Hugh Worthington

They were not early risers at Terrace Hill, and the morning following Adah’s flight Anna slept later than usual; nor was it until Willie’s cry, calling for mamma, was heard, that she awoke, and thinking Adah had gone down for something, bade Willie come to her. Putting out her arms she lifted him carefully into her own bed, and in so doing brushed from her pillow the letters left for her. But it did not matter then, and for a full half hour she lay waiting for Adah’s return. Growing impatient at last, she stepped upon the floor, her bare feet touching something cold, something which made her look down and find that she was stepping on a letter—not one, but two—and in wondering surprise she turned them to the light, half fainting with excitement, when on the back of the first one examined, she saw the old familiar handwriting, and knew that Charlie had written.

Anna had hardly been human had she waited an instant ere she tore open the envelope and learned that Charlie had returned from India and had not forgotten her. The love of his early manhood had increased with his maturer years, and he could not be satisfied until he heard from her that he was remembered and still beloved, that if this letter did not bring a reply he should come himself and brave the proud woman who guarded the entrance to Terrace Hill.

This was Charlie’s letter, this what Anna read, and delicious tears of joy flowed over her beautiful face, as pressing the paper to her lips, she murmured,

“Dear Charlie! darling Charlie! I thank the kind Father for bringing him at last to me.”

Hiding it in her bosom, Anna took the other letter, and throwing her shawl around her, sat down by the window and read it through—read it once, read it twice, read it thrice, and then——Sure never were the inmates of Terrace Hill thrown into so much astonishment and alarm as they were that April morning, when, in her cambric night robe, her long hair falling unbound about her shoulders, and her bare feet, gleaming white and cold upon the floor, Miss Anna went screaming from room to room, demanding of the startled inmates if they had seen Adah Hastings—if they knew where she had gone—bidding Jim find her at his peril, telling Pamelia to join in the search, and asking her wonder-stricken mother and sisters “if they had any idea who it was that had been an inmate of their house for so many weeks.”

“Come with me,” she almost screamed, and dragging her mother to her room, where Willie sat up in bed, looking curiously about him and uncertain whether to cry or to laugh, she exclaimed, “Look at him, mother, and you, too, Asenath and Eudora!” turning to her sisters, who had followed. “Tell me who is he like?—Mother, surely you ought to know—ought to recognize your own son’s offspring, for he is, he certainly is, John’s child! and Adah was Lily, the young girl whom you forbade him to marry! Listen, mother, you shall listen to what your pride has done!” and grasping the bewildered Mrs. Richards by the arm, Anna held her fast while she read aloud the letter left by Adah.

Mrs. Richards fainted. It was the best thing under the circumstance which she could do, as it gave them all a little diversion from the exciting matter in hand. She soon recovered, however, and listened eagerly while Anna repeated all her brother had ever told her of Lily.

“I believe it is true,” she said, and taking the letter she read it for herself, feeling an added respect for Adah, as she marked the flashes of pride gleaming out here and there, and showing themselves in the resentful manner with which she spurned the thought of now being the doctor’s wife, except it were for Willie.

Poor Willie! He was there in the bed, looking curiously at the four women, none of whom seemed quite willing to own him, save Anna. Her heart took him in at once. He had been given to her. She would be faithful to the trust, and folding him in her arms, she cried softly over him, kissing his little face and calling him her darling.

“Anna, how can you fondle such as he?” Eudora asked, rather sharply, for her nature was the hardest, coldest of them all, and rebelled against the innocent boy.

“He is our brother’s child. Our blood is in his veins, and that is why we all must love him. Mother, you will not turn from your grandson,” and Anna held the boy toward her mother, who did not refuse to take him.

Asenath always went with her mother, and at once showed signs of relenting by laying her hand on Willie’s head and calling him “poor boy.” Eudora held out longer, but Anna knew she would yield in time, and satisfied with Willie’s reception so far, went on to speak of Adah. Where was she, did they suppose, and what were the best means of finding her.

At this Mrs. Richards demurred, as did Asenath with her.

“Adah was gone, and they had better let her go quietly. She was nothing to them, and if they took Willie, it was all that could be required of them. Had Adah been John’s wife, it would of course be different, but she was not, and his marriage with ’Lina must not now be prevented. Neither must any one save themselves and John ever know who Willie was. It was not necessary to bruit their affairs abroad. It was very wicked and bad in John, of course, but other young men were as bad.”

This was Mrs. Richards’ reasoning, but Anna’s was different.

“John had distinctly said, ‘I married Lily, and she died.’ Adah was mistaken about the marriage being unlawful. It was a falsehood he told her. She was his wife, and he must not be permitted to commit bigamy, He loved Lily far better than he did ’Lina. He would move heaven and earth to find her, did he know that she was living. And he should know of it. She was going to Kentucky herself to tell him. She would not trust to the telegraph, and should start that very night. There would be no scene. She would only tell John in private. They need not try to dissuade her, for she should go.”

This was what Anna said, and all in vain were her mother’s entreaties to let matters take their course. Anna only replied by going deliberately on with the preparations for her sudden journey, pausing now and then to dream a moment over her own new happiness, taking the letter from her bosom and whispering, “Dear Charlie,” and then as Willie cried for his mother, she essayed to quiet him, hugging him in her arms and mingling her own tears with his. The servants were told that Mrs. Hastings had run away, Eudora, the informer, hinting of insanity, and so this accounted for the sudden interest manifested for Willie by the other ladies, who had him in at their breakfast, and kept him with them in the parlor in spite of Pamelia’s endeavors to coax him away. This accounted, too, for Anna’s journey. She was going to find Adah, and blessing her for this kindness to one whom they had liked so much, Dixson and Pamelia helped to get her ready, both promising the best of care to Willie in her absence, both asking where she was going first, and both receiving the same answer, “To Albany.”

