Hugh Worthington

For a moment Anna was inclined to think that Pamelia had made a mistake and brought her the wrong individual, but Willie set her right by patting her cheek again, while he called out, “Mamma, arntee.”

The look of interest which Anna cast upon him emboldened Adah to say,

“Excuse him, Miss Richards; he must have mistaken you for a dear friend at home, whom he calls Auntie. I’ll take him down; he troubles you.”

“No, no, please not,” and Anna passed her arm around him. “I love children so much. I ought to have been a wife and mother, my brother says, instead of a useless old maid.”

Adah was too much a stranger to disclaim against Anna’s calling herself old, so she paid no attention to the remark, but plunged at once into the matter which had brought her there. Presuming they would rather be alone, Pamelia had purposely left the room, meeting in the lower hall with lady Richards, who, in much affright, was searching for the recent occupants of the reception room. She had ordered Dixson to carry them some lunch, and Dixson had returned with the news that there was no woman or child to be seen. Where were they then? Had they decamped, taking with them anything valuable which chanced to be in their way? Of course they had, and Eudora in the parlor, and Asenath in the dining room, and Mrs. Richards in the hall, were hunting for missing articles, when Pamelia quieted them by saying, “The lady was in Miss Anna’s room.”

At any other time Mrs. Richards would have corrected her domestic for calling a servant a lady, but she did not mind it now in her surprise.

“How came she there?” she said, angrily, while Pamelia replied, evasively,

“The little boy got up stairs, and, as children will, walked right into Miss Anna’s room. She was taken with him at once, and asked who he was. I told her and she sent for the lady. That’s how it happened.”

It could not now be helped, and Mrs. Richards hurried up to Anna’s chamber, where Willie still was perched by Anna’s pillow, playing with the rings upon her fingers, while Adah, with her bonnet in her lap, sat a little apart, traces of tears and agitation upon her cheeks, but a look of happiness in the eyes fixed so wistfully on Anna’s fair, sweet face.

“Please, mother,” said Anna, motioning her away, “leave us alone awhile. Shut the door, and see that no one comes near.”

Mrs. Richards obeyed, and Anna, waiting until she was out of hearing, resumed the conversation just where it had been interrupted.

“And so you are the one who wrote that advertisement which I read. Let me see—the very night my brother came home from Europe. I remember he laughed because I was so interested, and he accidentally tore off the name to light his cigar so I forgot it entirely. What shall I call you, please?”

Adah was silent a moment and then she answered, “Adah, Adah Hastings, but please do not ask where I came from now. I will tell you of the past, though I did not even mean to do that, but something about you makes me know I can trust you.” And then, amid a shower of tears, in which Anna’s, too, were mingled, Adah told her sad story—told of the mock marriage, the cruel desertion, of Willie’s birth, her utter wretchedness, her attempt at suicide, her final trust in God, her going at last to one who gave her a home, even when he could not afford it; of her accidentally finding Anna’s advertisement, and its result. No names were given, not even that of New York. It was merely the city and the country, and forgetful of the medium through which she first heard of Adah, Anna fancied Boston to have been the scene of her trials.

“But why do you wish to conceal your recent home?” she asked, after Adah had finished. “Is there any reason?”

For a moment Adah was tempted to tell the whole, but when she remembered how on the day of her departure from Spring Bank Mrs. Worthington had asked her not to say any thing disparaging of ’Lina, and admitted that it would be a great relief if the Richards family should not know for the present at least that she came from Spring Bank, she replied,

“At first there was none in particular, save a fancy I had, but there came one afterwards—the request of one who had been kind to me as a dear mother. Is it wrong not to tell the whole?”

“I think not. You have dealt honestly with me so far, and I am sure I can trust you.”

She meant to keep her then. She was not going to send her away, and Adah’s face lighted up with a joy which made it so beautiful that Anna gazed at her in surprise, marveling that any heart could be so hard as to desert that gentle girl.

“Oh, may I stay?” Adah asked eagerly.

“Of course you may. Did you think I would turn you away?” was Anna’s reply; and laying her head upon the white counterpane of the bed, Adah cried passionately; not a wild, bitter cry, but a delicious kind of cry which did her good, even though her whole frame quivered and her low, choking sobs fell distinctly on Anna’s ear.

