“Of course they have,” said he, looking up at his wife’s inquiry. “I wouldn’t come in this storm, if I were in their places.”
That night I watered my pillow with tears, scarcely knowing why I wept, save that I felt oppressed with a sense of desolation, as if Anna was gone from me forever. The next day came and went, but it brought no tidings of the missing pair, and half unconscious of what she was doing, my aunt went from room to room, sometimes weeping and again brightening up, as she enumerated the many things which might have prevented their return. At evening, Ada came in, and my aunt immediately began urging her to spend the night. This she did willingly, seeming very anxious concerning the absence of Herbert, and feeling, I was sure, a little suspicious that I might know more of his whereabouts than I chose to tell, for once, when we were alone, she turned towards me and very haughtily asked, if “I had any idea where they were?”
“None, whatever,” said I, and she continued—
“Has it never occurred to you that this Anna Lee manifested altogether too marked a preference for a gentleman whom she knew to be engaged?”
“The preference was mutual,” I replied. “Herbert liked Anna, and Anna liked Herbert.”
“And they have gone off to consummate that liking by a marriage,” interrupted Ada.
“I do not know that they have,” I returned; “but such a termination of affairs would not surprise me.”
She was very pale, and there were tears in her eyes, but I thought they arose more from a sense of mortification than from any real love which she bore for Herbert Langley, and so I did not pity her as I should otherwise have done. The next morning at breakfast both she and my aunt (particularly the latter) looked weary and worn, as if neither had slept at all during the night. My uncle, on the contrary, seemed to be unmoved. He probably had an opinion of his own, but whatever it was he kept it to himself, merely saying that if the eastern mail brought no letter he would go in quest of them himself. I knew I could not study in my present excitement, and so I asked permission to remain at home. Stationing myself at the window, I watched anxiously for the return of Herod, who, as usual, had been sent to the office. He came at last, bringing his pocket full of letters, two of which were for me, one postmarked Meadow Brook, and the other Albany! With a trembling hand I tore open the latter, which was in my sister’s handwriting. Glancing at the signature, my fears were confirmed, for there stood the name of “Anna Langley” in Herbert’s bold dashing hand!
“She had refused to write it thus,” he said, in a postscript, “and so he had done it for her.”
The letter contained no apology from either for what they had done, but merely informed me of the fact that instead of stopping in Worcester, they had gone straight on to Albany, which they reached about six o’clock, going to the Delevan House, where in less than an hour they were husband and wife; Herbert’s old comrade, Tom Wilson, accompanying them, and being a witness of the ceremony. What affected me more unpleasantly than all the rest, was the derisive manner in which Herbert spoke of Ada.