University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
ADA HARCOURT.

In a small and neat, but scantily furnished chamber, a
poor widow was preparing her only child, Ada, for the
party. The plain, white muslin dress of two years old
had been washed and ironed so carefully, that Ada said

it looked just as well as new; but then everything looked
well on Ada Harcourt, who was highly gifted, both with
intellect and beauty. After her dress was arranged, she
went to the table for her old white gloves, the cleaning
of which had cost her much trouble, for her mother did
not seem to be at all interested in them, so Ada did as
well as she could. As she was about to put them on, her
mother returned from a drawer, into the recesses of which
she had been diving, and from which she brought a paper,
carefully folded.

“Here, Ada,” said she, “you need not wear those
gloves; see here—” and she held up a pair of handsome
mitts a fine linen handkerchief, and a neat little gold pin.

“Oh, mother, mother!” said Ada, joyfully, “where
did you get them?”

“I know,” answered Mrs. Harcourt, “and that is
enough.”

After a moment's thought, Ada knew, too. The little
hoard of money her mother had laid by for a warm winter
shawl, had been spent for her. From Ada's lustrous
blue eyes the tears were dropping, as, twining her arm
around her mother's neck, she said, “Naughty, naughty
mother!” but there was a knock at the door. The
sleigh which Anna Graham had promised to send for
Ada, had come; so dashing away her tears, and adjusting
her new mitts and pin, she was soon warmly wrapped
up, and on her way to Mr. Graham's.

“In the name of the people, who is that?” said Lucy
Dayton, as Anna Graham entered the dressing-room, accompanied
by a bundle of something securely shielded
from the cold.

The removal of the hood soon showed Lucy who it was,
and, with an exclamation of surprise, she turned inquiringly
to a young lady who was standing near. To her
look, the young lady replied, “A freak of Anna's I suppose.
She thinks a great deal of those Harcourts.”

An impatient “pshaw!” burst from Lucy lips, accompanied
with the words, “I wonder who she thinks wants
to associate with that plebeian!”

The words, the look, and the tone caught Ada's eye
and ear, and instantly blighted her happiness. In the
joy and surprise of receiving an invitation to the party,
it had never occurred to her that she might be slighted
there, and she was not prepared for Lucy's unkind remark.
For an instant the tears moistened her long silken
eyelashes, and a deeper glow mantled her usually bright
cheek; but this only increased her beauty, which tended
to increase Lucy's vexation. Lucy knew that in her own
circle there was none to dispute her claim; but she knew,
too, that in a low-roofed house, in the outskirts of the
town, there dwelt a poor sewing woman, whose only
daughter was famed for her wondrous beauty. Lucy had
frequently seen Ada in the streets, but never before had
she met her, and she now determined to treat her with
the utmost disdain.

Not so was Lizzie affected by the presence of “the plebeian.”
Mrs. Harcourt had done plain sewing for her
father, and Lizzie had frequently called there for the work.
In this way an acquaintance had been commenced between
herself and Ada, which had ripened into friendship.
Lizzie, too, had heard the remark of her sister, and, anxious
to atone, as far as possible, for the unkindness, she
went up to Ada, expressed her pleasure at seeing her
there, and then, as the young ladies were about descending
to the parlors, she offered her arm, saying, “I will

accompany you down, but I have no doubt scores of beaux
will quickly take you off my hands.”

The parlors were nearly filled when our party reached
them, and Ada, half tremblingly, clung to Lizzie's arm,
while, with queen-like grace and dignity, Lucy Dayton
moved through the crowded drawing-rooms. Her quick
eye had scanned each gentleman, but her search was fruitless.
He was not there, and during the next half hour
she listened rather impatiently to the tide of flattery
poured into her ear by some one of her admirers. Suddenly
there was a stir at the door, and Mr. St. Leon was
announced. He was a tall, fine looking man, probably
about twenty-five years of age. The expression of his
face was remarkably pleasing, and such as would lead an
entire stranger to trust him, sure that his confidence
would not be misplaced. His manners were highly polished,
and in his dignified, self-possessed bearing, there
was something which some called pride, but in all the
wide world there was not a more generous heart than
that of Hugh St. Leon.

