Hugh Worthington

“It is not an easy task to confess how bad one has been,” the stranger said, “and once no power could have tempted me to do it; but several years of prison life have taught me some wholesome lessons, and I am not the same man I was when I met you, Eliza, (bowing to Mrs. Worthington) and won your hand if not your heart. But previous to that time there was a passage of my life which I must now repeat. At my boarding-house in New York there was a young girl, a chamber-maid, whom I deceived with promises of marriage and then deserted, just when she needed me the most. I had found new prey, was on the eve of marriage with Mrs. Eliza Worthington. I—”

The story was interrupted at this point by a cry from ’Lina, who moaned,

“No, no, oh no! He is not my father; is he, Hugh? Tell me no. John, Dr. Richards, pray look at me and say it’s all a dream, a dreadful dream! Oh, Hugh!” and to the brother, scorned so often, poor ’Lina turned for sympathy, while the stranger continued,

“It would be useless for me to say now that I loved the girl, for I did not; but I felt sorry for her, and when six months after my marriage I heard that I was a father I feigned an excuse and left my wife for a few weeks. Eliza, you remember I said I had business in New York, and so I had. I went to this young girl, finding her in a low, wretched garret, with her baby in her arms, and a look on her face which told me she had not long to live. I staid by her till she died, promising to care for her child and mine. I had a mother then, a woman, old and infirm, and good, even if I was her son. To her I went in my trouble, asking that she would care for the helpless thing to which I gave the name Matilda. Mother did not refuse, and leaving the baby in her charge I came back to my lawful wife.

“In course of time there was a daughter born to me and to Eliza; a sweet brown-haired, brown-eyed girl, whom we named Adaline.”

Instinctively, every one in that room glanced at the black eyes and hair of ’Lina, marvelling at the change.

“I loved this little girl, as it was natural I should, more than I loved the other, and after she was born I tried to be a better man, but could not hold out long, and at last there came a separation. Eliza would not live with me and I went away, but pined so for my child, that I contrived to steal her, and carried her to my mother, where was the other one.”

’Lina’s eyes were dark as midnight, while she listened breathlessly to this mysterious page of her existence.

“My mother was very old and she died suddenly, leaving me alone with my two girls. I could not attend to them both, and so I sent one to Eliza, and kept the other myself, hiring a housekeeper, and because it suited my fancy, passing as Mr. Redfield, guardian to the little child, whom I loved so much.”

“That was Adah,” fell in a whisper from the doctor’s lips, but caught the ear of no one.

All were too intent upon the story, which proceeded;

“She grew in beauty, and I was wondrous proud of her, giving her every advantage in my power. I sent her to the best of schools, and even looked forward to the day when she should take the position she was so well fitted to fill. After she was grown to girlhood we boarded, she as the ward, I as the guardian still, and then one unlucky day I stumbled upon you, Dr. John, but not until you first had stumbled on my daughter, and been charmed with her beauty, passing yourself as—as George Hastings,— lest your fashionable associates should know how the aristocratic Dr. Richards was in love with a poor, unknown orphan, boarding up two flights of stairs.”

“Who is he talking about, Hugh? Does he mean me? My head throbs so, I don’t quite understand,” ’Lina said piteously, while Hugh held the poor aching head against his bosom, crushing the orange blossoms, and whispering softly,

“He means Adah.”

“Yes, Adah,” the convict rejoined. “John Richards fancied Adah Gordon, as she was called, but loved his pride and position more. I’ll do you justice, though, young man, I believe at one time you really and truly loved my child, and but for your mother’s letters might have married her honorably. But you were afraid of that mother. Your pride was stronger than your love; but I was determined that you should have my daughter, and proposed a mock marriage——”

“Monster! You, her father, planned that fiendish act!” and Alice’s blue eyes flashed indignantly upon him, while Hugh, forgetting that the idea was not new to him, walked up before the “monster,” as if to lay him at his feet.

“Listen, while I explain, and you will see the monster had an object,” returned the stranger, speaking to Alice, instead of Hugh. “It was the great wish of my heart that my daughter should marry into a good family,—one which would give her position, and when I saw how much John Richards was pleased with her, I said he should be her husband, for the Richards were known to me by reputation.

“From what I knew of John I thought he would hardly dare marry my daughter outright, and so I cautiously suggested a mock marriage, saying, by way of excusing myself that as I was only Adah’s guardian, I could not feel towards her as a near relative would feel,—that, as I had already expended large sums of money on her, I was getting tired of it, and would be glad to be released, hinting, by way of smoothing the fiendish proposition, my belief that, from constant association, he would come to love her so much that at last he would really and truly make her his wife. He seemed shocked, and if I remember rightly, called me a brute, and all that; but little by little I gained ground, until at last he consented, stipulating that she should not know his real name, which he knew I had discovered. It seems strange that a father should wish his child to marry one who would consent to act so base a part, but I knew there was nothing unkind in the doctor’s nature, and I trusted that his fondness for Adah and her influence over him would bring it right at last.

