University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE RESULT.

It was not a disagreeable picture — that chubby,
rosy-cheeked little boy, his white fat shoulders peeping
out from the dress of crimson and black, his fair curls
blowing around his forehead, and his eyes raised curiously
to the doctor's face. Willie had not expected to see a
stranger, and at sight of the tall figure, muffied above the
chin, he drew back timidly and half hid himself behind
Mrs. Richards, whom he intuitively knew to be the warmest
ally he had among the three ladies gathered in the hall.

As the doctor had said to Irving Stanley he disliked
children, but he could not help noticing Willie, and after
the first greetings were over he asked, “Whom have we
here? whose child is this?”

Eudora and Asenath tried to frown, but the expression
of their faces softened as they glanced at Willie, who had
followed them into the parlor, and who, with one little
foot thrown forward, and his fat hands pressed together,
stood upon the hearth rug, gazing at the doctor with that
strange look which had so often puzzled, bewildered, and
fascinated the entire Richards family.

“Anna wrote you that the maid she so much wanted
had come to her at last — a very lady-like person, who
has evidently seen better days, and this is her boy, Willie.

He is such a queer little fellow, that we allow him more
liberties than we ought.”

It was Mrs. Richards who volunteered this explanation,
while her son stood looking down at Willie, wondering
what it was about the child which seemed familiar.
Anna had mentioned Mrs. Hastings in her letter — had
said how much she liked her, had spoken of her boy, but
the Hastings had been badly blotted, and as the Doctor
was too much absorbed in his own affairs to care for Anna's
waiting maid, he had not thought of her since, notwithstanding
that 'Lina had tried many times to make
him speak of Anna's maid, so as to calculate her own safety.

“So you've taken to petting a servant's child, for want
of something better,” he said in answer to Mrs. Richards'
rather long speech concerning Willie.

Ere Mrs. Richards could reply Anna made her appearance,
and the fastidious Doctor forgot the little fellow,
who was coaxed from the room by Pamelia, and taken to
his mother.

The doctor was not in as good humor as men are supposed
to be on the eve of their marriage with heiresses.
He had offered to accompany 'Lina to Kentucky, but she
had peremptorily declined his escort, and rather, as it seemed
to him, thrust herself upon a gentleman and lady who
were returning to Louisville. Several little things which
she had done at the last had displeased him, as showing
less refinement than he had given her credit for possessing,
besides which he could not conceal from himself the
suspicion that Mrs. Ellsworth was heartily glad to be rid of
her, and had perhaps talked of going to Europe with her little
girl as a ruse, and that she was not a favorite with
any one of his particular friends. Still he meant to marry
her, and after the late dinner was over he went with
Anna to inspect the rooms which Adah had fitted for his
bride. They were very pleasant, and he could find fault

with nothing. The carpet, the curtains, the new light
furniture, the arm chair by the window where 'Lina was
expected to sit, the fanciful work basket standing near,
and his chair not far away, all were in perfect taste, but
still there was a load upon his heart, making him so silent
and moody, that Anna forebore talking to him much and
did not even mention Adah, though she had meant to tell
him just what a treasure she was and perhaps have him
see her too. But the doctor was in no frame of mind to
talk of strangers, for thoughts of Lily were particularly
haunting him to-day.

It was a great mistake he made when he cast her off,
but it could not now be helped. No tears, no regrets,
could bring back the dear little form laid away beneath
the grassy sod, and so he would not waste his time in idle
mourning. He would do the best he could with 'Lina.
He did believe she loved him. He was almost sure of it,
and as a means of redressing Lily's wrongs he would be
kind to her. Lily would bid him do so if she could
speak. She surely knew what he was doing; perhaps
she was very near to him; he somehow felt that she was,
and more than once, he caught himself turning suddenly
with the fancy that Lily was behind him. The doctor
was not superstitious, but he began at last to feel that it
would be a relief to be freed from the Lily-laden atmosphere
pervading Terrace Hill, and rather joyfully he
watched the sun as it passed the meridian, and sank
lower and lower in the west, for by that token he knew
he had not a much longer time to stay at home, as he
would take the evening train bound for Albany.

Slowly the twilight shadows crept over Terrace Hill,
and into the little room where Adah was preparing for
her accustomed walk to the office. Willie was down
with Pamelia, who, when she came up for him, had told
Adah as something of which she should be proud, that

the doctor had actually thrown Willie into the air and
pronounced him a splendid-looking child, “considering.”

