Hugh Worthington

The night express from Rochester to Albany was crowded. Every car was full, and the clamorous bell rang out its first summons for all to get on board, just as a frightened-looking woman, bearing in her arms a sleeping boy, stepped upon the platform of the rear carriage, and looked wistfully in at the long, dark line of passengers filling every seat. Wearily, anxiously, she had passed through every car, beginning at the first, her tired eyes scanning each occupant, as if mutely begging some one to have pity on her ere exhausted nature failed entirely, and she sank fainting to the floor. None had heeded that silent appeal, though many had marked the pallor of her girlish face, and the extreme beauty of the baby features nestling in her bosom. She could not hold out much longer, and when she reached the last car and saw that too was full, the chin quivered, and a tear glistened in the long eyelashes, sweeping the colorless cheek.

Slowly she passed up the aisle until she came to where there was a vacant seat, only a gentleman’s shawl was piled upon it, and the gentleman looking so unconcernedly from the window, and apparently oblivious of her close proximity to him, would not surely object to her sitting there. How the tired woman did wish he would turn toward her and give some token that she was welcome. But no, his eyes were only intent on the darkness without; he had no care for her, though he knew she was there. He had seen the shrinking figure with its sleeping burden, as it came in, and the selfishness which was so much a part of his whole being, prompted him to cover the seat as far as possible with his long limbs, while leaning his elbow upon the window stool, he seemed absorbed in something outside, peering into the foggy darkness, for it was a rainy winter’s night, as persistently as if there were standing before him no half-fainting form, ready to sink down at his feet.

The oil lamp was burning dimly, and the girl’s white face was lost in the shadow, when the young man first glanced at her, so he had no suspicion of the truth, though a most undefinable sensation crept over him when he heard the timid footfall, and the rustling of female garments as Adah Hastings drew near with her boy in her arms.

He heard its faint breathings, and half turned his head just as Adah passed on, her weary sigh falling distinctly on his ear, but failing to awaken a feeling of remorse for his unmanly conduct.

“I’m glad she’s gone. I can’t be bothered,” was his mental comment as he settled himself more comfortably, feeling a glow of satisfaction when the train began to move, and he knew no more women with their babies would be likely to trouble him.

With that first heavy strain of the machinery Adah lost her balance, and would have fallen headlong but for the friendly hand put forth to save the fall.

“Take my seat, miss. It is not very convenient, but it is better than none. I can find another.”

It was the friendliest voice imaginable which said these words to Adah, and the kind tone in which they were uttered wrung the hot tears from her eyes. She did not look up at him. She only knew that a gentleman had risen and was bending over her; that a hand, was laid upon her shoulder, putting her gently into the narrow seat next the saloon; that the same hand took from her and hung above her head the little satchel which was so much in her way, and that the manly voice, so sympathetic in its tone, asked if she would be too warm, so near the fire.

She did not know there was a fire. She only knew that she had found a friend, and with the delicious feeling of safety which the knowledge brought, the tension of her nerves gave way, and burying her head on Willie’s face she wept for a moment silently. Then lifting it up she tried to thank her benefactor, looking now at him for the first time, and feeling half overawed to find him so tall, so stylish, so exceedingly refined in every look and action. Why had he cared for her? What was there about her to win attention from such as he? Nothing; his kindness was natural; it sprang from the great warm heart, shining out from the eyes, seen beneath the glasses which he wore!

Irving Stanley was a passenger on that train, bound for Albany. Like Dr. Richards, he had hoped to enjoy a whole seat, even though it were not a very comfortable one, but he would not resort to meanness for the sake of his own ease; so when he saw how pale and tired Adah was, he rose at once to offer his seat. He did not then observe her face, or dress, or manner. He only saw she was a delicate woman, travelling alone, and that was enough to elicit his attention. He heard her sweet, low voice as she tried to thank him, and felt intuitively that she was neither coarse nor vulgar. He saw, too, the little, soft, white hands, holding so fast to Willie. Was he her brother or her son? She was young to be his mother; but, there was no mistaking the mother-love shining out from the brown eyes turned so quickly upon the boy when he moaned, as if in pain, and seemed about to waken.

