Mr. Huntington had accompanied Adelaide to his door, and then, making some trivial excuse, had left her, and gone from his home forever, leaving his wife to watch and wait for him as she had often done before. Slowly the December night waned, and just as the morning was breaking—the morn of the bright Christmas day—a train sped on its way to the westward, bearing among its passengers one who fled from justice, leaving to his wife and daughter grief and shame, and to the blind man darkness, ruin, and death.
CHAPTER II.
THE HOUSE OF MOURNING.
The third day came and passed, and as the twilight shadows fell upon the city, Alice and her mother pushed back the heavy curtain which shaded the window of their pleasant sitting-room, and looked anxiously down the street for one who seldom tarried long. An hour went by, and another still, and then he came, but far more helpless than when he left them in the morning. The blind eyes were red with tears—the stately form was bent with grief—the strong man was crushed with the blow which had fallen so suddenly upon him. He was ruined—hopelessly, irretrievably ruined, and in all the world there was nothing he could call his, save the loved ones who soothed him now, as one had done before, when a mighty sorrow overshadowed him.
As well as he could he told them of the fraud which for many years had been imposed upon him and how he had trusted and been betrayed by one whom he would not suffer the officers to follow.
“It will do no good,” he said “to have him brought back to a felon’s cell, and I will save the wife and daughter from more disgrace,” and so William Huntington was suffered to go at large, while in the home he had desolated there was sorrow and mourning and bitter tears shed; the blind man groping often through the familiar rooms which would soon be his no longer; and the daughter stifling her own grief to soothe her father’s sorrow, and minister to her mother’s wants.
As has before been hinted, Mrs. Warren was far from being strong, and the news of the failure burst upon her with an overwhelming power, prostrating her at once, so that before two weeks were gone her husband forgot everything, save the prayer that the wife of his bosom, the light of his eyes, the mother of his child, might live.
But she who had been reared in the lap of luxury, was never to know the pinching wants of poverty—never to know what it was to be hungry, and cold, and poor. All this was reserved for the gentle Alice, who, younger and stronger, too, could bear the trial better. And so, as day after day went by, the blind man felt what he could not see—felt the death shadows come creeping on—felt how the pallor was deepening on his wife’s cheek—knew that she was going from him fast—knew, alas, that she must die, and one bright, beautiful morning, when the thoughtless passers-by, pointing to the house, said, one to another, “He has lost everything,” he, from the depths of his aching heart, unconsciously made answer, “Lost everything—lost everything!” while Alice bowed her head in anguish, half wishing she, too, were blind, so she could not see the still, white face which lay upon the pillow.
Suddenly the deep stillness of the room was broken by the sound of footsteps in the hall below, and, lifting up her head, Alice said, “Who is it, father?” but Mr. Warren did not answer. He knew who it was and why they had come, and going out to meet them, he stood upon the stairs, tall and erect, like some giant oak which the lightning stroke had smitten, but not destroyed.
“I know your errand,” he said; “I expected you, but come with me and then surely you will leave me alone a little longer,” and turning, he led the way, followed by the men, who never forgot that picture of the pale, dead wife, the frightened, weeping child, and the blind man standing by with outstretched arm as if to shield them from harm.