CHAPTER 3.
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Between three and four o'clock, on the afternoon of the second day, Mrs. Waverly, who had accepted the kind offer of Mrs. Grafton, came down from her room, dressed in deep mourning garments, and with a thick veil drawn over her face.
"Are you going out?" inquired the latter, with surprise in her manner.
"I'm going to see my children, if possible," replied Mrs. Waverly.
"See them! How? Where?"
"They were in Chestnut Street yesterday, and may be there again today. I feel as if I could not live without once more looking upon their angel faces, and once more hearing the sound of their voices."
"But Mrs. Waverly, are you not risking too much? You may betray yourself, and thus put them on their guard."
"Don't fear me, Mrs. Grafton. I will not betray myself. How could I? As impatient as my heart is, it will not lead to the commission of that error."
"You know the stakes," returned Mrs. Grafton, in a warning voice.
"I do, and will not forget them."
Saying this, Mrs. Waverly drew the folds of her veil more closely together, and went forth, turning her steps directly towards the heart of the city. She reached Chestnut Street by the way of Sixth, and then walked slowly up that grand promenade, glancing as she did so, from side to side, and throwing her eyes forward to scan every new face, or group of children, that came into view. Thus she kept on, passing Seventh, Eighth, Ninth, and Tenth Streets, and so on to Broad Street, without meeting the objects of her search. Here she paused for some time, hesitating whether to keep on, or return the way she had come. Finally she concluded to walk down Chestnut Street again, and thence to Washington Square.
Mrs. Waverly arrived at the square, not meeting on the way, her children. Here she took one of the seats, feeling much exhausted, and remaining for half an hour, scanning with eager eyes every little company that entered the enclosure; but, disappointed to the last in the object of her wishes.
With a heavy sigh, she arose, at length, and, passing through the gate at Seventh and Walnut, turned once more into Chestnut Street.
It was now as late as six o'clock, and the south side of the street, along which she walked slowly, was thronged with passengers, the largest proportion of which were ladies. Nearly a year had elapsed since, until within an hour or two, her feet were on the pavement of this street, along which she had walked so many hundred times during the happy days of girlhood, and the still happier days of her early married life. How many old familiar faces met her eye, as, closely veiled, thus eluding observation, she moved amid the crowd. Now, for a moment or two, her eye rested upon the countenance of one who had been a dear friend, and with whom she had often taken sweet counsel, and her heart leaped with a sudden throb; and now a fashionable acquaintance of her brighter days went flitting by, leaving the sound of her mirthful voice ringing painfully in her ears.
Thus it was, as she passed along from street to street, unknown, yet now and then attracting attention from some more observant than the rest. Occasionally, a lady would pause, after passing her, and turning to look back, scan her form more closely; remarking, perhaps, to a companion —
"Who can she be? There is something strangely familiar about her."
What were the feelings of Mrs. Waverly, it would be hard to tell; yet, less, perhaps, of what surrounded her impressed her mind, than might, at first, be supposed; for, the one thought of her children absorbed all other thoughts. She was crossing Eleventh Street, and had nearly reached the opposite pavement, when she saw approaching from Walnut Street, her two children, with an attendant. They were only a few yards from her. The attendant was walking very fast, and almost dragging Ada along, who was crying. The girl's face was flushed and angry.
"Hush your crying!" she exclaimed, stopping suddenly, and turning with a threatening gesture towards the child. "Hush, I say! I won't have this noise in the street!"
"There's something in my shoe," sobbed little Ada, looking up with a tearful face, "and it hurts me!"
"It's no such thing! I don't believe a word of it," angrily replied the nurse. "It's only your crossness. Now come along!"
She gave the weeping child a jerk, and was about turning to go on, when a hand was laid suddenly and with a strong grip upon her arm, and a voice that made her shrink back a step or two, said, in a low, deep undertone —
"How dare you do so! Take off her shoe instantly and see if there is not something in it!"
The startled girl looked, for a moment or two, at the closely veiled figure, and then stooping down, removed the shoe of Ada, in which was found a hook that had broken away from her dress, and, in falling, lodged therein. On raising her eyes, after replacing the shoe, the stranger who had rebuked her in such a tone of authority, was no where to be seen.
"Who was that?" she asked of Herbert, as she drew a long breath, and looked first in one direction and then in another.
"I don't know," replied the boy, on whose young countenance was an expression of wonder. Ada had stopped crying, though her little face remained sad, even to thoughtfulness, for so young a face. The nurse walked on more slowly, and Ada walked by her side. Soon after, they reached a handsome residence some distance beyond Broad Street, into which they entered. It was their home — the residence of Mr. Waverly and his maiden sister. The latter received the children as they came in, with a grave face, and cold, formal air.
"How have they behaved themselves, Phoebe?" she asked, with the manner of one who expected to hear the relation of some fault.
"Herbert did pretty well, though he would keep running on ahead," replied the girl. "But, I'm sorry to say that Ada has been very naughty."
