Surely Hugh’s sleep was sweeter that night for the prayer breathed by the lowly negro, and even the wild tumult in Adah’s heart was hushed by Sam’s simple childlike faith that God would bring all right at last.
Early on Monday afternoon ’Lina, taking advantage of Hugh’s absence, came over for her dress, finding much fault, and requiring some of the work to be done twice ere it suited her. Without a murmur Adah obeyed, but when the last stitch was taken and the party dress was gone, her overtaxed frame gave way, and Sam himself helped her to her bed, where she lay moaning, with the blinding pain in her head, which increased so fast that she scarcely saw the tempting little supper which Aunt Eunice brought, asking her to eat. Of one thing, however, she was conscious, and that of the dark form bending over her pillow and whispering soothingly the passage which had once brought Heaven to him, “Come unto me, and I will give you rest.”
Dear old Sam! there was a world of kindness in his breast, and if he could he would gladly have taken Adah’s suffering upon himself.
The night had closed in dark and stormy, and the wintry rain beat against the windows; but for this he did not hesitate a moment when at midnight Aunt Eunice, alarmed at Adah’s rapidly increasing fever, asked if he could find his way to Spring Bank, and in a few moments the old, shriveled form was out in the darkness, groping its way over the fences, and through the pitfalls, stumbling often, and losing his hat past recovery, so that the snowy hair was dripping wet when Spring Bank was reached and he stood upon the porch.
In much alarm Hugh dressed himself and hastened to the cottage. But Adah did not know him and only talked of dresses and parties, and George, whom she begged to come back and restore her good name. The dresses and the party were enigmas to Hugh, and as Aunt Eunice kept silent for fear of his wrath, he gathered nothing from Sam’s muttered jumble about, “working herself blind for Miss ’Lina over dar.” He knew she must have medical advice, and giving a few directions to Aunt Eunice he went himself for the family physician and then returned to Spring Bank in quest of his mother, who, he was sure, would not hesitate to brave the storm for Adah’s sake.
CHAPTER XII.
WHAT FOLLOWED.
There was a bright light in the sitting-room, and through the half-closed shutters Hugh caught glimpses of a blazing fire. ’Lina had come home, and half wishing she had staid a little longer, Hugh entered the room, starting with an exclamation of surprise at the sight which met his view. Divested of her gorgeous apparel, her ample dimensions considerably reduced, and her face indicative of her feelings, ’Lina stood upon the hearth, wringing her long black hair, which hung loosely about her shoulders, while her mother bent with deep concern over the mud-bespattered, ruined dress, which had cost so much.
Poor ’Lina! The party had proved a most unsatisfactory affair. She had not made the sensation she expected to make. Harney had scarcely noticed her at all, having neither eyes nor ears for any one save Ellen Tiffton, who surely must have told that Hugh was not invited, for, in no other way could ’Lina account for the remark she heard touching her want of heart in failing to resent a brother’s insult. Added to this, it was very annoying to be quizzed, as she was, concerning Adah, of whom everybody seemed resolved to talk. In the most unenviable of moods, ’Lina left at an early hour, and though Harney did accompany her to the carriage, saying something about being sorry that she should go so soon when he meant to see more of her, it did not atone for his past neglect or for his holding the umbrella so that the little greenish streams of water dripped directly down her back, making her fidget with terror lest her rose-colored dress should be soiled. Coolly bidding him good night, she bade Cæsar drive carefully, as it was very dark, and the rain was almost blinding, so rapidly it fell.
“Ye-es, Mis-s, Cæs—he—he done been to party ’fore now. Git ’long dar, Sorrel,” hiccoughed the negro, who, in Colonel Tiffton’s kitchen had indulged rather too freely to insure the safety of his mistress.
Still the horses knew the road, and kept it until they left the main highway and turned into the fields. Even then they would probably have made their way in safety, had not their drunken driver persisted in turning them into a road which led directly through the deepest part of the creek, swollen now by the melted snow and the vast amount of rain which had fallen since the sun-setting. Not knowing they were wrong, ’Lina did not dream of danger until she heard Cæsar’s cry of “Who’a dar, Sorrel. Git up, Henry. Dat’s nothin’ but de creek,” while a violent lurch of the carriage sent her to the opposite side from where she had been sitting.