That “considering” wounded Adah, for she felt the
sneer at her position which it implied, and with a faint
smile, she dismissed Pamelia, and then went to the
closet for the over-shoes she would need in her damp
walk. But what was it which fell like a thunderbolt on
her ear, riveting her to the spot where she stood, rigid
and immovable. Between the closet and Anna's room
there was only a thin partition, and when the door was
open every sound was distinctly heard. The doctor had
just come in, and it was his voice, heard for the first time,
which sent the blood throbbing so madly through Adah's
veins, and made the sparks of fire dance before her eyes.
She was not deceived — the tones were too distinct, too full,
too well remembered to be mistaken, and stretching out her
hands in the dim darkness, she moaned faintly: “George!
'tis George!” then sank upon the floor, powerless but
not fainting, nor yet unconscious of the terrible certainty
that George was so near to her that but for the partition
she might almost have touched him! She could hear
him now saying to Anna, “Are we alone? I wish to
speak my farewell words in private.”

“Yes, all alone,” Anna replied. “Mrs. Hastings has
gone to the Post-office. Was it any thing particular you
wished to tell me?”

The Doctor either did not hear the name “Mrs Hastings,”
or did not notice it, and again the familiar tones
thrilled on Adah's ear as he replied, “Nothing very particular.
I only wished to say a few words of 'Lina. I
want you to like her, to make up, if possible, for the love
I ought to give her.”

“Ought to give her! Oh, brother, are you taking
'Lina without love? Better never make the vow than
break it after it is made.”

Anna spoke earnestly, and the doctor, who always

tried to retain her good opinion, replied evasively, “I
suppose I do love her as well as half the world love
their wives before marriage, but she is different from any
ladies I have known; so different from what poor Lily was.
Anna, let me talk with you again of Lily. I never told
you all — but what is that?” he continued, as he indistinctly
heard the choking, gasping, stifled sob, which
Adah gave at the sound of the dear pet name, which
used to make the blood thrill so ecstatically through her
veins, and which now, for a single moment, made her
heart bound with sudden joy; but only for a moment.
“Poor Lily,” said a hundred times, with a hundred fold
more tenderness than he was wont to say it, could not
atone for the past; for the cruel desertion, for the deception
even of the name; and so the poor, wounded heart
grew still again as lead, while Anna answered, “It's only
the rising wind. It sounds so always when it's in the
east. What of Lily? Do you wish you were going
after her instead of Lina?”

Could Anna have seen then into the darkness of the
adjoining room, she would have shrunk in terror from the
figure, which, as she asked that question, struggled to its
knees, and creeping nearer to the door, turned its white,
spectral face toward her, listening eagerly for the answer.
Oh, why did the doctor hesitate a moment? Why did
he suffer his dread of losing Anna's respect to triumph
over every other feeling? He had meant to tell her all,
how he did love the gentle girl, who confided herself to
him — how he loved even her memory now far more
than he loved 'Lina, but something kept the full confession
back, and he answered,

“I don't know. We must have money, and 'Lina is
rich, while Lily was very poor, and the only friend or relation
she knew was one with whom I would not dare
have you come in contact, he was so wicked and reckless.”

This was what the doctor said, and into the brown
eyes, now bloodshot and dim with anguish, there came
the hard, fierce look, before which Alice Johnson once
had shuddered, when Adah Hastings said,

“I should hate him!”

And in that dark hour of agony Adah felt that she did
hate him. She knew now that what she before would
not believe was true. He had not made her a lawful
wife, else he had never dared to take another. She was
a degraded creature, Willie a child of sin, and he had
made them so. It was the bitterest dreg she had been
forced to take, and for an instant, she forgot the God she
served, forgot every thing save the desire to curse the
man talking so calmly of her, as if her ruin were nought
to him. But anon, the still small voice she always obeyed
spoke to her tumultuous spirit, and the curse on her
lips died away in the faint whisper, “Forgive me, Father,
and forgive him, too.”

She did not hear him now, for with that prayer, all consciousness
forsook her, and she lay on her face insensible,
while at the very last he did confess to Anna that Lily
was his wife. He did not say unlawfully so. He could
not tell her that. He said,

“I married her privately. I kept it from you all until
she died. I would bring her back if I could, but I cannot,
and I shall marry 'Lina.”

“But,” and Anna grasped his hand nervously, “I
thought you told me once, that you won her love, and
then, when mother's harsh letters came, left her without
a word. Was that story false?”

The doctor was wading out in deep waters, and in
desperation he added lie to lie, saying, huskily —

“Yes, that was false. I tell you I married her, and she
died. Was I to blame for that?”

“No, no, oh, no. I'd far rather it were so. I respect
you more than if you had left her. I am glad, so glad not

that she died, but that you are not so bad as I feared.
Sweet Lily,” and Anna's tears flowed fast to the memory
of the poor girl whose early grave she saw in fancy somewhere
in a beautiful Greenwood.