“He’s been sick most all the way,” she said, holding him closer to her bosom. “There’s something the matter with his ear. Do children ever die with the ear-ache?” and the eyes, swimming in tears, sought the face of Irving Stanley as eagerly as if on his decision hung little Willie’s life.

Irving Stanley hardly thought they did. At all events he never heard of such a case, and then, after suggesting a remedy, should the pain return, he left his new acquaintance and walked down the car in quest of another seat.

“A part of your seat, sir, if you please,” and Irving’s voice was rather authoritative than otherwise, as he claimed the half of what the doctor was monopolizing.

It was of no use for Dr. Richards to pretend he was asleep, for Irving spoke so quietly, so like a man who knew what he was doing, that the doctor was compelled to yield, and turning about, recognized his Saratoga acquaintance. The recognition was mutual, and after a few natural remarks, Irving explained how he had given his seat to a lady whose little child was suffering from the ear-ache.

“By the way, doctor,” he added, “you ought to know the remedy for such ailments. Suppose you prescribe in case it returns.”

“I know but little about babies or their aches” the Dr. answered, just as a scream of pain reached his ear, accompanied by a suppressed effort on the mother’s part to soothe her suffering child.

Irving Stanley felt the sneer implied in the doctor’s words, and it kept him silent for a time, while scream after scream filled the car, and roused every sleeping occupant to ask what was the matter. Some, and among them the doctor, cursed the child thus disturbing their slumbers; some wished it anything but complimentary wishes; some felt and evinced real sympathy, while nearly all glanced backward at the dark corner where the poor mother sat bending over her infant, unmindful of the many curious looks cast upon her. The pain must have been intolerable, for the little fellow, in his agony, writhed from Adah’s lap and sank upon the floor, his whole form quivering with anguish as he cried, “Oh, ma! ma! ma ma!”

The hardest heart could scarce withstand that scene and many now gathered near, offering advice and help while even Dr. Richards experienced a most unaccountable sensation as that baby cry smote on his ear. Foremost among those who offered aid was Irving Stanley. His was the voice which breathed comfort to the weeping Adah, his the hand extended to take up little Willie, his the arms which held and soothed the struggling boy, his the mind which thought of everything available that could possibly bring ease, until at last the outcries ceased and Willie lay quietly in his arms.

“I’ll take him now,” and Adah put out her hands; but Willie refused to go, and clung closer to Mr. Stanley, who said, laughingly, “You see that I am preferred. He is too heavy for you to hold. Please trust him to me, awhile.”

And Adah yielded to that voice, and leaning against the window, rested her tired head upon her hand, while Irving carried Willie to his seat beside the doctor. There was a slight sneer on the doctor’s face as he saw the little boy, but Irving Stanley he knew was not one whose acts could be questioned by him; so he contented himself with saying, “You must be fond of young ones.”

“Fond of children,” Irving replied, laying great stress on the word children. “Yes, I am, very; and even if I were not, pity would prompt me to take this one from his mother, who is so tired, besides being very pretty, and that you knows goes far with us men.

“You don’t like children, I reckon,” Irving continued, as the doctor drew back from the little feet which unconsciously touched his lap.

“No, I hate them,” was the answer, spoken half savagely, for at that moment a tiny hand was deliberately laid on his, as Willie showed a disposition to be friendly. “I hate them,” and the little hand was pushed rudely off.

