University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
ADAH'S JOURNEY.

The night express from Rochester to Albany was crowded.
Every car was full, and the clamorous bell rang out
its first summons for all to get on board, just as a
frightened-looking woman, bearing in her arms a sleeping
boy, stepped upon the platform of the rear carriage, and
looked wistfully in at the long, dark line of passengers filling
every seat. Wearily, anxiously, she had passed
through every car, beginning at the first, her tired eyes
scanning each occupant, as if mutely begging some one
to have pity on her ere exhausted nature failed entirely,
and she sank fainting to the floor. None had heeded
that silent appeal, though many had marked the pallor
of her girlish face, and the extreme beauty of the baby
features nestling in her bosom. She could not hold out
much longer, and when she reached the last car and saw
that too was full, the chin quivered, and a tear glistened
in the long eyelashes, sweeping the colorless cheek.

Slowly she passed up the aisle until she came to where
there was a vacant seat, only a gentleman's shawl was
piled upon it, and the gentleman looking so unconcernedly
from the window, and apparently oblivious of her close
proximity to him, would not surely object to her sitting
there. How the tired woman did wish he would turn toward
her and give some token that she was welcome. But
no, his eyes were only intent on the darkness without; he
had no care for her, though he knew she was there. He
had seen the shrinking figure with its sleeping burden, as

it came in, and the selfishness which was so much a part
of his whole being, prompted him to cover the seat as far
as possible with his long limbs, while leaning his elbow
upon the window stool, he seemed absorbed in something
outside, peering into the foggy darkness, for it was a
rainy winter's night, as persistently as if there were standing
before him no half-fainting form, ready to sink down
at his feet.

The oil lamp was burning dimly, and the girl's white
face was lost in the shadow, when the young man first
glanced at her, so he had no suspicion of the truth,
though a most undefinable sensation crept over him when
he heard the timid footfall, and the rustling of female garments
as Adah Hastings drew near with her boy in her
arms.

He heard its faint breathings, and half turned his head
just as Adah passed on, her weary sigh falling distinctly
on his ear, but failing to awaken a feeling of remorse for
his unmanly conduct.

“I'm glad she's gone. I can't be bothered,” was his
mental comment as he settled himself more comfortably,
feeling a glow of satisfaction when the train began to
move, and he knew no more women with their babies
would be likely to trouble him.

With that first heavy strain of the machinery Adah
lost her balance, and would have fallen headlong but for
the friendly hand put forth to save the fall.

“Take my seat, miss. It is not very convenient, but
it is better than none. I can find another.”

It was the friendliest voice imaginable which said these
words to Adah, and the kind tone in which they were
uttered wrung the hot tears from her eyes. She did not
look up at him. She only knew that a gentleman had
risen and was bending over her; that a hand, was laid
upon her shoulder, putting her gently into the narrow
seat next the saloon; that the same hand took from her

and hung above her head the little satchel which was so
much in her way, and that the manly voice, so sympathetic
in its tone, asked if she would be too warm so
near the fire.

She did not know there was a fire. She only knew
that she had found a friend, and with the delicious feeling
of safety which the knowledge brought, the tension
of her nerves gave way, and burying her head on Willie's
face she wept for a moment silently. Then lifting it
up she tried to thank her benefactor, looking now at him
for the first time, and feeling half overawed to find him
so tall, so stylish, so exceedingly refined in every look and
action. Why had he cared for her? What was there
about her to win attention from such as he? Nothing;
his kindness was natural; it sprang from the great warm
heart, shining out from the eyes, seen beneath the glasses
which he wore!

Irving Stanley was a passenger on that train, bound
for Albany. Like Dr. Richards, he had hoped to enjoy a
whole seat, even though it were not a very comfortable
one, but he would not resort to meanness for the sake of
his own ease; so when he saw how pale and tired Adah
was, he rose at once to offer his seat. He did not then
observe her face, or dress, or manner. He only saw she
was a delicate woman, travelling alone, and that was
enough to elicit his attention. He heard her sweet, low
voice as she tried to thank him, and felt intuitively that
she was neither coarse nor vulgar. He saw, too, the
little, soft, white hands, holding so fast to Willie. Was
he her brother or her son? She was young to be his
mother; but, there was no mistaking the mother-love
shining out from the brown eyes turned so quickly upon
the boy when he moaned, as if in pain, and seemed about
to waken.

