Chapter XLVIII: Balm for the Bruised Heart

Nay, but Nature brings her solace, for a tender voice will cry,—
’Tis a purer life than his, a lip to drain her trouble dry.
Baby lips will laugh it down, his only rival bring her rest,
Baby fingers, waxen touches, press it from the mother’s breast.
—TENNYSON.

The great old-fashioned hall clock was striking the quarter before twelve when Richard Hammond re-entered the drawing-room.

He found General Lyon and Dr. Barbar still there, seated in large arm-chairs each side of the fire-place. They seemed to be discussing the events of the evening.

“Yes, old friend, my dog of a nephew, like that other grand rascal of old, has ‘spoiled the feast, broke the good meeting, with, most admired disorder,’” sighed the general.

“Ah, my dear sir, he is young, and we must be charitable. Even David, the man after the Lord’s own heart, had to pray that the sins of his youth might not be remembered against him. Give the young man time to recollect himself and to reform. But I feel very sorry for the poor wife—she seems but a mere child.”

“She is but sixteen or seventeen,” said General Lyon.

“Ah dear, how sad! She seems to love him much.”

“She loves a villain then, and must suffer accordingly.”

“Will he never be reconciled to her, do you think?”

“Can she ever be reconciled to _him_? That is the question. ‘My spirit shall not always strive with man,’ saith the Lord. And if the Divine Spirit wearies of the fruitless struggle with Evil, how much sooner shall the human spirit sink? For myself, I should not wonder if she should experience such a revulsion of feeling as should make the very thought of that man hateful to her. But in any case her home is here, under our protection, until such time as he shall repent and show himself worthy to reclaim her hand, if that time ever should come. Ah! here is Dick. How did you leave our young charge, my boy?” inquired the general, for the first time conscious of Richard’s presence.

“I left her in good hands, sir; otherwise much as she was when taken from this room. I understand, sir, that since her domestic sufferings commenced she has been very subject to these fainting fits. They are said to be not dangerous; but for my part, I should think there was reason to fear that her heart is affected,” answered Richard, seeking a seat between the two old gentlemen.

“Dick, you were more engaged in this exposure of Alexander than Anna was willing to admit. You knew of his previous marriage before you came down here?” inquired the general.

“Yes, sir; but only a few days before; and I came down here for the express purpose of divulging it to you; and I brought with me the minister who performed the first ceremony, as proof of it. But before I saw you I chanced to meet Anna, who proposed to me another plan, which I thought to be a better one than my own.”

“Yes, Anna’s plan was assuredly the only one by which the ends of justice could be reached in this singular case.”

“Shall I tell you, sir, how I came to be informed of the first marriage?”

“Oh no, Dick, not to-night—to-morrow. Gentlemen, it is on the stroke of midnight. And though my sorry nephew has ‘spoiled the feast,’ et cetera, I see no reason why we should watch and fast the night through. We will have supper and then to bed. And although you are the only wedding guests, we will adjourn to the banqueting room,” said General Lyon, arising and leading the way to a brilliantly lighted and elegantly decorated saloon, where a sumptuous supper was laid out.

The host led his two guests to the upper end of the table, and invited them to be seated.

The two Jacobs, father and son, stood ready to wait on them.

But what took away their appetites—whether it was the excitement of the evening, or the dreariness of a rich repast laid for many, and honored with the presence of but three; or the embarrassing variety of delicacies spread before them, is uncertain; but they could not eat. A broken biscuit and a glass of wine, was all that each took. And then, with mutual good nights and good wishes, they separated.

General Lyon went to rest.

Old Jacob showed Dr. Barbar to the best vacant bedroom, and young Jacob led Dick Hammond to the second best.

It is to be hoped that the two old gentlemen slept well.

Dick did not close his eyes.

The revulsion from despair to hope, to certainty of happiness, was almost too much for him. He lay rolling and tossing from side to side all night; telling himself over and over again that it was no dream; that Anna was free; and that he might at last be made happy with her hand; and wondering how long it would be before he could coax Anna to name the happy day, and his uncle to give them his blessing. He heard the old hall clock strike every hour, and thought the night would never come to an end.

At four o’clock on that winter morning, it was still very dark, when he heard rousing raps at his door.