“Poor child!” the latter said, laying her soft hand on the bowed head. “You have suffered much, but with me you shall find rest. I want you for a companion, rather than a maid. You are better suited for it, and we shall be very happy together, I am sure, though I am so much an invalid. I, too, have had my heart trouble; not like yours, but heavy enough to make me wish I could die. I was young and wayward then. I had not learned patience where alone it is to be found.”

It was seldom that Anna alluded to herself in this way, and to do so to a stranger was utterly foreign to the Richards’ nature. But Anna could not help it. There was something about Adah which interested her greatly. She knew she was above a waiting-maid’s position, that in point of refinement and cultivation she was fully equal to herself; and when she decided to keep her, it was with the determination that she should be made to feel the degradation of her position as little as possible. She could not wholly shield her from her mother’s and sisters’ pride, but she would do what she could, and perhaps some day the recreant lover would be found and brought back to a sense of his duty.

Blessed Anna Richards,—the world has few like her, so gentle, so kind, so lovely, and as no one could long be with her and not feel her influence, so Adah grew calm, at last, and at Anna’s request laid aside her cloak and hat in which she had been sitting.

“Touch that bell, if you please, and ring Pamelia up,” Anna said. “There’s a little room adjoining this, opening into the hall, and also in here—that’s the door, with the bureau against it. I mean to give you that. You will be so near me, and so retired, too, when you like. John—that’s my brother—occupied it when a boy, but as he grew larger he said it was too small. Still, I think it will answer nicely for you.”

Obedient to the ring, Pamelia came, manifesting no surprise when told by Anna to move the dressing bureau back to the corner where it used to stand, to unlock the door and see if the little room was in order. “I know it is,” she said, “I put it so this morning. There’s a fire, too. Miss Anna has forgot that Dr. John slept here last night, because it did not take so long to warm up as his big chamber.”

“I do remember now,” Anna replied. “Mrs. Hastings can go in at once. She must be tired; and, Pamelia, send lunch to her room, and tell your husband to bring up her trunk.”

Again Pamelia bowed and departed to do her young mistress’ bidding, while Adah entered the pleasant room where Dr. Richards had slept the previous night, leaving behind him, as he always did, an odor of cigars. Adah detected the perfume, but it was not disagreeable—on the contrary, it reminded her of George, and for a brief moment there stole over her a feeling as if in some way she were brought very near to him by being in Dr. Richards’ room! What a cosy place it was, and how she wished the people at Spring Bank could know all about it. How thankful they would be, and how thankful she was for this resting place in the protection of sweet Anna Richards. It was better than she had ever dared to hope for, and sinking down by the snowy-covered bed, she murmured inaudibly the prayer of thanksgiving to Him who had led her to Terrace Hill.

There were dark frowns on the faces of the mother and elder sisters when they learned of Anna’s decision with regard to Adah, but Anna’s income, received from the Aunt for whom she was named, gave her a right to act as she pleased, so they contented themselves with a few ill natured remarks concerning her foolishness, and the airs the waiting-maid put on. Adah, or Hastings as they called her, was not their idea of a waiting-maid, and they watched her curiously whenever she came in their sight, wondering at her cultivated manners and how Anna would ever manage one apparently so much her equal. Anna wondered so too, for it was an awkward business, requiring a menial’s service of that lady-like creature, with language so pure and manner so refined, and she would have been exceedingly perplexed had not Adah’s good sense come to the rescue, prompting her to do things unasked, and to do them in such a way that Anna was at once relieved from all embarrassment, and felt that she had found a treasure indeed. She did not join the family in the evening, but kept her room instead, talking with Adah, and caressing and playing with little Willie, who persisted in calling her “Arn-tee,” in spite of all Adah could say.

“Never mind,” Anna answered, laughingly; “I rather like to hear him. No one has ever called me by that name, and maybe never will, though my brother is engaged to be married in the spring. I have a picture of his betrothed there on my bureau. Would you like to see it?”

Adah nodded, and was soon gazing on the dark, haughty face she knew so well, and which even from the casing, seemed to smile disdainfully, upon her, just as the original had often done. There was Ellen Tiffton’s bracelet upon the rounded arm, Ellen’s chain upon the bare neck, while twined among the braids of her hair was something which looked like a bandeau of pearls, and which had been borrowed for the occasion of Mrs. Ellsworth, Irving’s sister.