Lucy for a moment watched him narrowly, and then
her feelings became perfectly calm, for she felt sure that
now, for the first time, she looked upon her future husband!
Ere long, Anna Graham approached, accompanied
by the gentleman, whom she introduced, and then
turning, left them alone. Lucy would have given almost
anything to have known whether St. Leon had requested
an introduction, but no means of information were at
hand, so she bent all her energies to be as agreeable as
possible to the handsome stranger at her side, who each
moment seemed more and more pleased with her.

Meantime, in another part of the room Lizzie and Ada
were the center of attraction. The same kindness which
prompted Anna Graham to invite Ada, was careful to see

that she did not feel neglected. For this purpose, Anna's
brother, Charlie, a youth of sixteen, had been instructed
to pay her particular attention. This he was not unwilling
to do, for he knew no reason why she should not be
treated politely, even if she were a sewing woman's daughter.
Others of the company, observing how attentive
Charlie and Lizzie were to the beautiful girl, felt disposed
to treat her graciously, so that to her the evening was
passing very happily.

When St. Leon entered the room, the hum of voices
prevented Ada from hearing his name; neither was she
aware of his presence until he had been full fifteen minutes
conversing with Lucy. Then her attention was directed
toward him by Lizzie. For a moment, Ada gazed
as if spell-bound; then a dizziness crept over her, and she
nervously grasped the little plain gold ring which encircled
the third finger of her left hand!

Turning to Lizzie, who, fortunately, had not noticed
her agitation, she said, “What did you say his name
was?”

“St. Leon, from New Orleans,” replied Lizzie.

“Then I'm not mistaken,” Ada said, inaudibly.

At that moment Anna Graham approached, and whispered
something to Ada, who gave a startled look, saying,
“Oh, no, Miss Anna; you would not have me make
myself ridiculous.”

“Certainly not,” answered Anna; “neither will you do
so, for some of your songs you sing most beautifully. Do
come; I wish to surprise my friends.”

Ada consented rather unwillingly, and Anna led her
toward the music-room, followed by a dozen or more, all
of whom wondered what a sewing woman's daughter
knew about music. On their way to the piano, they

passed near St. Leon and Lucy, the former of whom
started as his eye fell upon Ada.

“I did not think there was another such face in the
world,” said he, apparently to himself; then turning to
Lucy, he asked who that beautiful girl was.

“Which one?” asked Lucy; “there are many beauties
here to-night.”

“I mean the one with the white muslin, and dark auburn
curls,” said St. Leon.

Lucy's brow darkened, but she answered, “That?
oh, that is Ada Harcourt. Her mother is a poor sewing
woman. I never met Ada before, and cannot conceive
how she came to be here; but then the Grahams are peculiar
in their notions, and I suppose it was a whim of
Anna's.”

Without knowing it, St. Leon had advanced some steps
toward the door through which Ada had disappeared.
Lucy followed him, vexed beyond measure, that the despised
Ada Harcourt should even have attracted his attention.

“Is she as accomplished as handsome?” asked he.

“Why, of course not,” answered Lucy, with a forced
laugh. “Poverty, ignorance, and vulgarity go together,
usually, I believe.”

St. Leon gave her a rapid, searching glance, in which
disappointment was mingled, but before he could reply,
there was the sound of music. It was a sweet, bird-like
voice which floated through the rooms, and the song it
sang was a favorite one of St. Leon's, who was passionately
fond of music.

“Let us go nearer,” said he to Lucy, who, nothing
loth, accompanied him, for she, too, was anxious to
know who it was that thus chained each listener into
silence.

St. Leon at length got a sight of the singer, and said,
with evident pleasure, “Why, it's Miss Harcourt!”

“Miss Harcourt! Ada Harcourt!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Impossible! Why, her mother daily toils for the bread
they eat!”

But if St. Leon heard her, he answered not. His
senses were locked in those strains of music which recalled
memories of something, he scarcely knew what,
and Lucy found herself standing alone, her heart swelling
with anger toward Ada, who from that time was her
hated rival. The music ceased, but scores of voices were
loud in their call for another song; and again Ada sang,
but this time there were in the tones of her voice a thrilling
power, for which those who listened could not account.
To Ada, the atmosphere about her seemed
changed, and though she never for a moment raised her
eyes, she well knew who it was that leaned upon the piano,
and looked intently upon her. Again the song was
finished, and then, at St. Leon's request, he was introduced
to the singer, who returned his salutation with perfect
self-possession, although her heart beat quickly, as
she hoped, yet half feared, that he would recognize her.
But he did not, and as they passed together into the next
room, he wondered much why the hand which lay upon
his arm trembled so violently, while Ada said to herself,
“'Tis not strange he does n't know me by this name.”
Whether St. Leon knew her or not, there seemed about
her some strong attraction, which kept him at her side
the remainder of the evening, greatly to Lucy Dayton's
mortification and displeasure.