“I had an acquaintance, I said, who lived a few miles from the city,—a man who, for money, would do any anything, and who, as a feigned justice of the peace, would go through with the ceremony, and ever after keep his own counsel. I wonder the doctor himself did not make some inquiries concerning this so called justice, but I think he is not remarkably clear-headed, and this weakness saved me much trouble. After a time I arranged the matter with my friend, who was a lawful justice, staying at the house of his brother, then absent in Europe. This being done, I decided upon Hugh Worthington, for a witness, as being the person of all the world, who should be present at the bridal. He had recently come to New York, and I had accidentally made his acquaintance, acquiring so strong an influence over him that when I invited him to the wedding of my ward, he went unsuspectingly, signing his name as witness and saluting the bride, who really was a bride, as lawful a one as any who ever turned from the altar where she had registered her vows.”

“Oh, joy, joy!” and Alice sprang at once to her feet, and hastening to the doctor’s side, said to him, authoritatively:

“You hear, you understand, Adah is your wife, your very own, and you must go back to her at once. You do understand me?” and Alice grew very earnest as the doctor failed to rouse up, as she thought he ought to do.

Appealing next to Anna, she continued:

“Pray, make him comprehend that his wife is at Terrace Hill.”

Very gently Anna answered:

“She was there, but she has gone. He knows it; I came to tell him, but she fled immediately after recognizing my brother, and left a letter revealing the whole.”

It had come to ’Lina by this time that Dr. Richards could never be her husband, and with a bitter cry, she covered her face with her hands, and went shivering to the corner where Mrs. Worthington sat, as if a mother’s sympathy were needed now, and coveted as it had never been before.

“Oh, mother,” she sobbed, laying her head in Mrs. Worthington’s lap, “I wish I had never been born.”

Sadly her wail of disappointment rang through the room, and then the convict went on with his interrupted narrative.

“When the marriage was over, Mr. Hastings took his wife to another part of the city, hiding her from his fashionable associates, staying with her most of the time, and appearing to love her so much that I thought it would not be long before I should venture to tell him the truth. It would be better to write it, I thought, and so I left her with him while I went South on—the very laudable business of stealing negroes from one State and selling them in another. At Cincinnati, I wrote to the doctor, confessing the whole, but it seems my letter never reached him, for, though I did not know it then, the car containing that mail was burned, and my letter was burned with it. Some of you know that I was caught in my traffic, and that the negro stealer, Sullivan, was safely lodged in prison, from which he was released but a day since. Fearing there might be some mistake, I wrote from my prison home to Adah herself, but suppose it did not reach New York till after she had left it.”

A casual observer would have said that Mrs. Worthington had heard less of that strange story than anyone else, so motionless she sat, but not a word was missed by her in the entire narrative, and when the narrator concluded, she said anxiously,

“And that child, the lawful wife of this young man, was she mine, or was she the servant girl’s?”

A little apart from the others, his arms folded tightly together, and his eyes fixed upon the convict, stood Hugh.

“Answer her,” he said, gravely, as the convict did not reply. “Tell her if Adah be her child, or,——’Lina,——which?”

Had a clap of thunder cleft the air around her, ’Lina could not have started up sooner than she did. It was the very first suspicion which had crossed her brain, and her life seemed dying out, as half way between Mrs. Worthington and the convict she stood with hands outstretched and livid lips, which tried to speak, but could only moan convulsively. The convict took his eyes away from her, pitying her so much, as he said, “Adah is my lawful child. I kept her, and sent the other back. It was a bold act, and I wonder it was not questioned, but Adaline’s eyes were not so black then as they are now, and though five months older than the other, she was small for her age, and two years sometimes change a child materially; so Eliza took it for granted that the girl she received as Adaline, and whose real name was Matilda, was her own; but Adah Hastings is her daughter and Hugh’s half sister while this young woman is—the child of myself and the servant girl.”

Alice, Anna, and the doctor looked aghast, while Mrs. Worthington murmured audibly, “Adah, darling Adah, and Willie, precious Willie—oh, I want them here now!”

The mother had claimed her own, but alas, the fond cry of welcome to sweet Adah Hastings was a death knell to ’Lina, for it seemed to shut her out of that gentle woman’s heart. There was no place for her, and in her terrible desolation she stood alone, her eyes wandering wistfully from one to another, but turning very quickly when they fell on the convict, her father. She would not have it so; she could not own a servant for her mother, that villain for her father, and worse—oh, infinitely worse than all—she had no right to be born! A child of sin and shame, disgraced, disowned, forsaken. It was a terrible blow, and the proud girl staggered beneath it.

“Will no one speak to me?” she said, at last; “no one break this dreadful silence? Has everybody forsaken me? Do you all loathe and hate the offspring of such parents? Won’t somebody pity and care for me?”

“Yes, ’Lina,” and Hugh—the one from whom she had the least right to expect pity—Hugh came to her side; and winding his arm around her, said, with a choking voice, “I will not forsake you, ’Lina; I will care for you the same as ever, and so long as I have a home you shall have one too.”

“Oh, Hugh, I don’t deserve this from you!” was ’Lina’s faint response, as she laid her head upon his bosom, whispering, “Take me away—from them all—up stairs—on the bed! I am so sick, and my head is bursting open!”

