“Suppose he proves to be a drunkard?” I queried, looking her steadily in the face, while she answered simply, “And what then? Would that be harder to endure than a life without him?”
I know not whether the spirit of prophecy was upon me, or whether I felt a dim foreshadowing of my sister’s wretched future, but from some cause or other, I proceeded to picture to her the sorrows of a drunkard’s home and the utter degradation of a drunkard’s wife, while she listened shudderingly, saying when I had finished, “God save me from such a fate!”
There was the sound of footsteps in the hall, and Herbert’s voice was heard at the door, asking for admittance. He had often visited us in our room, and now, without consulting Anna’s wishes, I bade him enter, going out myself and leaving them alone. What passed between them I never knew, but the supper table waited long for Herbert, and was finally removed, my aunt thinking he had gone out, “to see Ada, perhaps,” she said, and then she asked me how I liked her, telling me she was to be Herbert’s wife, and that she hoped they would be married early in the spring.
I made her no direct reply, for I felt I was acting a double—nay, a treble part, in being thus confided in by three, but I could not well help it, and I hoped, by betraying neither party, to atone in a measure for any deceit I might be practising. After that night there was a great change in Anna, who became so lively and cheerful that nearly all observed it, while Herbert’s attentions to her, both at home and abroad, were so marked as to arouse the jealously of Ada, who, while she affected to scorn the idea of being supplanted by “that awkward Lee girl,” as she called her, could not wholly conceal her anxiety lest “the Lee girl” should, after all, win from her her betrothed husband. Something of this she told my aunt, who, knowing nothing of the true state of affairs, and having the utmost confidence in her son’s honor, laughed at her fears, telling her once in my hearing, though she was unaware of my proximity, that, “however much Herbert might flirt with Anna, he had been too well brought up to think of marrying one so far beneath him.”
“But he does think of it—I most know he does,” persisted Ada, beginning to cry; “and I wish you’d send her home, won’t you?”
I did not hear my aunt’s reply, but with Ada, my own heart echoed, “send her home,” for much as I liked Herbert, I shrank from the thought of committing my gentle sister’s happiness to his keeping, and secretly I resolved upon writing to my father and acquainting him with the whole; but, alas! I deferred it from day to day, until it was too late.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE FLIGHT.
One bright morning about the middle of January, Herbert announced his intention of going to Worcester with Anna, who, he said, wished to visit the Lunatic Asylum, and as a young physician of his acquaintance had just commenced practising there, it would be a good opportunity for them to go over the building. To this my aunt made no objection, merely proposing that Ada, too, should go. Afterwards I remembered the peculiar look in Herbert’s eye, as he replied “Oh fie! mother, Ada’s nerves are not strong enough to endure it. She can go with me some other time.”
Accordingly, when breakfast was over, Anna went up to her room to make the necessary preparations for her ride, while I stood by and gave her whatever assistance she needed. I observed that every article which belonged to her was put in its proper place, but I gave it no further heed, though I did wonder why she kissed me so often, turning back even after she had reached the door to bid me another good-bye. Slowly the day passed away and night came on, dark, cold, and stormy. Even now, as I write, I can recall to mind the gloom which pervaded my spirits, as I listened to the sound of the sleet and hail, which drove past the window, where I had watched so long for their return. Seven, eight, nine, ten, was rung from more than one church dome, and then we gave them up, for the shrill whistle of the last train on which they would be likely to come, had long since sounded in our ears.
“They must have stayed somewhere; don’t you think so?” said my aunt, addressing her husband, who, manlike, was not in the least alarmed, but sat conning his evening paper, nearer asleep than awake.