There was a knock at the door, and Jim appeared, inquiring
if the doctor would have the carriage brought
round. It was nearly time to go, and with the whispered
words to Anna, “I have told you what no one else
must ever know,” the doctor descended with his sister to
the parlor, where his mother was waiting for him. The
opening and shutting of the door caused a draught of air,
which, falling on the fainting Adah, restored her to consciousness,
and struggling to her feet, she tried to think
what it was that had happened. She remembered
it soon, and with a shudder listened to know if George
was still in the adjoining chamber. All was quiet there.
He had gone, and tottering into the room, she knelt by the
chair where he knew she had sat. Then, as the last expiring
throe of her love for him swept over her, she essayed
to wind her trembling arms around the chair, as she would
once have twined them about him.

“Oh, George! George!” she gasped, calling him still
George, for she almost hated that other name. “Oh,
George, I did love you so much,” and she laid her poor,
tired head upon the chair as if it had been his lap. “I
loved you so much, but it is over now, or it soon will be.
I feel its death struggles at my heart. You are worse
than I believed. You have made me an outcast, and Willie
—” The sentence ended with the wailing cry —
“My boy, my boy! that such a heritage should be yours.”

Adah could not pray then, although she tried, but the
fitting words would not come, and with her head still resting
on his chair, she looked the terrible reality in the
face, and saw just where she stood. Heretofore the one
great hope, that she was really a wife, had buoyed her up
when everything else was dark. Like a drowning person

grasping at a straw, she had clung to that, even against her
better judgment, but now it was swept away, and with it
the semblance of a name. He had deceived her even
there, and she had accepted the Hastings as something
tangible. He was a greater villain than she had imagined
a man could be, and again her white lips essayed to curse
him, but the rash act was stayed by the low words whispered
in her ear, “Forgive as ye would be forgiven.”

“If it were not for Willie, I might, but oh! my boy,
my boy disgraced,” was the rebellious spirit's answer, when
again the voice whispered, “And who art thou to contend
against thy God? Know you not that I am the Father of
the fatherless.”

There were tears now in Adah's eyes, the first which
she had shed.

“I'll try,” she murmured, “try to forgive the wrong, but
the strength must all be thine,” and then, though there
came no sound or motion; her heart went out in agonizing
prayer, that she might forgive even as she hoped to
be forgiven.

She did not ask that the dead love might ever return
again. She had no desire for that, but she asked to feel
kindly towards him, that the resentful feeling might be removed,
that God would show her what to do and where to
go, for she could not stay there now, in his home, whither
he would bring his bride ere many days were gone. She
must go away, not to Spring Bank, not anywhere where
he or Lina could ever find her. She would far rather die.
But Willie! what would she do with him, her tender, innocent
boy?

“God tell me what to do with Willie?” she sobbed,
starting suddenly as the answer to her prayer seemed to
come at once. “Oh! can I do that?” she moaned; “can
I leave him here?”

At first her whole soul recoiled from it, but when she
remembered Anna, and how much she loved the child, her

feelings began to change. Anna would love him more
when she knew he was poor Lily's and her own brother's.
She would be kind to him for his father's sake, and for the
sake of the girl she had professed to like. Willie should
be bequeathed to Anna. It would break her heart to
leave him, were it not already broken, but it was better
so. It would be better in the end. He would forget her
in time, unless sweet Anna told him of her, as perhaps she
might. Dear Anna, how Adah longed to fold her arms
about her once and call her sister, but she must not. It
might not be well received, for Anna had some pride, as
her waiting-maid had learned.

“A waiting-maid!” Adah repeated the name, smiling
bitterly as she thought, “A waiting-maid in his own
home! Who would have dreamed that I should ever
come to this, when he painted the future so grandly? Be
still, my heart, or I shall hate him yet, and I'm going to
forgive him.”

Then there came over her the wild, yearning desire to
see his face once more, to know if he had changed, and
why couldn't she? They supposed her gone to the office,
and she would go there now, taking the depot on the way.
She would go closely veiled, and none would suspect her
errand. Rising mechanically, she donned her cloak and
hood, and stealing down the stairs which led from Anna's
room into the garden, she was soon out beneath
the starry sky, inhaling the cool night air, so grateful to
her heated brain.

