University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
ANNA AND ADAH.

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 “Arntee,” 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 bethrothed
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!