University of Virginia Library

39. CHAPTER XXXIX.
GOING HOME.

The village hearse was waiting at Snowdon depot, and
close beside it stood the carriage from Terrace Hill; the
one sent there for Adah, the other for her husband, whose
life-blood, so freely shed, had wiped away all stains upon
his memory, and enshrined him in the hearts of Snowdon's
people as a martyr. He was the first dead soldier returned
to them, his the first soldier's grave in their churchyard;
and so a goodly throng were there, with plaintive fife and
muffled drum, to do him honor. His major was coming with
him, it was said — Major Stanley, who had himself been
found in a half-fainting condition watching by the dead —
Major Stanley, who had seen that the body was embalmed,
had written to the wife, and had attended to everything,
even to coming on himself by way of showing his respect.
Death is a great softener of errors; and the village people,
who could not remember a time when they had not disliked
John Richards, forgot his faults now that he was
dead.

It seemed a long time waiting for the train, but it came
at last, and the crowd involuntarily made a movement
forward, and then drew back as a tall figure appeared upon

the platform, his uniform betokening an officer of rank,
and his manner showing plainly that he was master of
ceremonies.

“Major Stanley,” ran in a whisper through the crowd,
whose wonder increased when another, and, if possible, a
finer-looking man, emerged into view, his right arm in a
sling, and his face pale and worn, from the effects of recent
illness. He had not been expected, and many curious
glances were cast at him as, slowly descending the steps,
he gave his hand to Mrs. Worthington following close
behind. They knew her, and recognized also the two
young ladies, Alice and Adah, as they sprang from the car.
Poor Adah! how she shrank from the public gaze, shuddering
as, on her way to the carriage, she passed the long
box the men were handling so carefully.

Summoned by Irving Stanley, she had come on to
Washington, and while there, had learned that Mrs. Worthington,
Hugh, and Alice were all in Georgetown, whither
she hastened at once. Immediately after the discovery
of her parentage, she had written to Kentucky, but the
letter had not reached its destination, consequently no
one but Hugh knew how near she was; and he had only
learned it a few days before the battle, when he had, by
accident, a few moments' conversation with Dr. Richards,
whom he had purposely avoided. He was talking of Adah,
and the practicability of sending for her, when she arrived
at the private boarding-house to which he had been removed.

The particulars of that interview between the mother
and her daughter we cannot describe, as no one witnessed
it save God; but Adah's face was radiant with happiness,
and her eyes beaming with joy when it was ended, and
she went next to where Hugh was waiting for her.

“Oh, Hugh, my noble brother!” was all she could say,
as she wound her arms around his neck and pressed her
cheek against his own, forgetting, in those moments of
perfect bliss, all the sorrow, and anguish of the past.

Nor was it until Hugh said to her, “The doctor was in
that battle, did be escape unharmed?” that a shadow
dimmed the sunshine flooding her pathway that autumn
morning.

At the mention of him, the muscles about her mouth
grew rigid, and a look of pain flitted across her face,
showing that there was yet much of bitterness mingled in
her cup of joy. Composing herself as soon as possible
she told Hugh that she was a widow, but uttered no word
of complaint against the dead, and Hugh, knowing that
she could not sorrow as other women have sorrowed over
the loved ones slain in battle, drew her nearer to him, and
kissing her tenderly, said, “Your home shall be with me
and Golden Hair — who has promised to be my wife.”

Then he asked what Major Stanley's plan was concerning
the body of her husband, and upon learning that it
was to bury the doctor at home, he announced his determination
to accompany them, as he knew he should be
able to do so.

It was a great trial to Adah to face the crowd they
found assembled at the depot, but Irving, Hugh, and
Alice all helped to screen her from observation, and almost
before she was aware of it she found herself safe in
the carriage, which effectually hid her from view. Slowly
the procession moved through the village, the foot
passengers keeping time to the muffled drum, whose solemn
beats had never till that morning been heard in the
quiet streets. The wide gate which led into the grounds
of Terrace Hill was opened wide, and the black hearse
passed in, followed by the other carriages, which wound
round the hill and up to the huge building where badges
of mourning were hung out for the only son, the youngest
born, the once pride and pet of the stately woman
who watched the coming of that group with tear-dim
eyes, holding upon her lap the little boy whose father
they were bringing in, dead, coffined for the grave. Not

for the world would that high-bred woman have been
guilty of an impropriety, and so she sat in her own room,
while Charlie Millbrook met the bearers in the hall and
told them where to deposit their burden.

