Hugh Worthington

The next morning was cold and frosty, as winter mornings in New England are wont to be, and Adah, shivered involuntarily as from her uncurtained window she looked out upon the bare woods and the frozen fields covered with the snow of yesterday. Oh, how cold and dreary and desolate everything seemed on that December morning; and only Adah’s trust in Him who she knew would not forsake her kept her heart from fainting. Even this could not keep back her tears as she watched the coming of the eastern train, and wished that she could take it and go back to Spring Bank. Wistfully she watched the train which paused for a single moment and then sped on its way, just as there came a knock at the door, and the baggage man appeared.

“If you please, ma’am,” he began, “the Terrace Hill carriage is here—brung over the doctor, who has took the train for New York. I told the driver how’t you wanted to go there. Shall I give him your trunk?”

Adah answered in the affirmative, and then hastened to wrap up Willie. She was ready in a moment and descended to the room where Jim, the driver, stood waiting for her, eyeing her sharply, as if making up his mind with regard to her position.

“A lady,” was his mental comment, and with as much politeness as if she had been Madam Richards herself, he opened the carriage door and held Willie while she entered, asking if she were comfortable, and peering a little curiously in Willie’s face, which puzzled him somewhat. “A near connection, I guess, and mighty pretty, too. I’m most sorry she’s come visiting just now, when old madam and the others is so cross. Them old maids will raise hob with the boy—nice little shaver,” thought the kind hearted Jim, as he hurried up his horses, looking back occasionally, and smiling at Willie, who had forgotten the ache of yesterday, and was crowing with delight as the carriage moved swiftly on.

Once, as Adah caught his good-humored eye, she ventured to say to him, “Has Miss Anna procured a waiting-maid yet?”

There was a comical gleam in Jim’s eye now, for Adah was not the first applicant he had taken up to Terrace Hill, and it was the memory of madam’s reception of them which made him laugh. He never suspected that this was Adah’s business, she was so unlike the others, and he answered frankly, “No, that’s about played out. They don’t come as thick as they did. Madam turned the last one out doors.”

“Turned her out doors?” and Adah’s face was as white as the snow rifts they were passing.

The driver felt that he had gossiped too much, and relapsed into silence, while Adah, in a paroxysm of terror sat with clasped hands and closed eyes, unmindful of Willie’s attempt to make her look at the huge building, just in sight. In her dread of Mrs. Richards she scarcely knew what she was doing, and leaning forward, at last she said, huskily, “Driver, driver, do you think she’ll turn me off too?”

“Turn you off!” and in his surprise at the sudden suspicion which for the first time darted across his mind, Jim brought his horses to a full stop, while he held a parley with the pale, frightened creature, asking so eagerly if Mrs. Richards would turn her off. “Why should she? You ain’t going there for that, be you?”

“Not to be turned out of doors, no,” Adah answered, “but I—I—I want that place so much. I read Miss Anna’s advertisement; but please turn back, or let me get out and walk. I can’t go there now. Is Miss Anna like the rest?”

Jim had recovered himself a little, and though he could not have been more astonished had Adah proved to be a washerwoman, than he was to find her a waiting-maid, it did not abate his respect for her one whit. She had been a lady sure, and as such he should treat her. She had also appealed to him for sympathy, and he would not withhold it.

“Miss Anna’s an angel,” he answered. “If you get her ear, you’re all right; the plague is to get it with them two she cats ready to tear your eyes out. If I’se you, I’d ask to see her. I wouldn’t tell my arrent either, till I did. She’s sick up stairs; but I’ll see if Pamely can’t manage it. That’s my woman—Pamely; been mine for four years, and we’ve had two pair of twins, all dead; so I feel tender towards the little ones,” and Jim glanced at Willie, who had succeeded in making Adah notice the house standing out so prominently against the winter sky, and looking to the poor girl more like a prison than a home.

Only one part of it seemed inviting—the two crimson-curtained windows opening upon a verandah, from which a flight of steps led down into what must be a flower-garden.

“Miss Anna’s room,” the driver said, pointing towards it; and Adah looked out, vainly hoping for a glimpse of the sweet face she had in her mind as Anna’s.

But Anna was sick in bed with a headache, induced by the excitement of her brother’s visit and the harsh words which passed between him and his sisters, he telling them, jokingly at first, that he was tired of getting married, and half resolved to give it up; while they, in return, abused him for fickleness, taunted him with their poverty, and sharply reproached him for his unwillingness to lighten their burden, by taking a rich wife when he could get one.

All this John had repeated to Anna in the dim twilight of the morning, as he stood by her bedside to bid her good-bye; and she, as usual, had soothed him into quiet, speaking kindly of his bride-elect, and saying she should like her.