Hugh was strong as a young giant, and lifting gently the yielding form, he bore it from the room—the bridal room, which she would never enter again, until he brought her back—and laid her softly down beneath the windows, dropping tears upon her white, still face, and whispering,

“Poor ’Lina!”

As Hugh passed out with his burden in his arms, the bewildered company seemed to rally; but the convict was the first to act. Turning to Mrs. Worthington, still shivering in the corner, he said,

“Eliza, you see I did not die as that paper told you, but it suited me then to be dead, and so I wrote the paragraph myself, sending you the paper. For this you should thank me, as it made a few years of your life happier, thinking I was dead. I have come here to-night for my children’s sake; and now that I have done what I came to do, I shall leave you, only asking that you continue to be a mother to the poor girl who is really the only sufferer. The rest have cause for joy; you in particular,” turning to the doctor. “But tell me again what was that I heard of Adah’s having fled?”

Anna repeated the story, and then conquering her repugnance of the man, asked if he would not immediately seek for her and bring her back if possible.

“My brother will help you,” she said, “when he recovers himself,” and she turned to the doctor, who suddenly seemed to break the spell which had bound him, and springing to his feet, exclaimed,

“Yes, Lily shall be found, but I must see my boy first. Anna, can’t we go now, to-night?”

That was impossible; Anna was too tired, Alice said, and conducting her to her own room, she made her take the rest she so much needed.

When Alice returned again to the parlor, the convict had gone. There had been a short consultation between himself and the doctor, an engagement to meet in Cincinnati to arrange their plan of search; and then he had turned again to his once wife, still sitting in her corner, motionless, white, and paralyzed with nervous terror.

“You need not fear me, Eliza,” he said, kindly; “I shall probably never trouble you again; and though you have no cause to believe my word, I tell you solemnly that I will never rest until I have found our daughter, and sent her back to you. Good-bye, Eliza, good-bye.”

He did not offer her his hand; he knew she would not touch it; but with one farewell look of contrition and regret, he left her, and mounting the horse which had brought him there, dashed away from Spring Bank, just as Colonel Tiffton reined up to the gate.

It was Alice who met him in the hall, explaining to him as much as she thought necessary, and asking him, on his return, to wait a little by the field gate, and turn back other guests who might be on the road.

The Colonel promised compliance with her request, and as only a few had been invited, it was not a hard task imposed upon him. ’Lina had been taken very sick, was all the excuse the discreet Colonel would give to the people, who rather reluctantly turned their faces homeward, so that Spring Bank was not honored with wedding guests that night; and when the clock struck eight, the appointed hour for the bridal, only the bridegroom sat in the dreary parlor, his head bent down upon the sofa arm, and his chest heaving with the sobs he could not repress as he thought of all poor Lily had suffered since he left her so cruelly. Hugh had told him what he did not understand before. He had come into the room for his mother, whom ’Lina was pleading to see; and after leading her to the chamber of the half-delirious girl, he had returned to the doctor, and related to him all he knew of Adah, dwelling long upon her gentleness and beauty, which had won from him a brother’s love, even though he knew not she was his sister.

“I was a wretch, a villain!” the doctor groaned. Then looking wistfully at Hugh, he said, “Do you think she loves me still? Listen to what she says in her farewell to Anna,” and with faltering voice, he read: “That killed the love; and now, if I could, I would not be his except for Willie’s sake. Do you think she meant it?”

“I have no doubt of it, sir. How could her love out live everything? Curses and blows might not have killed it, but when you thought to ruin her good name, to deny your child, she would be less than woman could she forgive. Why, I hate and despise you myself for the wrong you have done my sister,” and Hugh’s tall form seemed to take on an increased height as he abruptly left the room, lest his hot temper should get the mastery, and he knock-down his dastardly brother-in-law.

It was a sad house at Spring Bank that night, where ’Lina lay, tossing distractedly from side to side; now holding her throbbing head, and now thrusting out her hot, dry hands, as if to keep off some fancied form, who claimed to be her mother.

The shock had been a terrible one to ’Lina. She did love Dr. Richards; and the losing him was enough of itself to drive her mad; but worse even than this, and far more humiliating to her pride, was the discovery of her parentage, the knowing that a convict was her father, a common servant her mother, and that no marriage tie had hallowed her birth.

“Oh, I can’t bear it!” she cried. “I can’t. I wish I might die! Will nobody kill me? Hugh, you will, I know!”

But Hugh was away for the family physician, for he would not trust a gossipping servant to do the errand. Once before that doctor had stood by ’Lina’s bedside, and felt her feverish pulse, but his face then was not as anxious as now, when he counted the rapidly increasing beats, and saw how fast the fever came on. There had been an exposure to cold, he said, sufficient of itself to induce a fever, but the whole had been aggravated a hundred fold by the late disastrous affair, of which Hugh had told him something. He did not speak of danger, but Hugh, who watched him narrowly, read it in his face, and following him down the stairs, asked to be told the truth.

“She is going to be very sick. She may get well, but I have little to hope from symptoms like hers.”

That was the doctor’s reply, and with a sigh Hugh went back to the sick girl, who had given him little else than sarcasm and scorn.