University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
EXCITEMENT.

They were not early risers at Terrace Hill, and the
morning following Adah's flight Anna slept later than
usual; nor was it until Willie's cry, calling for mamma,

was heard, that she awoke, and thinking Adah had gone
down for something, bade Willie come to her. Putting
out her arms she lifted him carefully into her own bed,
and in so doing brushed from her pillow the letters left
for her. But it did not matter then, and for a full half
hour she lay waiting for Adah's return. Growing impatient
at last, she stepped upon the floor, her bare feet touching
something cold, something which made her look down
and find that she was stepping on a letter — not one, but
two — and in wondering surprise she turned them to the
light, half fainting with excitement, when on the back of
the first one examined, she saw the old familiar handwriting,
and knew that Charlie had written.

Anna had hardly been human had she waited an instant
ere she tore open the envelope and learned that Charlie
had returned from India and had not forgotten her. The
love of his early manhood had increased with his maturer
years, and he could not be satisfied until he heard from
her that he was remembered and still beloved, that if this
letter did not bring a reply he should come himself and
brave the proud woman who guarded the entrance to Terrace
Hill.

This was Charlie's letter, this what Anna read, and delicious
tears of joy flowed over her beautiful face, as
pressing the paper to her lips, she murmured,

“Dear Charlie! darling Charlie! I thank the kind Father
for bringing him at last to me.”

Hiding it in her bosom, Anna took the other letter, and
throwing her shawl around her, sat down by the window
and read it through — read it once, read it twice, read it
thrice, and then — Sure never were the inmates of Terrace
Hill thrown into so much astonishment and alarm as
they were that April morning, when, in her cambric night
robe, her long hair falling unbound about her shoulders,
and her bare feet, gleaming white and cold upon the floor,
Miss Anna went screaming from room to room, demanding

of the startled inmates if they had seen Adah Hastings
— if they knew where she had gone — bidding Jim
find her at his peril, telling Pamelia to join in the search,
and asking her wonder-stricken mother and sisters “if they
had any idea who it was that had been an inmate of their
house for so many weeks.”

“Come with me,” she almost screamed, and dragging
her mother to her room, where Willie sat up in bed, looking
curiously about him and uncertain whether to cry or
to laugh, she exclaimed, “Look at him, mother, and you,
too, Asenath and Eudora!” turning to her sisters, who had
followed. “Tell me who is he like? — Mother, surely
you ought to know — ought to recognize your own son's
offspring, for he is, he certainly is, John's child! and Adah
was Lily, the young girl whom you forbade him to marry!
Listen, mother, you shall listen to what your pride has
done!” and grasping the bewildered Mrs. Richards by
the arm, Anna held her fast while she read aloud the
letter left by Adah.

Mrs. Richards fainted. It was the best thing under the
circumstance which she could do, as it gave them all a
little diversion from the exciting matter in hand. She
soon recovered, however, and listened eagerly while Anna
repeated all her brother had ever told her of Lily.

“I believe it is true,” she said, and taking the letter she
read it for herself, feeling an added respect for Adah, as she
marked the flashes of pride gleaming out here and there,
and showing themselves in the resentful manner with
which she spurned the thought of now being the doctor's
wife, except it were for Willie.

Poor Willie! He was there in the bed, looking curiously
at the four women, none of whom seemed quite
willing to own him, save Anna. Her heart took him in at
once. He had been given to her. She would be faithful
to the trust, and folding him in her arms, she cried softly
over him, kissing his little face and calling him her darling.

“Anna, how can you fondle such as he?” Eudora asked,
rather sharply, for her nature was the hardest, coldest of
them all, and rebelled against the innocent boy.

“He is our brother's child. Our blood is in his veins,
and that is why we all must love him. Mother, you will
not turn from your grandson,” and Anna held the boy
toward her mother, who did not refuse to take him.

Asenath always went with her mother, and at once
showed signs of relenting by laying her hand on Willie's
head and calling him “poor boy.” Eudora held out
longer, but Anna knew she would yield in time, and
satisfied with Willie's reception so far, went on to speak
of Adah. Where was she, did they suppose, and what
were the best means of finding her.