He had not told her Lily’s story, as he meant to do. There was no necessity for that, for the matter was fixed. ’Lina should be his wife, and he need not trouble Anna further; so he had bidden her adieu, and was gone again, the carriage which bore him away bringing back Adah and her boy.

Jim opened the wide door for her, and ushered her into a little reception room, where the Misses Richards received their morning calls. Drawing a deep arm chair to the fire, Adah sat down before the cheerful blaze, and looked around her with that strange feeling one experiences where everything is new.

Willie seemed perfectly at home, seating himself upon a little stool, covered with some of Miss Eudora’s choicest worsted embroidery, a piece of work of which she was very proud, never allowing anything to touch it lest the roses should be jammed, or the raised leaves defaced. But Willie cared neither for leaves not roses, nor yet for Miss Eudora, and drawing the stool to his mother’s side, he sat kicking his little heels into a worn place of the carpet, which no child had kicked since the doctor’s days of babyhood. The tender threads were fast giving way to the vigorous strokes, when two doors opposite each other opened simultaneously, and both Mrs. Richards and Eudora appeared.

They had heard from Jim that a stranger was there, and as all the cross questionings concerning Adah elicited only the assertion, that “she was a lady,” both had made a slight change in their toilet ere starting for the room which they reached together, Mrs. Richards taking in at once the fit and material of Adah’s traveling dress, deciding that the collar, unbuttoned and shoved back from the throat, was real mink, as were the wristlets on which a pair of small white hands were folded together. She noticed, too, the tiny linen cuffs, with the neat gold buttons which Alice had made Adah wear. Everything was in keeping, and their visitor was a lady. This was her decision, while Eudora noticed only Willie on the bouquet which had cost her so much labor, and the alarming size of that worn spot in the carpet where the little high heeled slipper still was busy. Her first impulse was to seize him by the arm and transfer him to some other locality, but the beauty of his face diverted her attention, and she involuntarily drew a step nearer to the child, fascinated by him, just as her mother was attracted towards Adah.

“Are you—ah, yes—you are the lady who Jim said wished to see me,” the latter began, bowing politely to Adah, who had not yet dared to look up, and who when at last she did raise her eyes, withdrew them at once, more abashed, more frightened, more bewildered than ever, for the face she saw fully warranted her ideas of a woman who could turn a waiting-maid from her door just because she was a waiting-maid.

Something seemed choking Adah and preventing her utterance, for she did not speak until Mrs. Richards said again, this time with a little less suavity and a little more hauteur of manner, “Have I had the honor of meeting you before?”—then with a low gasp, a mental petition for help, Adah rose up and lifting to Mrs. Richards’ cold, haughty face, her soft, brown eyes, where tears were almost visible, answered faintly, “We have not met before. Excuse me, madam, but my business is with Miss Anna, can I see her please?”

There was something supplicating in the tone with which Adah made this request, and it struck Mrs. Richards unpleasantly, making her answer haughtily, “My daughter is sick. She does not see visitors, but I will take your name and your errand.”

Too much confused to remember anything distinctly Adah forgot Jim’s injunction; forgot that Pamelia was to arrange it somehow; forgot everything, except that Mrs. Richards was waiting for her to speak. An ominous cough from Eudora decided her, and then her reason for being there came out. She had seen Miss Anna’s advertisement, she wanted a place, and she had come so far to get it; had left a happy home that she might not be dependent but earn her bread for herself and her little boy. Would they take her message to Anna? Would they let her stay? and Adah’s voice took a tone of wild entreaty as she marked the lowering of madam’s brow, and the perceptible change in her manner when she ascertained that, according to her creed, not a lady but a menial stood before her.

“You say you left a happy home,” and the thin, sneering lips of Eudora were pressed so tightly together that the words could scarcely find egress. “May I ask, if it was so happy, why you left it?”

There was a flush on Adah’s cheek as she replied, “Because it was a home granted at first from charity. It was not mine. The people were poor, and I would not longer be a burden to them.”

“And your husband—where is he?”

This was the hardest question of all, and Adah’s distress was visible as she replied. “Willie’s father left me, and I don’t know where he is.”

An incredulous, provoking smile flitted over Eudora’s face as she returned, “We hardly care to have a deserted wife in our family—it might be unpleasant.”

“Yes,” and the old lady took up the argument, “Anna is well enough without a maid. I don’t know why she put that foolish advertisement in the paper, in answer, I believe, to one equally foolish which she saw about an unfortunate woman with a child.”

“I am that woman. I wrote that advertisement when my heart was heavier than it is now, and God took care of it. He pointed it out to Miss Anna. He caused her to answer it. He sent me here, and you will let me see her. Think if it were your own daughter, pleading thus with some one.”

