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Ebook has 366 lines and 82679 words, and 8 pages

In short, Adelaide intended to create quite a sensation in Oakland, and she commenced by assuming a most haughty and consequential manner toward both Mr. Howland and his sister.

All this and much more she said to Mr. Howland, who, hardly knowing whether she were renting a house of him or he were renting one of her, managed at last to say:

"Your mother is a widow, I presume?"

Instantly the dark eyes sought the floor, and Adelaide's voice was very low in its tone as she answered:

"I lost my father nearly a year since."

"I wonder she don't dress in mourning, but that's a way some folks have," Miss Elinor thought, while her brother proceeded to say that Mrs. Huntington could have the white house on the hill, after which Adelaide arose to go, casually asking if the right or left hand street would bring her to the hotel, where she was obliged to spend the night, as no train, after that hour, went up to Springfield.

For a moment Mr. Howland waited, thinking his sister would invite the stranger to stop with them, but this Miss Elinor had no idea of doing; she did not fancy the young lady's airs, and she simply answered:

"The right hand street--you can't mistake it;" frowning slightly when her brother said:

"I will accompany you, Miss Huntington."

"I dislike very much to trouble you. Still I hardly know the way alone," and Adelaide's dark eyes flashed brightly upon him as she accepted his offer.

Mr. Howland was not a lady's man, but he could be very agreeable when he tried, and so Adelaide now found him, mentally resolving to give her mother and old Aunt Peggy a double charge not to betray their real circumstances. Mr. Howland evidently thought her a person of consequence, and who could tell what might come of her acquaintance with him? Stranger things had happened, and she thought that if she ever should go to that handsome house as its mistress, her first act would be to send that stiff old maid away.

With such fancies as these filling her mind, Adelaide went back next day to Springfield, reported her success, and so accelerated her mother's movements that scarcely a week elapsed ere they had moved into the white house on the hill, a handsome little cottage, which looked still more cozy and inviting after Adelaide's hands had fitted it up with tasteful care. It was a rule with Mrs. Huntington to buy the best, if possible, and as her husband had always been lavish with his money, her furniture was superior to that of her neighbors, many of whom really stood in awe of the genteel widow, as she was thought to be, and her stylish, aristocratic daughter. They were supposed to be quite wealthy, or at least in very easy circumstances, and more than one young girl looked enviously at Adelaide, as day after day she swept through the streets, sometimes "walking for exercise," she said, and again going out to shop; always at Mr. Howland's store, where she annoyed the clerks excessively by examining article after article, inquiring its price, wondering if it would become her, or suit ma, and finally concluding not to take it "for fear every shoemaker's daughter in town would buy something like it, and that she couldn't endure."

Regularly each week she went to Springfield, to take music lessons, she said, and lest something should occur making it necessary for her to stay all night, Aunt Peggy usually accompanied her to the depot, always carrying a well-filled satchel, and frequently a large bundle, whose many wrappings of paper told no tales, and were supposed by the credulous to cover the dressing-gown, which Adelaide deemed necessary to the making of her morning toilet.

"It was very annoying," she said, "to carry so much luggage, but the friends with whom she stopped were so particular that she felt obliged to change her dress, even though she merely stayed to dinner."

In dignified silence his sister awaited his return, and when to her greeting, "Where have you been?" he replied, "Been to call on Miss Adelaide," the depth of the three winkles between her eyebrows was perceptibly increased, while a contemptuous Pshaw! escaped her lips. Miss Elinor was not easily deceived. From the first she had insisted that Adelaide "was putting on airs," and if there was one thing more than another which that straightforward, matter-of-fact lady disliked, it was pretention. She had not yet been to see Mrs. Huntington, and now, when her brother, after dwelling at length upon the pleasant evening he had spent, urged her to make the lady's acquaintance, she replied rather sharply, that she always wished to know something of the people with whom she associated. For her part, she didn't like Miss Adelaide, and if her brother had the least regard for her feelings, he wouldn't call there quite as often as he did.

"Quite as often," Mr. Howland repeated, in much surprise. "What do you mean? I've only been there once," and then in a spirit which men will sometimes manifest when opposed, particularly if in that opposition a lady is involved, he added, "but I intend to go again--and very soon, too."

The next morning Miss Elinor felt better, and as time passed on and her brother did not again visit his new tenants, she began to feel a little more amiably disposed toward the strangers, and at last decided to call, intending to go next to the brown house in the hollow, where she was a frequent visitor. She accordingly started one afternoon for the white house on the hill, where she was most cordially received. With the ladylike manners of Mrs. Huntington she could find no fault, but she did not like the expression of Adelaide's eyes, nor the sneering manner in which she spoke of the country and country people; neither did she fail to see the basket which the young lady pushed hastily under the lounge as Aunt Peggy ushered her into the sitting-room. On the table there were scissors, needles and thread, but not a vestige of sewing was visible, though on the carpet were shreds of cloth, and from beneath the lounge peeped something which looked vastly like the wristband of a man's shirt.

"Pride and poverty! I'll venture to say they sew for a living," Miss Elinor thought, and making her call as brief as possible, she arose to go.