“He's been sick most all the way,” she said, holding
him closer to her bosom. “There's something the matter

with his ear. Do children ever die with the ear-ache?”
and the eyes, swimming in tears, sought the face
of Irving Stanley as eagerly as if on his decision hung
little Willie's life.

Irving Stanley hardly thought they did. At all events
he never heard of such a case, and then, after suggesting
a remedy, should the pain return, he left his new acquaintance
and walked down the car in quest of another seat.

“A part of your seat, sir, if you please,” and Irving's
voice was rather authoritative than otherwise, as he
claimed the half of what the doctor was monopolizing.

It was of no use for Dr. Richards to pretend he was
asleep, for Irving spoke so quietly, so like a man who
knew what he was doing, that the doctor was compelled
to yield, and turning about, recognized his Saratoga acquaintance.
The recognition was mutual, and after a
few natural remarks, Irving explained how he had given
his seat to a lady whose little child was suffering from
the ear-ache.

“By the way, doctor,” he added, “you ought to know
the remedy for such ailments. Suppose you prescribe in
case it returns.

“I know but little about babies or their aches” the Dr.
answered, just as a scream of pain reached his ear, accompanied
by a suppressed effort on the mother's part to
soothe her suffering child.

Irving Stanley felt the sneer implied in the doctor's
words, and it kept him silent for a time, while scream
after scream filled the car, and roused every sleeping occupant
to ask what was the matter. Some, and among them
the doctor, cursed the child thus disturbing their slumbers;
some wished it anything but complimentary wishes;
some felt and evinced real sympathy, while nearly all
glanced backward at the dark corner where the poor
mother sat bending over her infant, unmindful of the

many curious looks cast upon her. The pain must have
been intolerable, for the little fellow, in his agony, writhed
from Adah's lap and sank upon the floor, his whole form
quivering with anguish as he cried, “Oh, ma! ma! ma!
ma!”

The hardest heart could scarce withstand that scene,
and many now gathered near, offering advice and help,
while even Dr. Richards experienced a most unaccountable
sensation as that baby cry smote on his ear. Foremost
among those who offered aid was Irving Stanley. His
was the voice which breathed comfort to the weeping
Adah, his the hand extended to take up little Willie, his
the arms which held and soothed the struggling boy, his
the mind which thought of everything available that could
possibly bring ease, until at last the outcries ceased and
Willie lay quietly in his arms.

“I'll take him now,” and Adah put out her hands; but
Willie refused to go, and clung closer to Mr. Stanley, who
said, laughingly, “You see that I am preferred. He is
too heavy for you to hold. Please trust him to me,
awhile.”

And Adah yielded to that voice, and leaning against
the window, rested her tired head upon her hand, while
Irving carried Willie to his seat beside the doctor.
There was a slight sneer on the doctor's face as he saw the
little boy, but Irving Stanley he knew was not one whose
acts could be questioned by him; so he contented himself
with saying, “You must be fond of young ones.”

“Fond of children,” Irving replied, laying great stress
on the word children. “Yes, I am, very; and even if I
were not, pity would prompt me to take this one from his
mother, who is so tired, besides being very pretty, and
that you knows goes far with us men.”

“You don't like children, I reckon,” Irving continued,
as the doctor drew back from the little feet which unconsciously
touched his lap.

“No, I hate them,” was the answer, spoken half savagely,
for at that moment a tiny hand was deliberately
laid on his, as Willie showed a disposition to be friendly.
“I hate them,” and the little hand was pushed rudely off.