In the same room where we first saw him on the night
of his return from Europe they left him, and went their
way, while to Dixon and Pamelia was accorded the honor
of first welcoming Adah, whom they treated with as much
deference as if she had never been with them in any capacity
save that of mistress. She had changed since
they last saw her — was wonderfully improved, they said
to each other as they left her at the door of the room,
where Mrs. Richards, with her two older daughters, was
waiting to receive her. But if the servants were struck
with the air of dignity and cultivation which Adah acquired
during her tour in Europe, how much more did
this same air impress the haughty ladies who had felt a
little uncertain as to how they should receive her. Any
doubts, however, which they had upon this subject were
dispelled the moment she entered the room, and they
saw at a glance that it was not the timid, shrinking Adah
Gordon with whom they had to deal, but a woman as wholly
self-possessed as themselves, and one with whose bearing
even their critical eyes would find no fault. She
would not suffer them to patronize her; they must treat
her fully as an equal or as nothing, and with a new-born
feeling of pride in her late son's widow, Mrs. Richards
arose, and putting Willie from her lap, advanced to meet
her, cordially extending her hand, but uttering no word
of welcome. Adah took the hand, but her eyes never
sought the face of her lady mother. They were riveted
with a hungry, wistful, longing look on Willie, who, clinging
to his grandmother's skirts, peered curiously at her,
holding back at first, when, unmindful of Asenath and
Eudora, who had not yet been greeted, she tried to take
him in her arms.

“Oh, Willie, darling, don't you know me! I am poor
mam-ma,” and Adah's voice was choked with sobs at this
unlooked-for reception from her child.

He had been sent for from Anna's home to meet his
mother, because it was proper; but no one at Terrace
Hill had said to him that the mamma for whom Anna
taught him daily to pray, was coming. She was not in
his mind; and as eighteen months had obliterated all
memories of the girlish creature he once knew as mother,
he could not immediately identify that mother with
the lady before him.

It was a sad disappointment to Adah, and without
knowing what she was doing, she sank down upon the
sofa, and involuntarily laying her head in Mrs. Richards'
lap, cried bitterly, her tears bringing answering ones from
the eyes of all three of the ladies, for they half believed
her grief, in part, was for the lifeless form in the room below.

“Poor child, you are tired and worn. It is hard to
lose him just as there was a prospect of perfect reconciliation
with us all,” Mrs. Richards said, softly smoothing
the brown tresses lying on her lap, and thinking even
then that curls were more becoming to her daughter-in-law
than braids had been, but wondering why, now she
was in mourning, Adah had persisted in wearing them.

“Pretty girl, pretty turls, is you tyin?” and won by
her distress, Willie drew near, and laid his baby hand
upon the curls he thought so pretty.

“That's mamma, Willie,” Asenath said; “the mamma
Aunt Anna said would come some time — Willie's mam-ma.
Can't he kiss her?”

The child could not resist the face which, lifting itself
up, looked eagerly at him, and he put up his little hands
for Adah to take him, returning the kisses she showered
upon him, and clinging to her neck, while he said,

“Is you mam-ma sure? I prays for mam-ma — God

take care of her, and pa-pa too. He's dead. They
brought him back with a dum. Poor pa-pa, Willie
don't want him dead;” and the little lip began to quiver.

Never since she knew she was a widow had Adah felt
so vivid a sensation of something akin to affection for
the dead, as when her child mourned so plaintively for
papa; and the tears which now fell like rain were not
for Willie alone.

“Mrs. Richards has not yet greeted us,” Asenath said;
and turning to her at once, Adah apologized for her
seeming neglect, pressing both her and Eudora's hands
more cordially than she would have done a few moments
before.

“Where is Anna?” she asked; and Mrs. Richards
replied,

“She's sick. She regretted much that she could not
come up here to-day;” while Willie, standing in Adah's
lap, with his chubby arm around her neck, chimed in,

“You don't know what we've dot. We've dot 'ittle
baby, we has.”

Adah knew now why Anna was absent, and why Charlie
Millbrook looked so happy when at last he came in to
see her, delivering sundry messages from his Anna, who,
he said, could scarcely wait to see her dear sister. There
was something genuine in Charlie's greeting, something
which made Adah feel as if she were indeed at home,
and she wondered much how even the Richards race could
ever have objected to him, as she watched his movements
and heard him talking with his stately mother.