“Well! who’s there?” he cried.

“It’s me, Master Dick,” answered the voice of Marcy.

“Well! what do you want?”

“Please sir, Miss Anna——”

Dick was out of bed in an instant, drawing on his pantaloons.

—“Says how young Mrs. Lyon is seemingly ill, and will you please to wake up the coachman, and tell him to take the fastest horse and ride quick as possible to Saulsburg for Dr. Leech.

Dick was dressed and at the door by the time Marcy had done speaking.

“Can I see Miss Anna for an instant?” he inquired.

“I will ask her,” answered Marcy, hurrying down the passage.

Dick hastened after her, and waited outside Drusilla’s door while Marcy went in to inquire.

Anna came out with a large shawl wrapped around her.

“Oh, hurry, Dick! don’t stop to talk! the poor child is very ill, and delay may be her death!” exclaimed Anna, as she appeared.

“I merely stopped to tell you, Anna, that I shall trust to no servant, least of all to slow old Jacob! I shall saddle my own fast horse, and fly for the doctor myself.”

“You’re a trump, Dick. Heaven bless you, be off?”

And Anna disappeared within the sick chamber. And Dick ran down to the stable, saddled his horse, leaped upon his back, struck spurs to his flanks and was off like an arrow in the direction of Saulsburg. “He skelpit on through dub and mire,” so eager in his errand, that he scarcely noticed the storm was over, and the clouds were breaking overhead; a few pale stars were shining out, and day was faintly dawning in the East.

When he came to the toll-gate, as once before, he cleared the bar with a bound, and dashed onward, to the infinite indignation of old Andy who had just opened his shutters in time to witness the feat, and who turned to his old wife, then busy over the fire cooking the breakfast, and then exclaimed:

“Eh, Jenny, woman! the warlocks are flitting back frae the witches’ Sabbath. There gaed are noo!—on a broomstick, or something unco like it, right over the toll-gate bar and awa’! We’ll hear the news the day, woman!”

Heedless of what the guardian of the road might think of him, Dick raced on, sending flakes of mud from his horse’s heels.

The sun was rising behind the farthest range of mountains, and sending his dazzling beams obliquely through the Wild Gap and athwart the Wild River, as Dick rode into Saulsburg and drew rein before the picturesque inn.

He had not the slightest idea whereabouts in the village or its neighborhood the country doctor lived.

So he inquired of the hostler who came to take his horse:

“Do you know where Dr. Leech hangs out?”

“I dunno where he hangs out, sir; but you can ax him hisself. He lives right down the street there, sir,” answered the man, pointing to a small, neat cottage, with a still smaller surgery beside it, and the name of “LEECH” over the door.

Dick left his horse and went and knocked up the doctor, and, in a few urgent words, told him his services were instantly needed at Old Lyon Hall, where there was a lady in extremity, and entreated him to hasten immediately to her relief.

The good doctor needed no second bidding, but loudly called to shop-boy and horse-boy to have his saddle-bags and his horse got ready, and then rushed into the house to put on his great-coat and hat.

When Dick had seen the doctor fairly started on his journey, he turned his steps to the little inn, entered it, and ordered breakfast.

“And have my horse well rubbed down and watered and fed. I must mount him again in an hour,” he added.

At this time of the day there always happened to be more servants than guests at the “Foaming Tankard,” and so Dick and his horse were both promptly served.

But while Mr. Hammond sat enjoying the fragrant coffee, light rolls, sweet butter, luscious ham and fresh eggs that formed the repast, for which his early ride had given him so keen an appetite, he was suddenly interrupted.

It was “mammy” who burst in upon his privacy with more haste than ceremony, demanding:

“If you please, sir, wasn’t you the gentleman as come down with us in the night coach from Drainsville and got off at Frostville?”

“Yes! and wasn’t you the lady that scalped me and broke both my legs?” laughed Dick.

“I hope you surwived it, sir? But that wasn’t what I comed to ax you.”

“Yes; having a good constitution, I got over it. But what _did_ you come to ask me?”

“Please, sir, no offence; but is it as the boys say, you come from Old Lyon Hall this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Arter a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“For a lady in ’streme ’stress?”

“Yes.”