“That is impossible. Neither my daughter, nor my daughter-in-law, if I had one, could ever come to a servant’s position,” Mrs. Richards replied, not harshly, for there was something in Adah’s manner which rode down her resentful pride; and she might have yielded, but for Eudora, whose hands had so ached to shake the little child, now innocently picking at a bud.

How she did long to box his ears, and while her mother talked, she had taken a step forward more than once, but stopped as often, held in check by the little face and soft blue eyes turned so trustingly upon her, the pretty lips once actually putting themselves toward her, as if expecting a kiss. Eudora could not harm that child sitting on her embroidery as coolly as if he had a right: but she could prevent her mother from granting the stranger’s request; so when she saw signs of yielding, she said, decidedly, “She cannot see Anna, mother. You know how foolish she is, and there’s no telling what fancy she might take.”

“Eudora,” said Mrs. Richards in a low tone, “it might be well for Anna to have a maid, and this one is certainly different from the others who have applied.”

“But we can’t be bothered with a child. It would drive us crazy.”

“Yes, certainly, I did not think of that. A child would be very troublesome,” Mrs. Richards rejoined.

“So madam, you see how impossible it is for us to keep you, but you can of course stay till car-time, when Jim will carry you back to the depot.”

She said this so decidedly that all hope died out of Adah’s heart and she felt as if she were going to faint with the crushing disappointment.

Just then the door bell rang. It was the doctor, come to visit Anna, and both Mrs. Richards and Eudora left the room.

“Oh, why did I come here, and where shall I go?” Adah moaned, as a sense of her lonely condition came over her.

She knew she would be welcome in Kentucky, but Hugh could not afford to have her back, and she had so counted on helping him with her first wages.

“Will my Father in Heaven direct me? will he tell me what to do?” she murmured brokenly, praying softly to herself that a way might be opened for her, a path which she could tread. She could not help herself. All her dependence now was in her God, and in trusting him she found rest at last.

She could not tell how it was, but a quiet peace stole over her, a feeling which had no thought or care for the future, and it had been many nights since she had slept as sweetly or soundly as she did for one-half hour with her head upon the table in that little room at Terrace Hill, Dr. Richard’s home and Anna’s. She did not see the good-humored face which looked in at her a moment, nor hear the whispering in the hall; neither did she know when Willie was coaxed from the room and carried up the stairs into the upper hall, where he was purposely left to himself, while Pamelia went to Anna’s room, where she was to sit for an hour or so, while the ladies had their lunch. Anna’s head was better; the paroxysms of pain were less frequent than in the morning, and she lay upon her pillow, so nearly asleep that she did not hear that unusual sound for Terrace Hill, the patter of little feet in the hall without. Tired of staying by himself and spying the open door, Willie hastened toward it, pausing a moment on the threshold as if to reconnoiter. Something in Anna’s attitude, as she lay with her long fair hair falling over the pillow, must have reminded him of Alice, for with a cry of delight, he ran forward, and patting the white cheek with his soft baby hand, lisped out the word “Arn-tee, Arn-tee,” making Anna start suddenly and gaze at him in wondering surprise.

“Who is he?” she said, drawing him to her at once and pressing a kiss upon his rosy face.

Pamelia told her what she knew of the stranger waiting in the reception room, adding in conclusion, “I believe they said you did not want her, and Jim is to take her to the depot when it’s time. She’s very young and pretty, and looks so sorry, Jim told me.”

“Said I did not want her! How did they know?” and something of the Richards’ spirit flashed from Anna’s eyes. “The child is so beautiful, and he called me, Auntie, too! He must have an auntie somewhere. Little dear! how she must love him! Lift him up, Pamelia!”

The woman obeyed, and Willie was soon nestled close to Anna, who kissed him again, smoothed his curls, pinched his cheek, squeezed his soft hands, and then asked whom he so much resembled.

Pamelia could not tell. The likeness had puzzled her, but she never thought of finding it in her young mistress’ face.

“I must see his mother,” Anna said, as she continued to caress and fondle him. “Perhaps I should like her. At any events I will hear what she has to say. Show her up, Pamelia; but first smooth my hair a little and arrange my pillows,” she added, feeling intuitively that the stranger was not like the others who had come to her on similar errands.

Pamelia complied with her request, brushing back the long, loose locks, and making the bed more smooth and tidy in its appearance; then leaving Willie with Anna, she repaired to the reception room, and rousing the sleeping Adah, said to her hurriedly,

“Please, miss, come quick; Miss Anna wants to see you. The little boy is up there with her.”