CHAPTER 12.
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To Mr. Waverly, the fact that his repudiated wife, after an absence of many months, during which time nothing had been heard from her, was again in the city — proved a source of no slight mental disturbance. The encounter at Laurel Hill, agitated him deeply. Fixed in his mind was her drooping form, as she crouched beside the grave of her child; and, strive as he would, he could not hide it with other and more agreeable images.
"Why has she returned?"
More than once — more than a hundred times, had he asked himself this question; and the answer that always came was, "To see her children!"
All anger toward her had faded from his mind. Deeply did he commiserate her unhappy condition: but, it was out of his power to change the hard and cruel features of her sad estrangement from her old home, and the precious treasures it contained.
"She turned herself away from us," he sometimes murmured to himself. "She trampled under her feet, the holy love I bore her. On strange altars, she kindled unhallowed fires. Ah! That upon my household, should have fallen this curse. That I should be so stricken! That the cherished one who had lain in my bosom — the mother of my precious children — should turn from me and stain her soul with a debasing, degrading passion! What hope — what help is there? Alas! none. She has placed an impassable gulfbetween us. I cannot allow her to see her children, much as my tenderer feeling might incline me thereto. No — no. There is pollution in the very air she breathes.Contamination lies in her touch. She cannot see her children! And yet it is hard; very hard. What must she not suffer — poor, unhappy wanderer from the path of virtue!At every step, how the sharp thorns must wound her feet! God help her! — for earthly support, earthly refuge, there is none."
The return of Alice to the family of Mr. Waverly naturally led his mind, apart from the fact of the meeting at Laurel Hill, to thoughts of her who had been his wife. Every time he looked at the girl, some old association was revived; some half-dimmed memory of the past lightened into a distinct impression. He was sitting alone in his counting room, in a thoughtful attitude, late in the afternoon of the third day following that on which Alice had come into his family, when he started to his feet as suddenly as if someone had stricken him a blow, uttering aloud, "What a suggestion!"
His thoughts had been upon his children and their mother, and the rather singular fact that Alice should have called to see the former, at this particular time. All at once there was injected into his mind a suspicion that there might be, between Alice and the children's mother, a plot. A shuddering chill ran through his veins at the bare imagination of such a thing.
For a few moments after rising, he stood fixed in the attitude of one startled by some strange sound, his eyes fixed, and his respiration heavy.
"O, no. It cannot be!" he said, at length, and resumed his seat. But his heart continued to throb in his bosom, while his breathing was oppressive.
A gentleman came in soon after, and kept him in conversation on business until after five o'clock. As soon as this person retired, Mr. Waverly took up his hat and started homeward. It was dark when he reached his dwelling.
"Where are the children?" was his first question on meeting his sister.
"Herbert has not yet returned from Mrs. Green's," replied Edith. "And Ada?"
"Alice walked out with her this afternoon. But she stays very late. It's wrong in her to do this; and I will reprimand her for it."
Mr. Waverly did not give utterance to what was in his thoughts. For some moments he stood, musing and irresolute; then merely saying —
"I don't like this at all!" He left the room, and, going to the street door, opened it and stepped forth. As the evening air fell upon his face, he was conscious of a heaviness and dampness therein, unnoticed before. It was darker, too, than it had appeared a little while before.
"Where can the girl have gone?" said Mr. Waverly, aloud, as he strained his eyes into the murky air. "I don't like the look of this."
After standing at the door for a little while, he returned into the hall for his hat, and then left the house. With rapid steps he hurried down Chestnut Street, crossing over Broad, and keeping on until he arrived at Tenth, when he paused. Not a form on either side of the street had escaped his observation; but those he so eagerly sought, were no where to be seen.
For nearly five minutes, Mr. Waverly stood at the corner of Tenth Street, looking anxiously around him. A heavy sigh came through his lips as he moved on again, but, in the direction from which he had came. At first, his steps were slowly taken. But, he gradually quickened his pace, as the thought occurred that Alice might have returned along some other street. By the time he reached his dwelling, he was panting from his hurried motion and the excitement into which his mind had been thrown.
"Has Alice got home yet?" he eagerly inquired of his sister, on entering the room where he had left her.
"Not yet," was replied. She is very much to blame; and I shall scold her well. Keeping the child out till this time of night! It is inexcusable!"
"Did she say where she was going?" inquired Mr. Waverly.
"I told her to go down to Washington Square."
"When did she leave home?"
"She went out early. It wasn't long after three o'clock."
"And it's past six now," said Mr. Waverly, as he drew his watch from his pocket. "There's something wrong, Edith, depend on it. Something wrong, as sure as you live!"
"Wrong, brother! What can be wrong? I suppose the girl has gone to see some acquaintance; and failed to notice the quick passage of time. Nothing more than this."