Mrs. Richards was too much stunned clearly to comprehend what had happened or what would be the result; and in a kind of apathetic maze she bade Anna good-bye, and then went back to where Willie sat upon the sofa examining and occasionally tearing the costly book of foreign prints which had been given him to keep him still and make him cease his piteous wail for “mam-ma.” It seemed like a dream to the three ladies sitting at home that night and talking about Anna; wondering that a person of her weak nerves and feeble health should suddenly become so active, so energetic, so decided, and of her own accord start off on a long journey alone and unprotected.

And Anna wondered at herself when the excitement of leaving was past, and the train was bearing her swiftly along on her mission of duty. She had written a few lines to Charlie Millbrook, telling him of her unaltered love, and bidding him come to her in three weeks time, when she would be ready to see him. She had unselfishly put the interview off thus long because she did not know what might occur in the interim, and when he came she wished to be quiet and free from all excitement. She had herself dropped the letter in the post-office as she came down to the depot. She knew it was safe, and leaning back in her seat in the car she felt a happy peace which nothing could disturb, not even thoughts of Adah—Lily she called her—wandering she knew not where.

It was very dark and rainy, and the passengers jostled each other rudely as they passed from the cars in Albany and hurried to the boat. It was new business to Anna, traveling alone and in the night, and a feeling akin to fear was creeping over her as she wondered where she should find the eastern train.

“Follow the crowd,” seemed yelled out for her benefit, though it was really intended for a timid, deaf old lady, who had anxiously asked what to do of one whose laconic reply was, “Follow the crowd.” And Anna did follow the crowd, which led her safely to the waiting cars. Snugly ensconced in a seat all to herself, she vainly imagined there was no more trouble until Cleveland, or Buffalo at least, was reached. How, then, was she disappointed when, alighting for a moment at Rochester, she found herself in a worse Babel, if possible, than had existed at Albany. Where were all these folks going, and which was the train. “I ought not to have alighted at all,” she thought; “I might have known I never could find my way back.” Never, sure, was a poor, little woman so confused and bewildered as Anna, and it is not strange that she stood directly upon the track, unmindful of the increasing din and roar as the train from Niagara Falls came thundering into the depot. It was in vain that the cabman nearest to her halloed to warn her of the impending danger. She never dreamed that they meant her, or suspected her great peril, until from out the group waiting to take that very train, a tall figure sprang, and grasping her light form round the waist, bore her to a place of safety—not because he guessed that it was Annie, but because it was a human being whom he would save from a fearful death.

“Excuse me, madam,” he began, as with the long train between them and the people, they stood comparatively alone, but whatever she might have said was lost in the low, thrilling scream of joy with which Anna recognized him.

“Charlie, Charlie! oh, Charlie!” she cried, burying her face in his bosom and sobbing like a child.

There was no time to waste in explanations; scarcely time, indeed, for Charlie to ask where she was going, and if the necessity to go on were imperative. If her arrangements could not bend to his, why his must bend to hers, and unmindful of the audience away to the eastward who would that night wait in vain for the appearance of Mr. Millbrook, the returned missionary, Charlie wound his arm around the half fainting form, dearer than his own life, and carried rather than led her to a seat in the car just on the point of rolling from the depot.

“You won’t leave me,” Anna whispered, clinging closer to him, as she remembered how improbable it was that he was going the same way with herself.

“Leave you, darling? no,” and pressing the little fingers twining so lovingly about his own, Charlie replied, “I shall not leave you again.”

He needed no words to tell him of her unaltered love, and satisfied to have her at last, he drew her closely to him, and laying her tired head upon his bosom, gazed fondly at the face he had not seen in many years. That dear face he had once thought so beautiful and had dreamed about so often, even when another was sleeping at his side, was it changed? Yes, slightly. The fresh, girlish bloom of only eighteen summers was gone, but Anna wore her thirty-three years lightly, and if possible, the maturer face was more beautiful to Charlie than the laughing maiden’s had been, for he traced on it unmistakable marks of that peace which Anna had found in her later life; and without questioning her at all, Charlie Millbrook knew his darling Anna had chosen the better part, and that in the next world she would be his, even as he hoped to call her his own for the remainder of his sojourn on earth. Curious, tittering maidens, of whom there are usually one or two in every car, looked at that couple near the door and whispered to their companions,

“Bride and groom. Just see how he hugs her. Some widower, I know, married to a young wife.”

But neither Charlie nor Anna cared for the speculations to which they were giving rise. They had found each other, and the happiness enjoyed during the two hours which elapsed ere Buffalo was reached, more than made amends for all the lonely years of wretchedness they had spent apart from each other. Charlie had told Anna briefly of his life in India—had spoken feelingly, affectionately, of his gentle Hattie, who had died, blessing him with her last breath for the kindness he had ever shown to her; of baby Annie’s grave, by the side of which he buried the young mother; of his loneliness after that, his failing health, his yearning for a sight of home, his embarkation for America, his hope through all that she might still be won; and his letter which she received. And then Anna told him where she was going, sparing her brother as much as possible, and dwelling long upon poor Lily’s gentleness and beauty.

So it was settled that Charley should go with her, and his presence made her far less impatient than she would otherwise have been, when, owing to some accident, they were delayed so long that the Cleveland train was gone, and there was no alternative but to wait in Buffalo. At Cincinnati there was another detention, and it was not until the very day appointed for the wedding that, with Charlie still beside her, Anna entered the carriage hired at Lexington, and started for Spring Bank, whither for a little we will precede her, taking up the narrative prior to this day, and about the time when ’Lina first returned home from New York, laden with arrogance and airs.