At this Mrs. Richards demurred, as did Asenath with
her.

“Adah was gone, and they had better let her go
quietly. She was nothing to them, and if they took
Willie, it was all that could be required of them. Had
Adah been John's wife, it would of course be different,
but she was not, and his marriage with 'Lina must not
now be prevented. Neither must any one save themselves
and John ever know who Willie was. It was not necessary
to bruit their affairs abroad. It was very wicked
and bad in John, of course, but other young men were as
bad.”

This was Mrs. Richards' reasoning, but Anna's was
different.

“John had distinctly said, `I married Lily, and she
died.' Adah was mistaken about the marriage being unlawful.
It was a falsehood he told her. She was his
wife, and he must not be permitted to commit bigamy.
He loved Lily far better than he did 'Lina. He would
move heaven and earth to find her, did he know that she
was living. And he should know of it. She was going to
Kentucky herself to tell him. She would not trust to

the telegraph, and should start that very night. There
would be no scene. She would only tell John in private.
They need not try to dissuade her, for she should go.”

This was what Anna said, and all in vain were her
mother's entreaties to let matters take their course. Anna
only replied by going deliberately on with the preparations
for her sudden journey, pausing now and then to
dream a moment over her own new happiness, taking the
letter from her bosom and whispering, “Dear Charlie,”
and then as Willie cried for his mother, she essayed to
quiet him, hugging him in her arms and mingling her
own tears with his. The servants were told that Mrs.
Hastings had run away, Eudora, the informer, hinting of
insanity, and so this accounted for the sudden interest
manifested for Willie by the other ladies, who had him
in at their breakfast, and kept him with them in the parlor,
in spite of Pamelia's endeavors to coax him away.
This accounted, too, for Anna's journey. She was going
to find Adah, and blessing her for this kindness to one
whom they had liked so much, Dixson and Pamelia
helped to get her ready, both promising the best of care
to Willie in her absence, both asking where she was
going first, and both receiving the same answer, “To Albany.”

Mrs. Richards was too much stunned clearly to comprehend
what had happened or what would be the result;
and in a kind of apathetic maze she bade Anna
good-bye, and then went back to where Willie sat upon
the sofa, examining and occasionally tearing the costly
book of foreign prints which had been given him to
keep him still and make him cease his piteous wail for
“mam-ma.” It seemed like a dream to the three ladies
sitting at home that night and talking about Anna; wondering
that a person of her weak nerves and feeble health
should suddenly become so active, so energetic, so decided,
and of her own accord start off on a long journey
alone and unprotected.

And Anna wondered at herself when the excitement
of leaving was past, and the train was bearing her swiftly
along on her mission of duty. She had written a few
lines to Charlie Millbrook, telling him of her unaltered
love, and bidding him come to her in three weeks time,
when she would be ready to see him. She had unselfishly
put the interview off thus long because she did not
know what might occur in the interim, and when he
came she wished to be quiet and free from all excitement.
She had herself dropped the letter in the post-office as
she came down to the depot. She knew it was safe, and
leaning back in her seat in the car she felt a happy
peace which nothing could disturb, not even thoughts of
Adah — Lily she called her — wandering she knew not
where.

It was very dark and rainy, and the passengers jostled
each other rudely as they passed from the cars in Albany
and hurried to the boat. It was new business to Anna,
traveling alone and in the night, and a feeling akin to
fear was creeping over her as she wondered where she
should find the eastern train.