“What do you think of her?” Anna asked, wondering a little at the expression of Adah’s face.

Adah must say something, and she replied,

“I dare say people think her pretty.”

“Yes; but what do you think? I asked your opinion,” persisted Anna, and thus beset Adah replied at last,

“I think her too showily dressed for a picture. She displays too much jewelry.”

Feeling a little piqued that a stranger should have seized upon the very point which had seriously annoyed herself, Anna began to defend her future sister, never dreaming how much more than herself Adah knew of ’Lina Worthington.

It seemed to Adah like a miserable deceit, sitting there and listening while Anna talked of ’Lina, and she was glad when at last she showed signs of weariness, and expressed a desire to retire for the night.

“Would you mind reading to me from the Bible?” Anna asked, as Adah was about to leave her.

“Oh, no, I’d like it so much,” and bringing her own little Bible to Anna’s bedside, Adah read her favorite chapter, the one which had comforted her so often when life was at its darkest.

And Anna, listening to the sweet, silvery tones reading, “Let not your heart be troubled,” felt her own sorrow grow less, while there went silently up a prayer of thanksgiving to heaven who had sent her such a comfort as Adah Hastings.

The chapter was ended, the little Testament closed, and then for a moment Adah sat as if waiting for Anna to speak. But Anna continued silent, her thoughts intent upon those mansions her elder brother had gone home before her to prepare.

“If you please,” Adah said timidly, bending over the sweet face resting on the pillow, “if you please, may I say the Lord’s Prayer here with you? I shall sleep better for it. I used to say it with——”

She stopped suddenly ere the loved name of Alice had passed her lips, but Anna was kindly unconscious of the almost mistake, and only answered by grasping Adah’s hand, and whispering to her,

“Yes, say it, do.”

Then Adah knelt beside her, and Anna’s fair hand rested, as if in blessing, on her head, as they said together, “Our Father.”

It was a lovely sight, those two girls as it were, the one mistress, the other the maid, yet both forgetting the inequality in that expression of a common faith which made them truly equals; and Eudora, awed at the sight paused a moment on the threshold, and then moved silently away, lest they should know she had been there.

At first Adah’s position at Terrace Hill was a very trying one, but Anna’s unfailing kindness and thoughtfulness shielded her from much that was unpleasant, while the fact that Willie was finding favor in the eyes of those who had considered him an intruder, helped to make her burden easy.

Accustomed to the free range of Spring Bank, Willie asserted the same right at Terrace Hill, going where he pleased, and putting himself so often in Mrs. Richards way, that she began at last to notice him, and if no one was near, to caress the handsome boy. Asenath and Eudora held out longer, but even they were not proof against Willie’s winning ways. His innocent prattle, and the patter of his little feet, heard from day dawn till night, thawed the ice from their hearts, until Asenath, the softer of the two, was once caught by Adah in the very undignified act of playing she was coach horse, while Willie’s whip, given to him by Anna, was snapped in close proximity to her ears; Eudora, too, no longer hid her worsted stool, and as the weeks went on, there gradually came to be prints of little, soiled, dirty fingers—on the sideboard in the dining room, on the hat-stand in the hall, on the table in the parlor, and even on the dressing bureau in Madame’s bed chamber, where the busy, active child had forced an entrance.

It was some weeks ere Adah wrote to Alice Johnson, and when at last she did, she said of Terrace Hill,

“I am happier here than I at first supposed it possible. The older ladies were so proud, that it made me very wretched, in spite of sweet Anna’s kindness. But there has come a perceptible change, and they now treat me civilly, if nothing more, while I do believe they are fond of Willie, and would miss him if he were gone.”

Adah was right in this conjecture; for had it now been optional with the Misses Richards whether Willie should go or stay, they would have kept him there from choice so cheery and pleasant he made the house. Adah was still too pretty, too stylish, to suit their ideas of a servant; but when they found she did not presume at all on her good looks, but meekly kept her place, they dropped the haughty manner they had at first assumed, and treated her with civility if not with kindness.

