Hugh Worthington

Three weeks had passed away since that memorable ride. Mr. Liston after paying to the proper recipients the money due for Mosside, had returned to Boston, leaving the neighborhood to gossip of Alice’s generosity, and to wonder how much she was worth. It was a secret yet that Lulu and Muggins were hers, but the story of Rocket was known, and numerous were the surmises as to what would be the result of her familiar intercourse with Hugh. Already was the effect of her presence visible in his gentleness of manner, his care to observe all the little points of etiquette never practiced by him before, and his attention to his own personal appearance. His trousers were no longer worn inside his boots, or his soft hat jammed into every conceivable shape, while Ellen Tiffton, who came often to Spring Bank, and was supposed to be good authority, pronounced him almost as stylish looking as any man in Woodford.

It is strange how much dress and a little care as to its adjustment can do for one. It certainly did wonders for Hugh, who knew how much he was improved, and to whose influence he owed it, just as he knew of the mighty love he bore this gentle girl, working so great a good at Spring Bank.

To Hugh, Alice was every thing, and sometimes the thought crossed his mind that possibly he might win her for himself, but it was repudiated as soon as formed, for it could not be, he said, that one like Alice Johnson should ever care for him; and so, between hope and a kind of blissful despair, Hugh lived on until the evening of the day when Adah left Spring Bank for Terrace Hill. She had intended going immediately after the sale at Mosside, but Willie had been ailing ever since, and that had detained her. But now she was really gone; Hugh had accompanied her to Frankfort, seeing her safely off, and spending the entire day in town, so that it was rather late when he returned to Spring Bank. Being unusually fatigued Mrs. Worthington had already retired and as Alice was not in sight, Hugh sat down alone by the parlor fire.

He was sorry Adah was gone and he missed her sadly, but it was not so much of her he was thinking as of Alice. During the last few days she had puzzled him greatly. Her manner had been unusually kind, her voice unusually soft and low when she addressed him, while several times he had met her eyes fixed upon him with an expression he could not fathom, and which had made his heart beat high as hope whispered of what might perhaps be, in spite of all his fears. Poor Hugh! he never dreamed that Alice’s real feelings towards him during those few days were those of pity, as she saw how silent and moody he grew, and attributed it to his grief at parting with Adah. She was of course very dear to him, she supposed, and Alice’s kind heart went out toward him with a strong desire to comfort him, to tell him how she, as far as possible, would fill Adah’s place. Had she dreamed of his real feelings, she never would have done what she did, but she was wholly unconscious of it, and so when, late that night, she returned to the parlor in quest of something she had left, and found him sitting there alone, she paused a moment on the threshold, wondering if she had better join him or go away. His back was toward her, and he did not hear her light step, so intently was he gazing into the burning grate, and trying to frame the words he should say if ever he dared tell Alice Johnson of his love.

There was much girlish playfulness in Alice’s nature, and gliding across the carpet, she clasped both her hands before his eyes, and exclaimed—

“A penny for your thoughts.”

Hugh started as suddenly as if some apparition had appeared before him, and blushing guiltily, clasped and held upon his face the little soft, warm hands which did not tremble, but lay still beneath his own. It was Providence which sent her there, he thought; Providence indicating that he might speak, and he would.

“I am glad you have come. I wish to talk with you,” he said, drawing her down into a chair beside him, and placing his arm lightly across its back. “What sent you here, Alice? I supposed you had retired,” he continued, bending upon her a look which made her slightly uncomfortable.

But she soon recovered, and answered laughingly—

“I came for my scissors, and finding you here alone, thought I would startle you, but you have not told me yet of what you were thinking.”

“Of the present, past and future,” he replied; then letting his hand drop from the back of the chair upon her shoulder, he continued, “May I talk freely with you? May I tell you of myself, what I was, what I am, what I hope to be?”

His hand upon her shoulder made Alice a little uneasy but he had put it there in such a quiet, matter of course way, that he might think her prudish if she objected. Still her cheeks burned, and her voice was not quite steady, as, rising from her seat, she said,

“I like a stool better than this chair. I’ll bring it and sit at your feet. There, now I am ready;” and seating herself at a safe distance from him, Alice waited for him to commence.

But Hugh was in no hurry then; that little act of hers had chilled him somewhat. Perhaps she did not like his arm around her, perhaps she never would, and that was the saddest thought of all. She had never looked to him as she did to-night, sitting there beside him with the firelight falling upon her bright fair hair curling so gracefully about her forehead and neck.