“I'll be revenged on her yet,” she muttered. “The
upstart! I wonder where she learned to play.”

This last sentence was said aloud; and Lizzie, who was
standing near, replied, “Her father was once wealthy,

and Ada had the best of teachers. Since she has lived in
S—, she has occasionally practiced on Anna's piano.”

“I think I'd keep a piano for paupers to play on, “was
Lucy's contemptuous reply, uttered with no small degree
of bitterness, for at that moment St. Leon approached her
with the object of her dislike leaning upon his arm.

Ada introduced Lizzie to St. Leon, who offered her his
other arm, and the three kept together until Lizzie, uttering
a low, sharp cry of pain, leaned heavily as if for support
against St. Leon. In an instant Lucy was at her side;
but to all her anxious inquiries Lizzie could only reply, as
she clasped her thin, white hand over her side, “The
pain, — the pain, — take me home.”

“Our sleigh has not yet come,” said Lucy. “Oh, what
shall we do?”

“Mine is here, and at your command, Miss Dayton,”
said St. Leon.

Lucy thanked him, and then proceeded to prepare Lizzie,
who, chilled through and through by the exposure of
her chest and arms, had borne the racking pain in her
side as long as possible, and now lay upon the sofa as
helpless as an infant. When all was ready St. Leon lifted
her in his arms, and bearing her to the sleigh, stepped
lightly in with her, and took his seat.

“It is hardly necessary for you to accompany us home,”
said Lucy, overjoyed beyond measure, though, to find
that he was going.

“Allow me to be the judge,” answered St. Leon; and
other than that, not a word was spoken until they reached
Mr. Dayton's door. Then, carefully carrying Lizzie into
the house, he was about to leave, when Lucy detained
him to thank him for his kindness, adding that she hoped
to see him again.

“Certainly, I shall call to-morrow,” was his reply, as

he sprang down the steps, and entering his sleigh, was
driven back to Mr. Graham's.

He found the company about dispersing, and meeting
Ada in the hall, asked to accompany her home. Ada's
pride for a moment hesitated, and then she answered in
the affirmative. When St. Leon had seated her in his
sleigh, he turned back, on pretext of looking for something,
but in reality to ask Anna Graham where Ada
lived, as he did not wish to question her on the subject.

When they were nearly home, St. Leon said, “Miss
Harcourt, have you always lived in S —?”

“We have lived here but two years,” answered Ada;
and St. Leon continued: “I cannot rid myself of the impression
that somewhere I have met you before.”

“Indeed,” said Ada, “when, and where?”

But his reply was prevented by the sleigh's stopping at
Mrs. Harcourt's door. As St. Leon bade Ada good night,
he whispered, “I shall see you again.”

Ada made no answer, but going into the house where
her mother was waiting for her, she exclaimed, “Oh,
mother, mother, I've seen him! — he was there! — he
brought me home!”

“Seen whom?” asked Mrs. Harcourt, alarmed at her
daughter's agitation.

“Why, Hugh St. Leon!” replied Ada.

“St. Leon in town!” repeated Mrs. Harcourt, her eye
lighting up with joy.

'Twas only for a moment, however, for the remembrance
of what she was when she knew St. Leon, and what she
now was, recurred to her, and she said calmly, “I thought
you had forgotten that childish fancy.

“Forgotten!” said Ada bitterly; and then as she recalled
the unkind remark of Lucy Dayton, she burst into
a passionate fit of weeping.

After a time, Mrs. Harcourt succeeded in soothing her,
and then drew from her all the particulars of the party,
St. Leon and all. When Ada had finished, her mother
kissed her fair cheek, saying, “I fancy St. Leon thinks as
much of little Ada now as he did six years ago;” but Ada
could not think so, though that night, in dreams, she was
again happy in her old home in the distant city, while at
her side was St. Leon, who even then was dreaming of
a childish face which had haunted him six long years.