It was in vain that Adelaide urged her to stay longer, telling her "it was such a treat to see some one who seemed like their former acquaintances."

With a toss of her head Miss Elinor declined, saying she was going to visit a poor family in the hollow, a blind man and his daughter, and in adjusting her furs she failed to see how both Adelaide and her mother started at her words. Soon recovering her composure, the former asked, who they were, and if they had always lived in Oakland?

"Their name is Warren," said Miss Elinor, "and they came, I believe, from some city in western New York, but I know nothing definite concerning them, as they always shrink from speaking of their former condition. Alice, though, is a sweet little creature--so kind to her old father, and so refined, withal."

Mechanically bidding her visitor good afternoon, Adelaide went to her mother's side, exclaiming:

"Who thought those Warrens would toss up in Oakland! Of course, when they know that we are here, they'll tell all about father and everything else. What shall we do?"

"We are not to blame for your father's misdeeds," Mrs. Huntington answered; and Adelaide replied:

"I know it, but people think you are a widow with a competence sufficient to support us genteelly--they don't suspect how late we sit up nights, sewing, to make ends meet. Mercy! I hope the peeking old maid didn't see that," she exclaimed, as her own eye fell upon the wristband. Then, after a moment, she continued, "I know what I'll do. I'll go to Alice this very night, and tell her how sorry we are for what has happened, and I'll ask her to say nothing about father's having cheated them and run away. She's a pretty good sort of a girl, I guess, if I did once to think her so proud."

The plan seemed a feasible one, and that evening as Alice Warren sat bending over a vest, which she must finish that night, she was startled by the abrupt entrance of Adelaide Huntington, who, seizing both her hands, said, with well-feigned distress:

"My poor Alice! I never expected to find you thus."

In his arm-chair Mr. Warren was sleeping, but when the stranger's shadow fell upon him, he awoke, and stretching out his arms, he said:

"Who is it, Alice?--who stands between me and the fire?"

"It is I," answered Adelaide, coming to his side, "the daughter of him who ruined you. I have just learned that you were living here in the same village with ourselves, and, at my mother's request, I have come to tell you how bitterly we have wept over my father's sin, and to ask you not to hate us for a deed of which we knew nothing until it was all over."

Then seating herself in a chair she continued to speak hurriedly, telling them some truth and some falsehood--telling them how, for a few months they had lived with a distant relative, a wealthy man, who gave them money now for their support--telling them how her father's disgrace had affected her mother, and begging of them not to speak of it in Oakland, where it was not known.

"I don't know why it is," she said, "but people have the impression that mother is a widow; and though it is wrong to deceive them, I cannot tell them my father ran away to escape a convict's cell. It would kill my mother outright, and if you will keep silent, we shall be forever grateful."

There was no reason why Mr. Warren should speak of his former clerk, and he answered Adelaide that neither himself nor Alice had any wish to injure her by talking of the past. Thus relieved of her fears, Adelaide grew very amiable and sympathetic, saying she did not suppose they were so poor, and pitying Alice, who must miss so much her pictures, her flowers, her birds and her music.

"Come up and try my piano. You may practice on it any time," she said, when at last she arose to go.

"I never played much. I was not fond of it," was Alice's answer, while her father rejoined quickly:

"Then you keep a piano. I did not know you had one."

"Oh, yes, father bought it for me at auction, three years ago, and as he was not owing any one then, our furniture was not disturbed."

The blind man sighed, while Alice dropped a tear on the vest she was making, as she thought of the difference between herself and Adelaide, who paused as she reached the door, and asked if she knew Mr. Howland.

"I sew for his store," said Alice, and Adelaide continued:

"Isn't he a splendid man?"

Alice did not know whether he was splendid or not--she had never observed his looks particularly, she said; but she knew he was very kind, and she liked nothing better than to have him come there evenings, as he often did.

"Come here often!" exclaimed Adelaide, her voice indicating the pang with which a feeling of jealousy had been brought to life.

Before Alice could reply there was a footstep outside, and the blind man, whose quick ear caught the sound, said joyfully:

"He's coming now."

"I wish I had gone home before," was the first thought of Adelaide, who did not care to be seen there by Mr. Howland. It might lead to some inquiries which she would rather should not be made. Still, there was now no escape, and trusting much to the promise of the Warrens, she stepped back from the door just as Mr. Howland opened it. He seemed greatly surprised at finding her there, and still more surprised when he learned that they were old acquaintances.

"It is kind in her not to desert them in their poverty," he thought, and his manner was still more considerate toward Adelaide, who, after standing a few moments, made another attempt to go.

"Wait, Miss Huntington," said he. "It was both raining and snowing when I came in, and you will need an umbrella."

This was just what Adelaide wanted, and taking a seat she waited patiently until Mr. Howland signified his readiness to go. Then, bidding Alice good night, she whispered to her softly:

"You never will say a word of father, will you?"

"Certainly not," was Alice's reply, and in another moment Adelaide was in the street walking arm in arm with Mr. Howland, who began to speak of the Warrens and their extreme poverty.

"It is evident they have seen better days," he said, "but they never seem willing to speak of the past. Did he meet with a reverse of fortune?"

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