"Worse than that, Edith! A great deal worse, I fear," returned Mr. Waverly; his face expressing the utmost alarm and anxiety.
"I don't understand what you mean," said Edith, her cheeks blanching under a vague fear the words of her brother had awakened. "The girl surely wouldn't carry off the child."
"I don't know. Such things have been done. Are you aware that Ada's mother is in the city."
"No!" Edith startled to her feet.
"It is true. She has already met the children in the street. And I saw her at Laurel Hill sitting by the grave of little Eda." Edith looked the picture of astonishment and alarm. "This girl lived with us."
"I know."
"And was always much attached to to — " Mr. Waverly could not pronounce the name of his wife.
"I know she was."
"When that sad disaster fell upon our unhappy household, she left the service of the family."
"True."
"And now, at this particular juncture, returns and resumes her place as an attendant on the children."
"And you think?"
"I don't know what to think. But, I have horrible fears. The girl, to me, has acted strangely. There has been, on her part, an evident wish to keep out of my way, and when I have come near her, she has uniformly averted her eyes from my face."
"Now that you speak of it," said Edith, "I have noticed something of the kind myself. But, merciful Heaven! This is too shocking for belief. O, no, brother! Alice will come back with Ada! Depend upon it, she has only gone to the house of some acquaintance, and been detained later than she expected."
Mr. Waverly shook his head.
"If," he replied, "she had gone to the extremity of the city — time enough for her to get home has elapsed since sundown." And he commenced wringing his hands and walking about the room. "What shall I do? Where shall I go?"
Suddenly he stopped, and asked, in a husky voice, "Are you certain Herbert went to Mrs. Green's"
"O, yes. Alice took him there before she went out with Ada."
"Alice took him there!"
The tone in which this was uttered, communicated to the heart of his sister, the fear awakened in his own heart.
"So she did. Well, what do you infer from that?"
Edith had already made the same inference, or rather felt the same suspicion with her brother. The question was asked almost involuntarily. But Mr. Waverly did not answer it. He stood, intent upon some thoughts for an instant or so, and then hurried from the room.
"Where are you going?" called Edith after him.
"To Mr. Green's!" was returned; and, in the moment after, she heard the front door close with a heavy jar.
As Mr. Waverly passed into the street, he became aware that a still farther change had taken place in the weather. The air was damper and colder; and he had walked only a few paces, before a driving mist came into his face. The house to which he was going was in Arch Street. At Market and Broad he took a carriage and ordered the driver to take him to Mr. Green's as quickly as his horses could reach the place.
How almost breathless was his anxiety! The horses, that were springing away at a rapid speed, seemed almost to creep along, so far did his anxious thoughts outstrip even the swiftest motion through space.
"O! if my boy should be taken!" murmured Mr. Waverly; striking his hands together. "If this is all a wretched plot to rob me of my children! Awful! Awful!"
And a shudder crept through his frame.
He did not think, then, of the mother's agony, when she was separated from those she loved so well. When the law raised between her and her offspring, an impassable barrier. His own anguish of mind was too great to leave room for sympathy with another.
The carriage drew up, at length, before the house to which he was going. Before the driver had fairly checked the speed of his horses, Mr. Waverly had thrown open the door, sprung forth and was grasping the bell-handle as he stood on the threshold of Mr. Green's dwelling. Trembling with anxiety, he remained there for the space of a minute. Then a hand was heard upon the lock within. He held his breath until the door opened.
"Is Herbert Waverly here?" he asked of the servant, in a low, tremulous voice, that, strive at composure as he would, refused to clothe itself in disguise.
"Yes, sir!" was replied.
What a mountain of fear and anxiety fell from the father's heart; and as it rolled away, like the burden from Christian's shoulders, a new hope sprang up in his mind.
"Has any one called for him?" he inquired. "Are Ada and the nurse here?"
"No, sir," replied the servant, extinguishing, at once, that illusion. "Will you bring Herbert down? It is raining, and I have come for him in a carriage."
"Yes, sir. Walk in."
"No; I will remain at the door," replied Mr. Waverly. "Bring Herbert as quickly as you can. I am anxious to get home with him."
It was only by the exercise of strong self-control, that the father refrained from catching his child in his arms and hugging him to his bosom, the moment he appeared.
How slowly the carriage seemed to move on the way homeward; and yet, the horses were driven at a rapid speed.
"Has Alice returned yet?" were the first, quickly spoken words of Mr. Waverly, as he met his sister in the hall.
"No yet," returned Edith, slowly shaking her head.
"Mr. Waverly clasped his hands together, and exclaimed —
"Who could have dreamed of this! Ada! Ada! My sweet child! That this should have befallen you!"
His mind, too much excited and confused to be able to see anything clearly for the moment, Mr. Waverly entered one of the parlors, and, seating himself in a chair, covered his face, and remained almost motionless for several minutes.
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