“Yes, Major Stanley came,” he said, in reply to her
question, and Adah was glad it was put to him, for the
blushes dyed her cheek at once, and she bent over Willie
to hide them, while Charlie continued, “Captain Worthington
came, too. He was in the same battle with the
doctor, was wounded rather seriously, and has been discharged,
I believe.”

“Oh,” and Mrs. Richards seemed quite interested,
asking where the young men were, and appearing disappointed
when told that, after waiting a few moments in
hopes of seeing the ladies, they had returned to the hotel,
where Mrs. Worthington and Alice were stopping.

“I fully expected the ladies here; pray, send for them
at once,” she said, but Adah interposed.

“Her mother would not willingly be separated from
Hugh, and as he of course would remain at the hotel, it
would be useless to think of persuading Mrs. Worthington
to come to Terrace Hill.”

“But Miss Johnson surely will come,” persisted Mrs.
Richards.

Adah could not explain then that Alice was less likely
to leave Hugh than her mother, but she said, “Miss
Johnson, will not leave mother alone,” and so the matter
was settled.

It was a terribly long day to Adah, and she was glad
when towards its close Alice was announced as being in
the reception room. She had driven round, to call on
Mrs. Richards, and after that take Adah with her to the
cottage, where Anna, she knew, was anxious to receive
her. At first Mrs. Richards demurred, fearing it would
be improper, but saying, “My late son's wife is of course
her own mistress, and can do as she likes.”

Very adroitly Alice waived all objections, and bore Adah
off in triumph.

“I knew you must be lonely up there,” she said, as they
drove slowly along, “and there can be no harm in visiting
one's sick sister.”

Anna surely did not think there was, as her warm,
welcoming kisses fully testified.

“I wanted so much to see you to-day,” she said, “that
I have worked myself into quite a fever; but knowing
mother as I do, I feared she might not sanction your coming;”
then proudly turning down the blanket, she disclosed

the red-faced baby, who, just one week ago, had come
to the Riverside Cottage.

“Isn't he a beauty?” she asked, pressing her lips upon
the wrinkled forehead. “A boy, too, and looks so much
like Charlie, but —” and her soft, blue eyes seemed more
beautiful than ever with the maternal love shining from
them. “I shall not call him Charles, nor yet John, though
mother's heart is set on the latter name. I can't. I loved
my brother dearly, and never so much as now that he is
dead, but my baby-boy must not bear his name, and so I
have chosen Hugh, Hugh Richards. I know it will please
you both,” and she glanced archly at Alice, who blushingly
kissed the little boy named for her promised husband.

They talked of Hugh awhile, and then Anna spoke of
Irving Stanley, expressing her fears that she could not see
him to thank him for his kindness and forbearance to her
erring brother.

“He must be noble and good,” she said, then turning to
Adah, she continued. “You know him well. Do you like
him?”

“Yes,” and Adah's face was all ablaze, as the simple
answer dropped from her lips.

For a moment Anna regarded her intently, then her
eyes were withdrawn and her white hand beat the counterpane
softly, but nothing more was said of Irving Stanly.

The next day near the sun-setting, they buried the dead
soldier, Mrs. Richards and Adah standing side by side
as the body was lowered to its last resting place, the
older leaning upon the younger for support, and feeling as
she went back to her lonely home and heard the merry
laugh of little Willie in the hall that she was glad her son
had married the young girl, who, now that John was gone
forever, began to be very dear to her as his wife, the Lily
whom he had loved so much. In the dusky twilight of
that night when alone with Adah, she told her as much,

speaking sadly of the past, which she regretted, and wishing
she had never objected to receiving the girl about
whom John wrote so lovingly.

“Had I done differently he might have been living now,
and you have been spared much pain, but you'll forgive
me. I'm an old woman. I am breaking fast, and soon
shall follow my boy, but while I live I wish for peace, and
you must love me, Lily, because I was his mother,” and the
hand of her who had conceded so much, rested entreatingly
upon the bowed head of the young girl beside her.
There was no acting there, Adah knew, and clasping the
trembling hand she involuntarily whispered,

“I will love you, my mother.

