

Meantime, in the room adjoining, Alice divested herself of her dusty wrappings, and taking out her combs and brushes, began to arrange her hair, talking the while to Densie, her nurse, reclining on the sofa. How the tones of that voice thrilled on Hugh’s ear like some forgotten music, heard he knew not when or where, and how still he sat, when at last the conversation turned upon his mother and ’Lina, about whom Alice talked freely, never dreaming of Hugh’s proximity.

It would seem that Alice’s own luxuriant tresses suggested her first remark, for she said to Densie, “That Miss Worthington had beautiful hair, so glossy, and so wavy, too. I wonder she never curls it. It looks as if she might.”

A smile fitted over Hugh’s face as he thought of the tags, and wondered what Alice would say could she see Ad early in the morning, with a red silk handkerchief, tied round her head by way of covering what he called tags, “It would take a steam engine to make Ad’s hair curl,” he said to himself, while Alice continued, “I did not like her eyes; they were too much like coals of fire, when they flashed angrily on that poor Lulu, who evidently was not well posted in the duties of a waiting-maid. If mother had not so decided, I should shrink from being an inmate of Mrs. Worthington’s family. I like her very much, but I am afraid I shall not get on with ’Lina.”

“I know you won’t. I honor your judgment,” was Hugh’s mental comment, while Alice went on.

“And what she told me of her brother was not calculated to impress me favorably.”

Nervously Hugh’s hands grasped each other, and he could distinctly hear the beating of his heart as he leaned forward so as not to lose a single word.

“She seemed trying to prepare me for him by telling how rough he was; how little he cared for etiquette; and how constantly he mortified her with his uncouth manners.”

The perspiration fairly dripped from Hugh’s flushed face, as with clenched fist and a muttered curse upon his white lips he listened while Alice went on.

“Mother never dreamed he was such a man. Indeed, he was prepossessed in his favor, remembering his distress when he lost his little sister, who was mysteriously abducted by her father, and as mysteriously returned. He was a fine, handsome boy, mother said, and she thought I would like him. Bad as he may be, he is evidently a favorite with his negroes, for Lulu resented what her mistress said of him, and, in her peculiar way, told me it was false.”

“Heaven bless Lulu!” Hugh mentally exclaimed. “I’ll set her free the day that she’s eighteen; but Ad, oh, must it go on thus? Will she always be a thorn to me?”

Alice did not hear the sigh of pain or see the mournful look which stole over Hugh’s face. She did not even suspect his presence, and she continued to speak of Spring Bank, wondering if Hugh would be there before his mother returned, half hoping he would not, as she rather dreaded meeting him, although she meant to like him if she could.

Poor Hugh! How he winced and trembled, and wished he was away. How madly the hot blood poured through his swollen veins, and how fast the pain increased about his temples, while little sparks of fire danced before his eyes. Alice should have her wish, he said bitterly. She should not find Spring Bank encumbered with its hateful owner. ’Lina should not find him there when she returned, she should never blush again for him, for he would go away. With a stifled, noiseless moan, Hugh rose to leave the room, glancing once toward the narrow opening in the folding-doors. Then, as if petrified with what he saw, he stood riveted to the spot, his quivering lips apart, his head bent forward, and his eyes almost black, so strangely bright they grew.

Alice’s long, bright hair, was arranged at last, and the soft curls fell about her face, giving to it the same look it had worn in childhood—the look which was graven on Hugh’s heart, as with a pencil of fire; the look he never had forgotten through all the years which had come and gone since first it shone on him; the look he had never hoped to see again, so sure was he that it had been quenched by the waters of Lake Erie. Alice’s face was turned fully toward him. Through the open window at her back the August sunlight streamed, falling on her chestnut hair, and tinging it with the yellow gleam which Hugh remembered so well. For an instant the long lashes shaded the fair round cheek, and then were uplifted, disclosing the eyes of blue, which, seen but once, could never be mistaken, and Hugh was not mistaken. One look of piercing scrutiny at the face unconsciously confronting him, one mighty throb, which seemed to bear away his very life, and then Hugh knew the grave had given up its dead.

She was not lost for she stood there before him. She whose memory had saved him oftentimes from sin. She, for whom he would almost lay him down and die. She, the Golden Haired. Changed, it is true, from a lovely child of thirteen to a far more lovely woman, but not past his recognition. The golden locks his hands had touched but once, and that when the mad waves were dashing over them, had put on a richer, darker tinge, and fell in heavier masses about her brow and neck. The face, too, with its piquant nose, was more mature; only the eyes were wholly unchanged. In them, the same truthful loving light was shining, and the curve of the silken lashes was just the same as when they drooped coyly, beneath the compliment which the tall youth had paid them.

Golden Hair had come back, but, alas, prejudiced against him. She hoped he might be gone. She would be happier if he never crossed her path. “And I never, never will,” Hugh thought, as he staggered from the room and sought a small outer court, whose locality he knew, and where he could be alone to think.

The throbbing in his head had increased in violence, and what before were gleams of fire dancing before his eyes, were now like rings of blood, of which the sultry air seemed full. How sick and faint he was sitting there in that dingy court, with his head upon his hands, half wishing he might die, and so trouble no one any more. He felt that the dearest treasure he had ever possessed was wrested from him—that in losing Golden Hair’s good opinion he had lost all that made life desirable.

“Oh, Adaline,” he murmured, “what made you so cruel to me? I would not have served you so.”