"She has!" Miss Edith Waverly turned a severe look upon the child, who instinctively shrank back a few steps from her.
"Yes, ma'am," continued the servant. "She pulled back, and cried so, that I was ashamed of her. I tried to get her along all I could. But no, she must pull back and cry, and cry, until, I really believe the people thought I had been doing something to her. One lady did stop, and it was as much as I could do to satisfy her, that it was nothing butAda's crossness."
"I'll not let her go out any more, if that's the way she acts," said Miss Edith, drawing herself up and closing her thin lips firmly. "Little girls that don't know how to behave themselves in the street, must be made to stay in the house. And Master Herbert must do better than he has done, or he will be kept in also! Now go upstairs with Phoebe, and get your things off."
There was a coldness and severity in the manner of the aunt, as she said this, that was perfectly chilling. Having announced her wishes in regard to the children, she turned from them with a dignified air, and they stole away from the parlors and went up to the nursery with silent steps and hushed voices.
"What are you crying about?" said Phoebe, in half angry and slightly excited tones, as she stooped to untie Ada's little hat.
While standing before her aunt, and listening to her rebuking words, no sign of emotion was visible; but now tears were stealing down her face, although no voice was given to the grief of her young heart.
"What are you crying about — answer me!" repeated Phoebe, seeing that the child made no answer.
"Can't you speak? What's the matter?" But Ada made no answer.
"Behave yourself better next time; and then I shall not complain of you," said the girl, roughly, jerking her around, as she removed her thin outer dress.
A sob now came struggling up from the over full heart of Ada; then tears flowed down her cheeks, and she cried with much violence for a short time. The sound of her weeping reached the ears of Miss Edith, whose slow, firm step was presently heard ascending the stairs. As the shadow of her presence pervaded the room, Ada felt it and struggled to repress all outward sign of the troubled spirit within. In this, she was in a measure successful.
Miss Edith did not speak, but stood for nearly half a minute, with her cold eyes fixed upon the grieving child, and then turning away, went back to the parlor.
"You did not tell aunt Edith that there was a hook in Ada's shoe," said Herbert, speaking with some indignation in his manner.
This unexpected remark from the boy caused Phoebe to turn toward him with a surprised, yet angry look.
"What's that you say?" she inquired, sharply.
"I say," returned Herbert, boldly, "that you didn't tell aunt Edith about the hook in Ada's shoe. That's what made her cry!"
"And I suppose you will tell her about it, you little wretch!" said the girl, approaching him with a threatening aspect.
"I didn't say I would," returned Herbert, his firm look giving place to one of fear, and shrinking back as the girl advanced.
"You'd better mind your own business, or it won't be good for you!" exclaimed Phoebe, shaking towards the boy her clenched hand.
"It's all fudge about the hook hurting her foot! She was ugly and cross, and she knows it!"
Herbert, cowed by the impassioned manner of the girl, shrunk still further from her and remained silent.
The twilight was gathering duskily, when Mr. Waverly, the father of these children, came home. He was a tall man, with a very sober, intelligent face, in which marks of pain, either bodily or mental, were strongly apparent. The peculiar curve of his lips, and the broad arching of his brows, showed him to possess more than common firmness of character. Lack of feeling could hardly be said to be indicated in his face; but, rather, feeling under vigorous self-control. Herbert met him as he came in, and Mr. Waverly took the boy's hand in a familiar but not overly affectionate way, and led him into the parlor.
"Where is Ada?" inquired the father, after a few minutes had passed.
"Upstairs," returned Edith. "She's not in a very good mood about something."
Mr. Waverly asked nothing further in regard to her, but, in the course of three or four minutes, left the parlors, and went up to his chamber. In the dim light of the room, he did not at first perceive his child, who was sitting on a low ottoman, with her face buried in a lounge. A sigh marked to him her presence.
"Ada," he said, "Ada, dear!"
Twice again he repeated her name, before she aroused from the sleep into which she had fallen. Then she lifted her head, and chilled her father's heart, with the words — spoken in a voice so sad and longing, that he was moved almost to tears —
"When will mamma come back? Oh, papa, won't you tell her to come home? I wish she would come home!"
Mr. Waverly did not reply in words; but he took his child into his arms, and hugged her almost convulsively to his heart; where he held her for a very long time. And more than once, he kissed her fervently. It was month's since either of the children had spoken of their mother. Fondly he hoped that they had forgotten one whom he — ah, how vainly! — was trying himself to forget. But, her image was living in Ada's mind yet, as vividly, perhaps, as in his own!
The sign of affection, stronger than usual, manifested by Mr. Waverly, caused Ada to shrink closely against his bosom, where she lay without stirring a limb. Ten minutes went by, and both remained silent during all the time. Then Ada's deeper breathing showed that she was asleep, and Mr. Waverly laid her gently on the bed. Kissing her once more, he withdrew from the chamber with noiseless steps.
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