On the high mantel a large mirror was standing, and glancing towards it, Hugh caught the reflection of both their figures, and with his usual depreciation of himself; felt the contrast bitterly. This beautiful young girl could not care for him; it were folly to think of it, and he sat for a moment silent, forgetting that Alice was waiting for him to speak. She grew tired of waiting at last, and turning her eyes upon him, said gently,

“You seem unhappy about something. Is it because Adah has gone? I am sorry, too; but, Hugh, I will do what I can to fill her place. I will be the sister you need so much. Don’t look so wretched; it makes me feel badly to see you.”

Alice’s sympathy was getting the better of her again, and she moved her stool nearer to Hugh, while she involuntarily laid her hand upon his knee. That decided him; and while his heart throbbed almost to bursting, he began by saying,

“I am in rather a gloomy mood to-night, I’ll admit. I do feel Adah’s leaving us very much; but that is not all. I have wished to talk with you a long time—wished to tell you how I feel. May I, Alice?—may I open to you my whole heart, and show you what is there?”

For a moment Alice felt a thrill of fear—a dread of what the opening of his heart to her might disclose. Then she remembered Golden Hair, whose name she had never heard him breathe, save as it passed his delirious lips. It was of her he would talk; he would tell her of that hidden love whose existence she felt sure was not known at Spring Bank. Alice would rather not have had this confidence, for the deep love-life of such as, Hugh Worthington seemed to her a sacred thing; but he looked so white, so care-worn, so much as if it would be a relief, that Alice answered at last:

“Yes, Hugh, you may tell, and I will listen.”

She moved her stool still nearer to him, beginning now to feel anxious herself to hear of one whose very memory had influenced Hugh for good.

So sure was Alice that it was Golden Hair of whom he would talk, that when, by way of a commencement, he said to her, “Can you guess what I would tell you?” she answered involuntarily:

“I guess it is of somebody you have loved, or do love still.”

There was no tremor in her voice, no flush in her cheek, no drooping of the long lashes to cover her confusion; and yet deluded Hugh believed she knew his secret, and alas! believed his love reciprocated; else why should she thus encourage him to go on! It was the happiest moment Hugh had ever known, and for a time he could not speak, as he thought how strange it was that a joy so perfect as this should come to be his lot. Poor, poor Hugh!

He began at last by telling Alice of his early boyhood, uncheered by a single word of sympathy save as it came from dear Aunt Eunice, who alone understood the wayward boy whom people thought so bad.

“Then mother and Ad came to Spring Bank, and that opened to me a new era. In my odd way, I loved my mother so much—but Ad—say, Alice, is it wicked in me if I can’t love Ad?”

“She is your sister,” was Alice’s reply; and Hugh rejoined:

“Yes—my sister. I’m sorry for it, even if it’s wicked to be sorry. I tried to do my best with her—tried to be as gentle as I could; but she did not understand me. She gave me back only scorn and bitter words, until my heart closed up against her, and I harshly judged all others by her—all but one”; and Hugh’s voice grew very low and tender in its tone, while Alice felt that now he was nearing the Golden Hair.

“Away off in New England there was a pure white blossom growing, a blossom so pure, so fair, that very few were worthy even so much as to look upon it, as day by day it unfolded some new beauty. There was nothing to support this flower but a single parent stalk, which snapped asunder one day, and Blossom was left alone. It was a strange idea, transplanting it to another soil; for the atmosphere of Spring Bank was not suited to such as she. But she came, and, as by magic, the whole atmosphere was changed—changed at least to one—the bad, wayward Hugh, who dared to love this fair young girl with a love stronger than his life. For her he would do anything, and beneath her influence he did improve rapidly. He was conscious of it himself—conscious of a greater degree of self-respect—a desire to be what she would like to have him.

“She was very, very beautiful; more so than anything Hugh had ever looked upon. Her face was like an angel’s face, and her hair—much like yours, Alice;” and he laid his hand on the bright head, now bent down, so that he could not see that face so like an angel’s.

The little hand, too, had slidden from his knee, and, fast-locked within the other, was buried in Alice’s lap, as she listened with throbbing heart to the story Hugh was telling.

“In all the world there was nothing so dear to Hugh as this young girl. He thought of her by day and dreamed of her by night, seeing always in the darkness her face, with its eyes of blue bending over him—hearing the music of her voice, like the falling of distant water, and even feeling the soft touch of her hands as he fancied them laid upon his brow. She was good, too, as beautiful; and it was this very goodness which won on Hugh so fast, making him pray often that he might be worthy of her—for, Alice, he came at last to dream that he could win her; she was so kind to him—she spoke to him so softly and, by a thousand little acts, endeared herself to him more and more.