There was a roll of wheels before the door, and Hugh knew by the sound that it was the carriage for the cars. She was going. They would never meet again, Hugh said, and she would never know that the youth who tried to save her life was the same for whose coming they would wait and watch in vain at Spring Bank—the Hugh for whom his mother would weep awhile; and for whose dark fate even Ad might feel a little sorry. She was not wholly depraved—she had some sisterly feeling, and his loss would waken it to life. They would appreciate him after he was gone, and the poor heart which had known so little love throbbed joyfully, as Hugh thought of being loved at last even by the selfish ’Lina.

Fiercely the August sun poured down into that pent up court, creating a drowsiness which Hugh did not care to shake off. Unconsciousness was welcome at any price, and leaning his aching head against the damp, mouldy wall, he fell at last into a heavy sleep.

Meantime Alice and Densie proceeded on their way to the Big Spring station, where Col. Tiffton was waiting for them, according to his promise. There was a shadow in the colonel’s good-humored face, and a shadow in his heart. His idol, Nellie, was very sick, while added to this was the terrible certainty that he alone must pay a $10,000 note on which he had foolishly put his name, because Harney had preferred it. He was talking with Harney when the cars came up, and the villain, while expressing regret that the colonel should be compelled to pay so much for what he never had received, had said with a relentless smile, “But it’s not my fault, you know I can’t afford to lose it.”

From that moment the colonel felt he was a ruined man, but he would not allow himself to appear at all discomposed.

“Wait awhile,” he said; “do nothing till my Nell lives or dies,” and with a sigh as he thought how much dearer to him was his youngest daughter than all the farms in Woodford, he went forward to meet Alice, just appearing upon the platform.

The colonel explained to Alice why she must go to Spring Bank, adding by way of consolation, that she would not be quite as lonely now Hugh was at home.

“Hugh at home!” and Alice shrank back in dismay, feeling for a moment that she could not go there.

But there was no alternative, and after a few tears which she could not repress, she said, timidly,

“What is this Hugh? What kind of a man, I mean?”

She could not expect the colonel to say anything bad of him, but she was not prepared for his frank response.

“The likeliest chap in Kentucky. Nothing dandified about him, to be sure. Wears his trouser legs in his boots as often as any way, and don’t stand about the very latest cut of his coat, but he’s got a heart bigger than an ox—yes, big as ten oxen! I’d trust him with my life, and know it was safe as his own. You’ll like Hugh— Nell does.”

The colonel never dreamed of the comfort his words gave Alice, or how they changed her feelings with regard to one whom she had so dreaded to meet.

“There ’tis; we’re almost there,” the colonel said at last, as they turned off from the highway, and leaning forward Alice caught sight of the roofs and dilapidated chimneys of Spring Bank. “’Tain’t quite as fixey as Yankee houses, that’s a fact, but we that own niggers never do have things so smarted up,” the colonel said, guessing how the contrast must affect Alice, who felt so desolate and homesick as she drew up in front of what, for a time at least, was to be her home.

At a single glance she took in every peculiarity, from the mossy, decaying eaves, where the swallows were twittering their songs, to the group of negroes ranged upon the piazza, staring curiously at her as she alighted, followed by Densie Densmore. Where was Hugh? Surely he should be there to greet her, and with a return of something like the olden terror Alice looked nervously in all directions, as if expecting some vampyre to start out and seize her. But only Aunt Eunice, in trim white cap and black silk apron, appeared, welcoming the strangers with a motherly kindness, which went to Alice’s heart.

Aunt Eunice saw that she looked very tired, and asked if she would not go at once to her room and lie down. Glad to be alone, Alice followed her through the hall and up the stairs to the pleasant chamber in which Hugh had been so interested.

“You are tired and homesick, too, I guess,” Aunt Eunice said, “but you’ll get over it by and by. Spring Bank is a pleasant place, and if Hugh could he’d make it a handsome one. He has the taste.”

“Where is Hugh?” Alice asked.

Aunt Eunice would not say he had gone to Lexington for the sake, perhaps, of seeing her, so she replied,

“He went to town this morning, but he’ll be back pretty soon. He has done his best to make it pleasant for you. You’ll like Hugh. There, try to go to sleep,” and kind Aunt Eunice bustled from the room just as Densie entered it, together with Aunt Chloe. The old negress was evidently playing the hostess to Densie, for she was talking quite loud, and all about “Mas’r Hugh.” “Pity he wasn’t thar, ’twould seem so different; ’tain’t de same house without him. You’ll like Mas’r Hugh,” and she, too glided from the room.

Was this the password at Spring Bank, “You’ll like Mas’r Hugh?” It would seem so, for when at last Hannah brought up the waffles and tea, which Aunt Eunice had prepared, she sat down her tray, and after a few inquiries concerning Alice’s head, which was now aching sadly, she, too, launched forth into a panegyric on Mas’r Hugh, ending, as the rest had done, “You’ll like Mas’r Hugh.”

Alice began to believe she should, and with a silent thanksgiving that the great bugbear of Spring Bank was likely to prove so harmless, she waited and listened for any sounds which might herald Hugh’s approach. But the summer evening waned and the summer night closed quietly around Spring Bank, without bringing its master home. One by one the negroes went to their cabins, and when at last the clock struck twelve, Aunt Eunice, who had been waiting for her boy, lighted her tallow candle and stole noiselessly to her room, where by the open window she sat for a long, long time, listening to the howl of Rover, who, sat upon the steps and filled the air with his lonely cries. Aunt Eunice was not superstitious, but Rover’s howl sounded painfully in her ear, and when at last she crept slowly to her pillow there was a dread fear at her heart lest something had befallen Hugh.