With Anna it was different. Won by Adah’s gentleness, and purity, she came at last to love her almost as much as if she had been a younger sister. Adah was not a servant to her, but a companion, a friend, with whom she daily held familiar converse, learning from her much that was good, and prizing her more and more as the winter weeks went swiftly by.

She had also grown very confidential, telling Adah much of her past life, talking freely of Charlie Millbrook whose wife she had heard was dead, and for whose return to America she was hoping. She was talking of him one afternoon and blushing like a girl as Adah playfully suggested what might possibly ensue from his coming home, when her mother came in evidently annoyed and disturbed at something.

“I have a letter from John,” she said. “They are to be married the —— day of April, which leaves us only five weeks more, as they will start at once for Terrace Hill. I am so bothered. I want to see you alone,” and she cast a furtive glance at Adah, who left the room, while madam plunged at once into the matter agitating her so much.

She had fully intended going to Kentucky with her son. It would be a good opportunity for seeing the country, besides showing proper respect to her daughter-in-law, but ’Lina had objected, not in words, but in manner, objected, and the doctor had written, saying she must not go, at the same time urging upon her the necessity of having everything in perfect order, and in as good style as possible for his bride.

“I have not the money myself,” he wrote, “and I’ll have to get trusted for my wedding suit, so you must appeal to Anna’s good nature for the wherewithal with which to fix the rooms. It’s downright mean, I know, but she’s the only one of the firm who has money. Do, pray, re-paper them; that chocolate color is enough to give one the blues; and get a carpet too, something lively and cheerful. She may stay with you longer than you anticipate. It is too expensive living here as she would expect to live. Nothing but Fifth Avenue Hotel would suit her, and I cannot ask her for funds at once. I’d rather come to it gradually.”

And this it was which so disturbed Mrs. Richards’ peace of mind. She could not go to Kentucky, and she might as well have saved the money she had expended in getting her black silk velvet dress fixed for the occasion, while worst of all she must have John’s wife there for months, perhaps, whether she liked it or not, and she must also fit up the rooms with paper and paint and carpets, notwithstanding that she’d nothing to do it with, unless Anna generously gave the necessary sum from her own yearly income. This Anna promised to do, suggesting that Adah should make the carpet, as that would save a little.

“I wish, mother,” she added, “that you would let her arrange the rooms altogether. She has exquisite taste, besides the faculty of making the most of things.” Mrs. Richards, too, had confidence in Adah’s taste, and so it was finally arranged that Adah should superintend the bridal rooms, subject of course to the dictation of Madame and her daughters.

At first Eudora and Asenath demurred, but when they saw how competent Adah was, and how modest withal in giving her opinions, they yielded the point, so far as actual overseeing was concerned, contenting themselves with suggestions which Adah followed or not just as she liked.

Frequently doubts crossed her mind as to the future when it might be known that she came from Spring Bank, and knew the expected bride. Would she not be blamed as a party in the deception? Did God think it right for her to keep silent concerning the past? Ought she not to tell Anna frankly that she knew her brother’s betrothed? She did not know, and the harassing anxiety wore upon her faster than all the work she had to do.

The Dr. was expected home for a day before starting for Kentucky, and Adah frequently caught herself wondering if she should see him. She presumed she should not unless it were by accident, neither did she care particularly if she did not, and so on the morning of his expected arrival, when the other members of the household were anxious and watchful, she alone was quiet and self-possessed, doing her duties as usual, and feeling no presentiment of the shock awaiting her. She was in the dining room when the door bell rang, and she heard the tramp of horses’ feet as Jim drove round to the stable. The doctor had come and she must go, but where was Willie? He was with her a moment ago, but she could not see him now. She hoped he was not in the parlor, for she knew it would annoy Eudora, who had more than once said something in her hearing about that “child forever under foot.”

“Willie, Willie,” she called, in a tremor of distress, as she heard his little feet pattering through the hall, together with the rush of other feet as madame, Asenath and Eudora, all came down together to admit their son and brother.

But Willie paid no heed, and as Eudora had said, was directly under foot, when she unlocked the door; his the first form distinctly seen, his the first face which met the doctor’s view, and his fearless baby laugh the first sound which welcomed the doctor home!