“Follow the crowd,” seemed yelled out for her benefit,
though it was really intended for a timid, deaf old lady,
who had anxiously asked what to do of one whose laconic
reply was, “Follow the crowd.” And Anna did follow
the crowd, which led her safely to the waiting cars.
Snugly enconsced in a seat all to herself, she vainly imagined
there was no more trouble until Cleveland, or
Buffalo at least, was reached. How, then, was she disappointed
when, alighting for a moment at Rochester, she
found herself in a worse Babel, if possible, than had existed
at Albany. Where were all these folks going, and
which was the train. “I ought not to have alighted at
all,” she thought; “I might have known I never could
find my way back.” Never, sure, was poor, little woman
so confused and bewildered as Anna, and it is not strange

that she stood directly upon the track, unmindful of the
increasing din and roar as the train from Niagara Falls
came thundering into the depot. It was in vain that the
cabman nearest to her halloed to warn her of the impending
danger. She never dreamed that they meant her,
or suspected her great peril, until from out the group
waiting to take that very train, a tall figure sprang, and
grasping her light form round the waist, bore her to a
place of safety — not because he guessed that it was Annie,
but because it was a human being whom he would
save from a fearful death.

“Excuse me, madam,” he began, as with the long train
between them and the people, they stood comparatively
alone, but whatever she might have said was lost in the
low, thrilling scream of joy with which Anna recognized
him.

“Charlie, Charlie! oh, Charlie!” she cried, burying her
face in his bosom and sobbing like a child.

There was no time to waste in explanations; scarcely
time, indeed, for Charlie to ask where she was going, and
if the necessity to go on were imperative. If her arrangements
could not bend to his, why his must bend to hers,
and unmindful of the audience away to the eastward
who would that night wait in vain for the appearance of
Mr. Millbrook, the returned missionary, Charlie wound his
arm around the half fainting form, dearer than his own
life, and carried rather than led her to a seat in the car
just on the point of rolling from the depot.

“You won't leave me,” Anna whispered, clinging closer
to him, as she remembered how improbable it was that
he was going the same way with herself.

“Leave you, darling? no,” and pressing the little fingers
twining so lovingly about his own, Charlie replied,
“I shall not leave you again.”

He needed no words to tell him of her unaltered love,
and satisfied to have her at last, he drew her closely to

him, and laying her tired head upon his bosom, gazed
fondly at the face he had not seen in many years. That
dear face he had once thought so beautiful and had
dreamed about so often, even when another was sleeping
at his side, was it changed? Yes, slightly. The
fresh, girlish bloom of only eighteen summers was gone,
but Anna wore her thirty-three years lightly, and if
possible, the maturer face was more beautiful to Charlie
than the laughing maiden's had been, for he traced
on it unmistakable marks of that peace which Anna had
found in her later life; and without questioning her at
all, Charlie Millbrook knew his darling Anna had chosen
the better part, and that in the next world she would
be his, even as he hoped to call her his own for the remainder
of his sojourn on earth. Curious, tittering maidens,
of whom there are usually one or two in every car,
looked at that couple near the door and whispered to their
companions,

“Bride and groom. Just see how he hugs her. Some
widower, I know, married to a young wife.”

But neither Charlie nor Anna cared for the speculations
to which they were giving rise. They had found each
other, and the happiness enjoyed during the two hours
which elapsed ere Buffalo was reached, more than made
amends for all the lonely years of wretchedness they had
spent apart from each other. Charlie had told Anna briefly
of his life in India — had spoken feelingly, affectionately,
of his gentle Hattie, who had died, blessing him with
her last breath for the kindness he had ever shown to her;
of baby Annie's grave, by the side of which he buried
the young mother; of his loneliness after that, his failing
health, his yearning for a sight of home, his embarkation
for America, his hope through all that she might still be
won; and his letter which she received. And then Anna
told him where she was going, sparing her brother as much
as possible, and dwelling long upon poor Lily's gentleness
and beauty.

So it was settled that Charley should go with her, and
his presence made her far less impatient than she would
otherwise have been, when, owing to some accident, they
were delayed so long that the Cleveland train was gone,
and there was no alternative but to wait in Buffalo. At
Cincinnati there was another detention, and it was not
until the very day appointed for the wedding that, with
Charlie still beside her, Anna entered the carriage hired
at Lexington, and started for Spring Bank, whither for a
little we will precede her, taking up the narrative prior to
this day, and about the time when 'Lina first returned
home from New York, laden with arrogance and airs.