Apart in the ladies' room at Snowdon depot, a veiled
figure sat, waiting apparently for the cars, just as others
were. She was the only female present, and no one had
noticed her particularly when she came in, for the gentlemen
walking up and down the room only glanced at her,
and then gave her no further thought. And there she sat,
Dr. Richards' deserted wife, waiting to look on his face

once more ere she fled she knew not whither. He came
at last, Jim's voice speaking to his horses heralding his approach.
Adah could not see him yet, but she knew just
when his feet struck the platform as he sprang from the
carriage, and shivered as if it were a blow aimed at her
heart.

The group of rough-looking men gathered about the
office did not suit his mood, and so he came on to the ladies'
apartment, just as Adah knew he would. Pausing
for a moment on the threshold, he looked hastily in, his
glance falling upon the veiled figure sitting there so
lonely and motionless. She did not care for him, she
would not object to his presence, so he came nearer to
the stove, poising his patent leathers upon the hearth,
thrusting both hands into his pockets, and even humming
to himself snatches of a song, which Lily used to sing, up
the three flights of stairs in that New York boarding-house.

Poor Adah! How white and cold she grew, listening
to that air, and gazing upon the face she had loved so well.
It was changed since the night when, with his kiss warm
on her lips, he left her forever; changed, and for the worse.
There was a harder, a more reckless, determined expression
there, a look which better than words could have done,
told that self alone was the god he worshipped. Adah
doubted if he could have won her love with that look upon
his face, and 'Lina Worthington was not envied the
honor in store for her. It was a bitter struggle to sit
there so quietly, to meet the eye before which she was
wont to blush with happiness, to know that he was looking
at her, wondering it might be, who she was, but never
dreaming it was Lily.

Once, as he walked up and down the room, passing so
near to her that she might have touched him with her
hand, she felt an almost irresistible desire to thrust her
thick brown veil aside, and confronting him to his face,

claim from him what she had a right to claim, his name
and a position as his wife. Only for Willie's sake, however;
for herself she did not wish it. He was not worthy,
and forcing back the wild impulse, she sat with throbbing
heart and bloodless lips watching him, as he still
walked up and down, his brows knit together as if absorbed
in some unpleasant thought.

It was a relief when at last the roll of the cars was
heard, and buttoning his coat still closer around him, he
went out upon the platform and stepped mechanically into
the car.

Quickly Adah, too, passed through the rear door out
into the street, and with a piteous moan for her ruined life,
kept on her way till the post-office was reached.

There was a letter for Anna in the box, and thrusting
it into her pocket Adah took her way back to Terrace
Hill.

The family, including Anna, were spending the evening
in the parlor, where there were callers, and thus none
thought of or noticed Adah as she passed through the
hall and crept up to her room.

Willie was asleep; and as Pamelia, who brought him
up, had thoughtfully undressed and placed him in bed,
there was nothing for Adah to do but think. She should
go away, of course; she could not stay there longer;
but how should she tell them why she went, and who
would be her medium for communication?

“Anna,” she whispered; and lighting her little lamp, she
sat down to write the letter which would tell Anna
Richards who was the waiting-maid to whom she had
been so kind.

Adah was very calm when she began that letter, and as it
progressed, she seemed turning into stone, so insensible
she was to what, without that rigidity of nerve, would
have been a task more painful than she could well endure.

“Dear Anna,” she wrote. “Forgive me for calling
you so this once, for indeed I cannot help it. I am going
away from you; and when, in the morning, you wait for
me to come as usual, I shall not be here. I could not
stay and meet your brother when he returns. Oh, Anna,
Anna, how shall I begin to tell you what I know will
grieve and shock your pure nature so dreadfully?

“I love to call you Anna now, for you seem near to
me; and believe me, while I write this to you, I am conscious
of no feeling of inferiority to any one bearing
your proud name. I am, or should have been, your sister;
and Willie! — oh, my boy, when I think of him, I
seem to be going mad!

“Cannot you guess? — don't you know now who I
am? God forgive your brother, as I asked him to do,
kneeling there by the very chair where he sat an hour
since, talking to you of Lily. I heard him, and the
sound of his voice took power and strength away. I
could not move to let you know I was there, and I lay
upon the floor till consciousness forsook me; and then,
when I woke again, you both were gone.

“I went to the depot, I saw him in his face to make
assurance sure, and Anna, I, — oh I don't know what I
am. The world would not call me a wife, though I believed
I was; but they cannot deal thus cruelly by Willie,
or wash from his veins his father's blood, for I —, who
write this, I who have been a servant in the house
where I should have been the mistress, am Lily —
wronged, deserted Lily — and Willie is your brother's
child! His father's looks are in his face. But when I
came here I had no suspicion, for he won me as George
Hastings; that was the name by which I knew him, and
I was Adah Gordon. If you do not believe me, ask him
when he comes back if ever in his wanderings he met
with Adah Gordon, or her guardian, Mr. Redfield. Ask
if he was ever present at a marriage where this Adah

gave her heart to one for whom she would then have lost
her life, erring in that she loved the gift more than the
giver; but God punishes idolatry, and he has punished
me, so sorely, oh so sorely, that sometimes my fainting
soul cries out, `'tis more than I can bear.”'