“Young Mrs. Lyon, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Then, sir, that was my own lady; and I jest knowed how it would be! I jest did! Sir, she left here in an old ramshackly concern as broke down with her afore she so much as got a mile from the place; and then she up and set out to walk all the way through the storm to the hall; and which if I’d a knowed, I’d a seen the old hall and everybody into it farther afore I’d a let her a risted of her life by so doing. But that there blamed boy,—Lord forgive me for swearing,—arter he’d upset her in the road, took all the rest of the evening to haul off the old wreck of a carriage, and never got back here till I had gone to bed. So I never knowed nothing about it till this morning, which a purty state my nerves has been in ever since.”

And mammy, having talked herself out of breath, dropped down in a chair and panted.

“You were this lady’s nurse?” inquired Dick, buttering a roll.

“In course I was, sir; perfessionally so; and recommended by the highest gentlemen of the physical persuasion.”

“Then, my good woman, I wonder why your patient didn’t take you along with her.”

“So do I, sir. That was a very sensible remark of yours; but you see, sir, she preferred to leave me here in care of the baggidge, which I will say this—that mind can’t conceive, nor tongue tell the trouble I’ve had to pertect them there two little red morocky trunks from being stoled or left behind!”

“Indeed?”

“True as I tell you, sir; so I don’t much wonder at the madam wanting of me to stay behind to watch them.”

“No, nor I,” said Dick, slily. “But, my good woman,” he added, “I think now that the best thing you can do is to go to your mistress.”

“Which such is my intention so to do sir; and I would be obliged to you if you would be so good as to speak to that there pig-headed landlord—begging your pardon, sir, but so he is—to let me have a decent horse and wagon, that won’t break down, to take me and the baggidge to the old hall, which, if you are going back there, sir, yourself, you can show me the way.”

“Yes,” said Dick, with good-natured alacrity, seeing at once how important it might be that Drusilla should have her nurse and her wardrobe. “Yes I will attend to it at once.”

And he arose and rang the bell, and told the waiter who answered it to send the landlord to him.

The slow host came sauntering in with his hands in his pockets, and in answer to Dick’s inquiries, deliberately acknowledged that he had “such a thing,” and a bargain was soon struck for a wagon, horse and driver to take mammy and her luggage to Old Lyon Hall.

“But the bill is not yet paid,” said the landlord, hesitatingly, “and so I would rather keep a part of the luggage for security until it is settled. One of the little trunks, now, might do.”

“Set you up with it, indeed!” fiercely exclaimed mammy, as much ruffled as a hen when her nest is threatened.

“But who’s to pay the bill?” pursued the host.

“I shall,” answered Dick, coldly.

“No you won’t, sir, begging of your pardon; that wouldn’t be noways proper. The young madam left her port-munny long o’ me to settle all claims. Bring your ’count in here to me, mister landlord, and I’ll settle of it myself.”

“And not to lose time while he is making it out you had better go and get ready to start,” counselled Dick.

“So I had, sir; that’s another very sensible remark of yours. And I’ll not keep you waiting one minute; I’ll be ready as soon as the wagon is,” said the old woman, hurrying out of the room.

And in less than twenty minutes mammy reappeared ready for her journey. The bill was paid, the wagon brought around and loaded with the luggage, and the nurse and the team started, escorted by Mr. Richard Hammond on horseback, and cheered by all the ragamuffins in the village.

It does not take long after a storm is over for the water to run off the roads of that region, which are high roads in more senses than one; so the travel was not so bad as might have been expected.

In little more than two hours the “procession” arrived at the toll-gate where old Andy was on duty.

“Eh, sirs!” he exclaimed, on seeing Dick, “but ye’s a braw callant! Wha gave ye commission to loup twice over me bar, and cheat me of me toll? Eh, but ye’ll bide where ye be till ye pay me for a’, e’en to the uttermost fearthing, before I let ye by; for ye’s no jump your wagon over the gate, I’m thinking.”

“Certainly, of course, all right. You see I was in too great a hurry to stop to make change, or to wait to have the gate opened when I passed here last night and early this morning. But now open quickly to me. And here! here is what will pay you for all the tolls and leave something besides to buy a winter gown for the gudewife,” said Dick, laughing, and tossing a ten dollar gold coin to the old man. “And tell her this from me,” added the kind-hearted fellow, “that the girl she took so much interest in is quite safe and well cared for.”