Wonderingly the soft, large eyes of the child looked up to his. Something in their expression riveted the doctor’s gaze as by a spell. There were tears in the baby’s eyes, and the pretty lip began to quiver. The doctor’s finer feelings, if he had any, were touched, and muttering to himself, “I’m a brute,” he slouched his riding cap still lower down upon his forehead, and turning away to the window, relapsed into a gloomy reverie, in which thoughts of Lily were strangely mingled with thoughts of the dark-haired ’Lina, his bride elect, waiting for him in New York. The Dr. was more than half tired of his engagement, and ere returning to the city, he was going to Terrace Hill to have a long talk with Anna, to tell her frankly of his fears that ’Lina never could be congenial to them, and perhaps he would tell her the whole of Lily’s story.

But how should he commence a tale which would shock his gentle sister so terribly? He did not know, and while devising the best method, he forgot the two little feet which in their bright-colored hose were stretched out until they rested entirely upon his lap, while the tiny face was nestled against Irving Stanley’s fatherly bosom, where it lay for hours, until Adah, waking from her refreshing slumber, came forward to relieve him.

“You had better not go on this morning. You ought to rest,” Irving said to Adah, when at last the train stopped in Albany. “I have a few moments to spare. I will see that you are comfortable. You are going to Snowdon, I think you said,” and taking Willie in his arms he conducted Adah to the nearest hotel.

There were but a few moments ere he must leave, and standing by her side, he said, “The meeting with you has been to me a pleasant incident, and I shall not soon forget it. I trust we may meet again. There is my card,” and he placed it in her hand.

At a glance Adah read the name, knowing now who had befriended her. It was Irving Stanley, second cousin to Hugh, and ’Lina was with his sister in New York. He was going there, he might speak of her, and if she told her name, her miserable story would be known to more than it was already. It was a false pride which kept Adah silent when she knew that Irving Stanley was waiting for her to speak, and while she was struggling to overcome it, Irving’s time expired and he must go if he would not be left. Taking her hand he said good-bye, while she tried again to thank him for his great kindness to her; but she did not tell her name, and as Irving would not ask it, he left her without the knowledge, thinking of her often as he went his way to New York, and wondering if they would ever meet again.

In the office below, Dr. Richards, who had purposely stopped for the day in Albany, smoked his expensive cigars, ordered oysters and wine sent to his room—wrote an explanatory note to ’Lina—feeling half tempted to leave out the “Dear,” with which he felt constrained to preface it—thought again of Lily—thought once of the strange woman and the little boy, in whom Irving Stanley had been so interested, wondered where they were going, and who it was the boy looked a little like—thought of Anna in connection with that boy; and then, late in the afternoon, sauntered down to the Boston depot, and took his seat in the car which, at about 10 o’clock that night, would deposit him at Snowdon. There were no children to disturb him, for Adah, unconscious of his proximity, was in the rear car—weary, and nervous with the dread which her near approach to Terrace Hill inspired. What if, after all, Anna should not want her? And this was a possible contingency, notwithstanding Alice had been so sanguine.

“I can find employment somewhere—God will direct me,” she whispered softly, drawing her veil over her tired face, and thinking, she scarcely knew why, of Irving Stanley.

Darkly the December night closed in, and still the train kept on, until at last Danville was reached, and she must alight, as the express did not stop again until it reached Worcester. With a chill sense of loneliness, and a vague, confused wish for the one cheering voice which had greeted her ear since leaving Spring Bank, Adah stood upon the snow-covered platform, holding Willie in her arms, and pointing out her trunk to the civil baggage man, who, in answer to her inquiries as to the best means of reaching Terrace Hill, replied, “You can’t go there to-night; it is too late. You’ll have to stay in the tavern kept right over the depot, though if you’d kept on the train there might have been a chance, for I see the young Dr. Richards aboard; and as he didn’t get out, I guess he’s coaxed or hired the conductor to leave him at Snowdon.”

The baggage man was right in his conjecture, for the doctor had persuaded the polite conductor, whom he knew personally, to stop the train at Snowdon; and while Adah, shivering with cold, found her way up the narrow stairs into the rather comfortless quarters where she must spend the night, the doctor was kicking the snow from his feet and talking to Jim, the coachman from Terrace Hill.