“Heaven forgive her if she misled him all this while; but she did not. It were worse than death to think she did—to know I’ve told her this in vain—have offered her my heart only to have it thrust back upon me as something she does not want. Speak, Alice! in mercy, speak! Can it be that I’m mistaken?”

Something in her manner had wrung out this cry of fear and now, bending over her as she sat with her face buried in her lap he waited for her answer. It had come like a thunderbolt to Alice, that she, and not Golden Hair, was the subject of his story—she the fair blossom growing among the New England hills. She did not guess that they were one and the same, for Hugh would not have her swayed ever so slightly by gratitude.

Alice saw how she had led him on, and her white lips quivered with pain, for, alas! she did not love him as he should be loved, and she could not deceive him, though every fibre of her heart bled and ached for him. Lifting up her head at last she exclaimed,

“You don’t mean me, Hugh? Oh, you don’t mean me?”

“Yes, darling,” and he clasped in his own the hand raised imploringly toward him. “Yes, darling, I mean you. I love you and you must be mine. I shall die without you. You can mould me at your will. You can teach me the narrow way I want to find, Alice, more than you guess. We will walk it hand in hand, yours the stronger one at first, mine the stronger last, when I’ve been taught by you. Will you, Alice, will you be my wife, my darling, my idol? I know I have no money, just as I know you do not care for that. You will not prize me less for daring to ask you, an heiress, to be mine. I have no money, no position, but I have willing hands and a loving heart, which will answer in their stead. Will you be my wife?”

Alice had never before heard a voice so earnest, so full of meaning, as the one now pleading with her to be what she could not be, and a pang keener than any she had ever felt, or believed it possible for her to feel, shot through her heart as the dread conviction was forced upon her that she was to blame for all this. She had misled him, unwittingly, it is true, but that did not help him now; the harm, the wrong were just the same, and they loomed up before her in all their appalling magnitude. What could she do to atone? Alas! there was nothing except to be what he asked, and that she could not do. She could not be Hugh’s wife. She would as soon have married her brother, if she had one. But she must do something, and sliding from her stool she sank upon her knees—her proper attitude—upon her knees before Hugh, whom she had wronged so terribly, and burying her face in Hugh’s own hands, she sobbed,

“Oh, Hugh, Hugh, you don’t know what you ask. I love you dearly, but only as my brother—believe me, Hugh, only as a brother. I wanted one so much—one of my own, I mean; but God denied that wish, and gave me you instead. I did not like you at first—that is, before I saw you. I was sorry you were here, but I got over that. I pitied first, and then I came to like or love you so much, but only as my brother; and if I let you see that love, it was because it is my nature to caress those whom I love—because I thought you understood that ’twas only as my brother. I cannot be your wife. I—oh, Hugh, forgive me for making you so unhappy. I’m sorry I ever came here, but I cannot go away. I’ve learned to love my Kentucky home. Let me stay just the same. Let me really be what I thought I was, your sister. You will not send me away?”

She looked up at him now, but quickly turned away, for the expression of his white, haggard face was more than she could bear, and she knew there was a pain, keener than any she had felt, a pang which must be terrible, to crush a strong man as Hugh was crushed.

“Forgive me, Hugh,” she said, as he did not speak, but sat gazing at her in a kind of stunned bewilderment. “You would not have me for your wife, if I did not love you?”

“Never, Alice, never!” he answered; “but it is not any easier to bear. I don’t know why I asked you, why I dared hope that you could think of me. I might have known you could not. Nobody does. I cannot win their love. I don’t know how.”

He put her gently from him, and arose to leave the room, but something mastered his will, and brought him back again to where she knelt, her face upon his chair, as she silently prayed to know just what was right. Something she had said about his sending her away rang in his ears, and he felt that the knowing she was gone would be the bitterest dreg in all the bitter cup, so he said to her, entreatingly—

“Alice, I know you cannot be my wife—I do not expect it now, but I want you here all the same. Promise that you will stay, at least until my rival claims you.”

Alice neither looked up nor moved, only sobbed piteously, and this more than aught else helped Hugh to choke down his own sorrow for the sake of comforting her. The sight of her distress moved him greatly, for he knew it was grief that she had so cruelly misled him.