Then followed more particulars so that there should be
no doubt, and then the half crazed Adah took up the
theme nearest to her heart, her boy, her beautiful Willie.
She could not take him with her. She knew not where
she was going, and Willie must not suffer. Would Anna
take the child? Would she love him for his father's
sake? Would she shield him from scorn, and when he
was older would she sometimes tell him of the mother
who went away that he might be spared shame?

“I do not ask that the new bride should ever call him
hers,” she wrote; “I'd rather she would not. I ask that
you should give him a mother's care, and if his father
will sometimes speak kindly to him for the sake of the
olden time when he did love the mother, tell him —
Willie's father, I mean — tell him, oh I know not what
to bid you tell him, except that I forgive him, though at
first it was so hard, and the words refused to come; I
trusted him so much, loved him so much, and until I had
it from his own lips, believed I was his wife. But that
cured me; that killed the love, if any still existed, and
now, if I could, I would not be his, unless it were for
Willie's sake. Don't deem me too proud when I say, that
to be his wife would be to me more terrible than any thing
which I yet have borne, except it were for Willie. I say
this because it's possible your kind heart would prompt
you at once to bring back your erring brother, and persuade
him at the last to do me justice. But I would not
have it so. Shield Willie; nurture him tenderly; teach
your mother to love him, and if you so desire it, I will
never cross his path, never come near to him, though at a
distance, if Heaven wills it, I shall watch my child.

“And now farewell. God deal with you, dear Anna,
as you deal with my boy.”

Calmly, steadily, Adah folded up the missive, and laying
it with the other letter, busied herself next in making
the necessary preparations for her flight. Anna had been
very liberal with her in point of wages, paying her every
week, and paying more than at first agreed upon; and as
she had scarcely spent a penny during her three months'
sojourn at Terrace Hill, she had, including what Alice
had given to her, nearly forty dollars. She was trying so
hard to make it a hundred, and so send it to Hugh some
day; but she needed it most herself, and she placed it
carefully in her little purse, sighing over the golden coin
which Anna had paid her last, little dreaming for what
purpose it would be used. She would not change her
dress until Anna had retired, as that might excite suspicion;
so with the same rigid apathy of manner she sat
down by Willie's side and waited till Anna was
heard moving in her room. The lamp was burning dimly
on the bureau, and so Anna failed to see the frightful
expression of Adah's face as she performed her accustomed
duties, brushing Anna's hair, and letting her hands linger
caressingly amid the locks she might never touch
again.

It did strike Anna that something was the matter; for
when Adah spoke to her, the voice was husky and unnatural.
Still, she paid no attention, and the chapter was
read as usual, after which Adah bade her good-night and
went to her own room. Anna slept very soundly, and
when toward morning a light footstep glided across her
threshold she did not hear it, neither did she know when
two letters were laid softly on her pillow, where she could
not fail to find them when she awoke, nor yet was she
aware of the blessings breathed over her, as kneeling by
her side Adah prayed out her farewell. Not wept. She
could not do that, even when it came to leaving Willie.

Her tears were frozen into stone, and the mighty throes
of anguish which seemed forcing her heart from its natural
position were of no avail to moisten the feverish lids,
drooping so heavily over the swollen eyes. A convulsive
prayer, in which her whole soul was embodied, a gasping
sob of bitter, bitter pain, and then Adah put from her the
little soft, warm, baby arm which Willie had unconsciously
thrown across her neck when she laid her face by his.
She dared not look at him again lest the sight should unnerve
her, and with a decision born of desperation, she left
her sleeping boy and hurried down the stairs into the
gloomy hall, where not a sound was audible as her feet
pressed the soft thick carpet on her passage to the outer
door. The bolt was drawn, the key was turned, and just
as the clock struck three, Adah stood outside the yard,
leaning on the gate and gazing back at the huge building
looming up so dark and grand beneath the starry sky.
One more prayer for Willie and the mother-auntie to whose
care she had left him, one more straining glance at the
window of the little room where he lay sleeping, and she
resolutely turned away, nor stopped again until the Danville
depot was reached, the station where, in less than five
minutes after her arrival, the night express stood for an instant,
and then went thundering on, bearing with it another
passenger, bound for — she knew not, cared not whither.