But Andy was not concerned about the safety of the girl, he was stooping to pick up the gold eagle, and muttering to himself:

“Eh! how the lad flings about his gowd, to be sure! It’s weel a carefu’ body like mysel’ is nigh to gather it up. What was you saying anent the young hizzy, sir?” he inquired, looking up.

“Tell your good wife that she is safe and well cared for.”

“Ou, ay! it wad be i’ some house o’ correction; only there’s nae sic a useful institootion in the country,” growled Andy.

“Never mind where she is, or who she is. Tell your wife she is all right!” said Dick, as he sauntered through the gate in advance of the wagon.

The worst part of the road was past, and so in something less than an hour the “cortege” arrived at Old Lyon Hall.

The doctor had been there already for some time, and he was then with young Mrs. Lyon, who seemed to all around her to be at the point of death.

Such was the report of General Lyon, who immediately rang for a woman servant to show the nurse up to her patient.

“And I am very glad you thought to fetch her, Dick,” added the honest old general.

Dick explained that such thoughtfulness was no merit of his; that this woman had attended the young wife down from Washington, and had been left temporarily at Saulsburg, and had availed herself of his escort to come on to the hall.

So mammy was taken up to her patient, whom she found much too ill to be scolded for her imprudence.

In fact Drusilla was, as they said, almost at the point of death. Her life hung upon the slenderest thread for five days, at the end of which she became the mother of a beautiful boy.

As her illness before his birth had been severe and dangerous, so her convalescence afterwards was slow and precarious. For many more days she lay in a mental and physical prostration, so profound that she was incapable of noticing her child, and even of realizing its existence. But her youth and her good constitution were very much in her favor.

Gradually, very gradually, she came out of this depressed state.

The first signs of reviving life she gave was the interest she showed in her babe.

Before she had strength to speak above her breath, or sense to connect a sentence properly, she would mutely insist upon having him laid on her arm and next her bosom; and then with a serene smile she would sink into a tranquil sleep.

And then, lest even the light weight of the infant should be too much for her feeble strength, the nurse would steal the sleeping child from the sleeping mother and lay him in the pretty berceaunette that had been purchased and decorated for him by Anna.

As the weeks went on, the young mother continued to revive; and her interest in her infant boy became a passionate love, that grew with her growing strength.

When she was able to be dressed and to recline in her easy chair, she would sit hours with the babe clasped to her bosom.

Strangely enough, that female martinet, the monthly nurse, never objected to this.

And to all Anna’s remonstrances Drusilla would answer:

“Oh, Miss Lyon, you don’t know, you can’t know, what this soft little form is to me, as I hold it to my bosom. It is such a soothing balm—such a heavenly comfort.”

Sometimes Anna would take an opportunity to speak to mammy on the subject; but mammy would answer:

“You let her alone, Miss. It’s all natur’ and all right. The baby’ll save her life. It’ll draw all the soreness out’n her heart and heal it up; mind me.”

But suddenly the thought came to the young mother that she was perhaps injuring her child by holding him in her lap so constantly. And then all her conduct with it changed. She would take him up only to nurse and get him to sleep. And then she would lay him in his little decorated cradle; but that cradle stood always by her side, so that, sleeping or waking, her infant son was never out of her sight.

It was beautiful to see the interest that the old General and his grand-daughter took in this young mother and child.

General Lyon visited Drusilla every morning, bringing some rare offering of fruit ordered from the city, or flowers from his own conservatory.

Anna was seldom out of the chamber. Every forenoon she took her needle-work and went to keep Drusilla company.

And often they might be seen sitting, working together, with the baby in the cradle between them.

Dick, in his enthusiasm, said of this group, that it was “a sleeping cherub watched by two guardian angels.”

“Watched by guardian angels,” in her home of peace, we will also leave the young, forsaken wife.

Whether Drusilla ever was re-united with her husband, or whether Dick was ever really reclaimed from the clutches of his “friends,” and rewarded with the hand of Anna, will be duly related in the sequel to this book, which will immediately appear, under the title of “THE BRIDES’ FATE.”

THE END.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.