“Alice, darling,” he said again, this time as a mother would soothe her child. “It hurts me more to see you thus than your refusal did. I am not wholly selfish in my love. I’d rather you should be happy than to be happy myself. I would not for the world take to my bosom an unwilling wife. I should be jealous even of my own caresses, jealous lest the very act disgusted her more and more. You did not mean to deceive me. It was I that deceived myself. I forgive you fully, and ask you to forget that to-night has ever been. It cut me sorely at first, Alice, to hear you tell me so, but I shall get over it; the wound will heal.”

He said this falteringly, for the wound bled and throbbed at every pore, but he would comfort her. She should not know how much he suffered. “The wound will heal. Even now I am feeling better, can almost see my way through the darkness.”

Poor Hugh! He mentally asked forgiveness for that falsehood told for her. He could not see his way through,—his brain was giddy, and his soul sick with that dull dreadful pain which is so hard to be borne, but he could hide his misery, for her sake, and he would.

“Please, don’t cry,” he said, stooping over her, and lifting her tenderly up. “I shall get over it. A man can bear better than a woman, and even if I should not, I would rather have loved and lost you, than not to have known and loved you at all. The memory of what might have been will keep me from much sin. There, darling, let me wipe the tears away, let me hear you say you are better.”

“Oh, Hugh, don’t, you break my heart. I’d rather you should scorn or even hate me for the sorrow I have brought. Such unselfish kindness will kill me,” Alice sobbed, for never had she been so touched as by this insight into the real character of the man she had refused.

He would not hold her long in his arms, though it were bliss to do so, and putting her gently in the chair, he leaned his own poor sick head upon the mantel, while Alice watched him with streaming eyes and an aching heart which even then half longed to give itself into his keeping. She did not love him with a wife-like love, she knew but she might in time, and she pitied him so much. And Hugh had need for pity. He had tried to quiet her; had said it was no matter, that he should get over it, that he need not care, but the agony it cost him to say all this was visible in every feature, and Alice looked at him with wondering awe as he stood there silently battling with the blow he would not permit to smite him down.

At last it was Alice’s turn to speak, hers the task to comfort. The prayer she had inwardly breathed for guidance to act aright had not been unheard, and with a strange calmness she arose, and laying her hand on Hugh’s arm, bade him be seated, while she told him what she had to say. He obeyed her, sinking into the offered chair, and then standing before him, she began,

“You do not wish me to go away, you say. I have no desire to go, except it should be better for you. Even though I may not be your wife, I can, perhaps, minister to your happiness; and, Hugh, we will forget to-night, and be to each other what we were before, brother and sister. There must be no particular perceptible change of manner, lest others should suspect what has passed between us. Do you agree to this?”

He bowed his head, and Alice drew a step nearer to him, hesitating a moment ere she continued.

“You speak of a rival. But believe me, Hugh, you have none, there is not a man in the wide world whom I like as much as I do you, and Hugh——” the little hand pressed more closely on Hugh’s shoulder, while Alice’s breath came heavily, “And, Hugh, it may be, that in time I can conscientiously give you a different answer from what I did to-night. I may love you as your wife should love you; and—and, if I do, I’ll tell you so at the proper time.”

There was a gleam of sunshine now to illumine the thick darkness, and, in the first moments of his joy Hugh wound his arm around the slight form, and tried to bring it nearer to him. But Alice stepped back and answered,

“No, Hugh, that would be wrong. It may be I shall never come to love you save as I love you now, but I’ll try—I will try,” and unmindful of her charge to him Alice parted the damp curls clustering around his forehead, and looked into his face with an expression which made his heart bound and throb with the sudden hope, that even now she loved him better than she supposed.

It was growing very late, and the clock in the adjoining room struck one ere Alice bade Hugh good night, saying to him,

“No one must know of this. We’ll be just the same to each other as we have been.”

“Yes, just the same, if that can be,” Hugh answered, and so they parted, Alice to her room, where, in the solitude, she could pray for that guidance without which she was nothing, and Hugh to his, where he, too, prayed, this night with a greater earnestness than ever he had done before—not for Golden Hair to come back, as of old, but that he might be led into the path she trod, and so be worthy of her, should the glad time ever come when she might be his.

Hugh had not yet learned the faith which asks for good, that God shall be glorified rather than our own desires fulfilled; but he who prays, ever so imperfectly, is better for it, because the very act of praying implies a faith in somebody to hear; and so soothed into comparative quiet by the petition offered, Hugh fell into a quiet slumber, and slept on undisturbed until Muggins came to wake him.