“And stay with me, too?” Mrs. Richards continued,
her voice choked with the sobs she could not repress, when
she heard herself called mother by the girl she had so
wronged. “Anna is gone, my other daughters are old. We
are lonely in this great house. We need somebody young
to cheer our solitude, and you will stay, as mistress, if
you choose, or as a petted youngest daughter.”

This was an unlooked for trial to Adah. She had not
dreamed of living at Terrace Hill. But Adah had never
consulted her own happiness, and as she listened to the
pleading tones of the woman who surely had some heart,
some noble qualities, she felt that 't was her duty to remain
there for a time at least, and so she replied at last,

“I expected to live with my own mother, but for the
present my home shall be here with you.”

“God bless you, darling,” and the proud woman's lips
touched the fair cheek, while the proud woman's hand
smoothed again the soft short curls, pushing them back
from the white brow, as she murmured, “You are very
beautiful, my child, just as John said you were.”

It was hard for Adah to tell Mrs. Worthington that she
could not make one of the circle who would gather around
the home fireside, but she did at last, standing firmly by

her decision, and saying in reply to her mother's entreaties,
“It is my duty. They need me more than you, who have
both Hugh and Alice.”

Adah was right, so Hugh said, and Alice, too, while
Irving Stanley said nothing. He must have found much
that was attractive about the little town of Snowdon, for
he lingered there long after there was not the least excuse
for staying. He did not go often to Terrace Hill, and
when he did, he never asked for Adah, but so long as he
could see her on Sundays when, with the Richards' family,
she walked quietly up the aisle, her cheek flushing as she
passed him, and so long as he occasionally met her at Mrs.
Worthington's rooms, or saw her riding in the Richards
carriage, so long was he content to stay. But there came
a time when he must go, and then he asked for Adah, and
in the presence of her mother-in-law invited her to go
with him to her husband's grave. She went, taking Willie
with her, and there, with that fresh mound between them,
Irving Stanley told her what the dying soldier had said,
and asked if it should be so.

“Not now, not yet,” he continued, as Adah's eyes were
bent upon that grave, “but by and by, will you do your
husband's bidding and be my wife?”

“I will,” and taking Willie's hand Adah put it with hers
into the broad, warm palm which clasped them both, as
Irving whispered, “Your child shall be mine, and never
need to know that I am not his father.”

It was arranged that Alice should tell Mrs. Richards, as
Adah would have no concealments. Accordingly, Alice
asked a private interview with the lady, to whom she told
everything as she understood it. And Mrs. Richards,
though weeping bitterly, generously exonerated Adah
from all blame, commended her as having acted wisely,
and then added, with a flush of pride:

“Many a woman would be glad to marry Irving Stanley,
and it gives me pleasure to know that to my son's widow

the honor is accorded. He is worthy to take John's place,
and she, I believe, is worthy of him. I love her already
as my daughter, and shall look upon him as a son. You
say they are in the garden. Let them both come to me.”

They came, and listened quietly, while Mrs. Richards
sanctioned their engagement, and then, with a little eulogy
upon her departed son, said to Adah, “You will wait a
year, of course. It will not be proper before.”

Irving had hoped for only six months' probation, but
Adah was satisfied with the year, and they went from
Mrs. Richards' presence with the feeling that Providence
was indeed smiling upon their pathway, and flooding it
with sunshine.

The next day Major Stanley left Snowdon, but not until
there had come to Hugh a letter, whose handwriting
made Mrs. Worthington turn pale, it brought back so
vividly the terror of the olden time. It was from Murdoch,
and it enclosed for Mrs. Worthington the sum of
five hundred dollars, “I have no reason for thinking you
rich,” he wrote, “and should she need more I will try to
send it as some atonement for the past.”

Then, after speaking of his fruitless search for Adah,
and his hearing at last that she was found and Dr. Richards
dead, he added, “As there is nothing left for me to
do, and as I am sure to be playing mischief if idle, I have
joined the army, and am training a band of contrabands
to fight as soon as the government comes to its senses,
and is willing for the negroes to bear their part in the
battle.”

The letter ended with saying that he should never come
out of the war alive, simply because it would last until
he was too old to live any longer.

It was a relief for Mrs. Worthington to hear from him,
and know that he probably would not trouble her again,
while Adah, whose memories of him were pleasanter, expressed
a strong desire to see him.

“We will find him by and by, when you are mine,” Irving
said playfully and drawing her into an adjoining room,
where they could be alone, he said his parting words, and
then with Hugh went to meet the train which took him
away from Snowdon.