Wonderingly the soft, large eyes of the child looked up
to his. Something in their expression riveted the doctor's
gaze as by a spell. There were tears in the baby's eyes,
and the pretty lip began to quiver. The doctor's finer
feelings, if he had any, were touched, and muttering to
himself, “I'm a brute,” he slouched his riding cap still
lower down upon his forehead, and turning away to the
window, relapsed into a gloomy reverie, in which thoughts
of Lily were strangely mingled with thoughts of the
dark-haired 'Lina, his bride elect, waiting for him in New
York. The Dr. was more than half tired of his engagement,
and ere returning to the city, he was going to Terrace
Hill to have a long talk with Anna, to tell her frankly
of his fears that 'Lina never could be congenial to them,
and perhaps he would tell her the whole of Lily's story.

But how should be commence a tale which would
shock his gentle sister so terribly? He did not know,
and while devising the best method, he forgot the two
little feet which in their bright-colored hose were
stretched out until they rested entirely upon his lap,
while the tiny face was nestled against Irving Stanley's
fatherly bosom, where it lay for hours, until Adah, waking
from her refreshing slumber, came forward to relieve
him.

“You had better not go on this morning. You ought
to rest,” Irving said to Adah, when at last the train
stopped in Albany. “I have a few moments to spare.
I will see that you are comfortable. You are going to
Snowdon, I think you said,” and taking Willie in his
arms he conducted Adah to the nearest hotel.

There were but a few moments ere he must leave, and
standing by her side, he said,

“The meeting with you has been to me a pleasant incident,
and I shall not soon forget it. I trust we may
meet again. There is my card, and he placed it in her
hand.

At a glance Adah read the name, knowing now who
had befriended her. It was Irving Stanley, second cousin
to Hugh, and 'Lina was with his sister in New York.
He was going there, he might speak of her, and if she
told her name, her miserable story would be known to
more than it was already. It was a false pride which
kept Adah silent when she knew that Irving Stanley
was waiting for her to speak, and while she was struggling
to overcome it, Irving's time expired and he must
go if he would not be left. Taking her hand he said
good bye, while she tried again to thank him for his great
kindness to her; but she did not tell her name, and as
Irving would not ask it, he left her without the knowledge,
thinking of her often as he went his way to New
York, and wondering if they would ever meet again.

In the office below, Dr. Richards, who had purposely
stopped for the day in Albany, smoked his expensive
cigars, ordered oysters and wine sent to his room — wrote
an explanatory note to 'Lina — feeling half tempted to
leave out the “Dear,” with which he felt constrained to
preface it — thought again of Lily — thought once of the
strange woman and the little boy, in whom Irving Stanley
had been so interested, wondered where they were
going, and who it was the boy looked a little like —
thought of Anna in connection with that boy; and then,
late in the afternoon, sauntered down to the Boston depot,
and took his seat in the car which, at about 10 o'clock
that night, would deposit him at Snowdon. There were
no children to disturb him, for Adah, unconscious of his
proximity, was in the rear car — weary, and nervous with
the dread which her near approach to Terrace Hill inspired.

What if, after all, Anna should not want her? And
this was a possible contingency, notwithstanding Alice
had been so sanguine.

“I can find employment somewhere — God will direct
me,” she whispered softly, drawing her veil over her tired
face, and thinking, she scarcely knew why, of Irving
Stanley.

Darkly the December night closed in, and still the train
kept on, until at last Danville was reached, and she must
alight, as the express did not stop again until it reached
Worcester. With a chill sense of loneliness, and a vague,
confused wish for the one cheering voice which had greeted
her ear since leaving Spring Bank, Adah stood upon
the snow-covered platform, holding Willie in her arms,
and pointing out her trunk to the civil baggage man, who,
in answer to her inquiries as to the best means of reaching
Terrace Hill, replied, “You can't go there to-night;
it is too late. You'll have to stay in the tavern kept right
over the depot, though if you'd kept on the train there
might have been a chance, for I see the young Dr. Richards
aboard; and as he didn't get out, I guess he's coaxed
or hired the conductor to leave him at Snowdon.”

The baggage man was right in his conjecture, for the
doctor had persuaded the polite conductor, whom he knew
personally, to stop the train at Snowdon; and while Adah,
shivering with cold, found her way up the narrow stairs
into the rather comfortless quarters where she must spend
the night, the doctor was kicking the snow from his feet
and talking to Jim, the coachman from Terrace Hill.