 | CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE WANDERER. 'Lena Rivers |  |
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE WANDERER.
Fiercely the noontide blaze of a scorching July sun
was falling upon the huge walls of the “Laurel Hill Sun,”
where a group of idlers were lounging on the long, narrow
piazza, some niching into still more grotesque carving
the rude, unpainted railing, while others, half reclining
on one elbow, shaded their eyes with their old
slouched hats, as they gazed wistfully toward the long
hill, eager to catch the first sight of the daily stage which
was momentarily expected.
“Jerry is late, to-day—but it's so plaugy hot he's favorin'
his hosses, I guess,” said the rosy-faced landlord,
with that peculiar intonation which stamped him at once
a genuine Yankee.
“A watched pot never biles,” muttered one of the
loungers, who regularly for fifteen years had been at his
post, waiting for the stage, which during all that time had
brought him neither letter, message, friend, nor foe.
But force of habit is everything, and after the very
never again looking up until the loud blast of the driver's
horn was heard on the distant hill-top, where the
four weary, jaded horses were now visible. It was the
driver's usual custom to blow his horn from the moment
he appeared on the hill, until with a grand flourish he
reined his panting steeds before the door of the inn. But
this time there was one sharp, shrill sound, and then all
was still, the omission eliciting several remarks not very
complimentary to the weather, which was probably the
cause of “Jerry's” unwonted silence. Very slowly the
vehicle came on, the horses never leaving a walk, and the
idler of fifteen years' standing, who for a time had suspended
his whittling, “wondered what was to pay.”
A nearer approach revealed three or four male passengers,
all occupied with a young lady, who, on the back
seat, was carefully supported by one of her companions.
“A sick gal, I guess. Wonder if the disease is catchin'?”
said the whittler, standing back several paces and
looking over the heads of the others, who crowded forward
as the stage came up. The loud greeting of the
noisy group was answered by Jerry with a low “sh—sh,”
as he pointed significantly at the slight form which two of
the gentlemen were lifting from the coach, asking at the
same time if there were a physician near.
“What's the matter on her? Hain't got the cholery,
has she,” said the landlord, who, having hallooed to his
wife to “fetch up her vittles,” now appeared on the piazza
ready to welcome his guests.
At the first mention of cholera, the fifteen years' man
vamosed, retreating across the road, and seating himself
on the fence under the shadow of the locust trees.
“Who is she, Jerry?” asked the younger of the set,
gazing curiously upon the white, beautiful face of the
sitting-room.
“Lord only knows,” said Jerry, wiping the heavy drops
of sweat from his good-humored face; “I found her at the
hotel in Livony. She came there in the cars, and said she
wanted to go over to 'tother railroad. She was so weak
that I had to lift her into the stage as I would a baby, and
she ain't much heavier. You orto seen how sweet she smiled
when she thanked me, and asked me not to drive very
fast, it made her head ache so. Zounds, I wouldn't of
trotted the horses if I'd never got here. Jest after we
started she fainted, and she's been kinder talkin' strange-like
ever since. Some of the gentlemen thought I'd better
leave her back a piece at Brown's tavern, but I wanted
to fetch her here, where Aunt Betsy could nuss her up,
and then I can kinder tend to her myself, you know.”
This last remark called forth no answering joke, for
Jerry's companions all knew his kindly nature, and it was
no wonder to them that his sympathies were so strongly
enlisted for the fair girl thus thrown upon his protection.
It was a big, noble heart over which Jerry Langley buttoned
his driver's coat, and when the physician who had
arrived pronounced the lady too ill to proceed any further,
he called aside the fidgety landlord, whose peculiarities
he well knew, and bade him “not to fret and stew,
for if the gal hadn't money, Jerry Langley was good for
a longer time than she would live, poor critter;” and he
wiped a tear away, glancing, the while, at the burying-ground
which lay just across the garden, and thinking
how if she died, her grave should be beneath the wide-spreading
oak, where often in the summer nights he sat,
counting the head-stones which marked the last resting-place
of the slumbering host, and wondering if death
were, as some had said, a long, eternal sleep.
Aunt Betsey, of whom he had spoken, was the landlady,
a little dumpy, pleasant-faced, active woman, equally
in her element bending over the steaming gridiron, or
smoothing the pillows of the sick-bed, where her powers
of nursing had won golden laurels from others than Jerry
Langley. When the news was brought to the kitchen
that among the passengers was a sick girl, who was to be
left, her first thought, natural to everybody, was, “What
shall I do?” while the second, natural to her, was, “Take
care of her, of course.”
Accordingly, when the dinner was upon the table, she
laid aside her broad check apron, substituting in its place
a half-worn silk, for Jerry had reported the invalid to be
“every inch a lady;” then smoothing her soft, silvery
hair with her fat, rosy hands, she repaired to the sitting-room,
where she found the driver watching his charge,
from whom he kept the buzzing flies by means of his bandana,
which he waved to and fro with untiring patience.
“Handsome as a London doll,” was her first exclamation,
adding, “but I should think she'd be awful hot with
them curls, danglin' in her neck! If she's goin' to be sick,
they'd better be cut off!”
If there was any one thing for which Aunt Betsey Aldergrass
possessed a particular passion, it was for hair-cutting,
she being barber general for Laurel Hill, which
numbered about thirty houses, store and church inclusive,
and now when she saw the shining tresses which
lay in such profusion upon the pillow, her fingers tingled
to their very tips, while she involuntarily felt for her scissors!
Very reverentially, as if it were almost sacrilege,
Jerry's broad palm was laid protectingly upon the clustering
ringlets, while he said, “No, Aunt Betsey, if she dies
for't, you shant touch one of them; 'twould spile her, and
she looks so pretty.”
Slowly the long, fringed lids unclosed, and the brown
eyes looked up so gratefully at Jerry, that he beat a precipitate
retreat, muttering to himself that “he never
could stand the gals, anyway, they made his heart thump
so!”
“Am I very sick, and can't I go on!” asked the young
lady, attempting to rise, but sinking back from extreme
weakness.
“Considerable sick, I guess,” answered the landlady,
taking from a side cupboard an immense decanter of camphor,
and passing it toward the stranger. “Considerable
sick, and I wouldn't wonder if you had to lay by a day or
so. Will they be consarned about you to home, 'cause if
they be, my old man'll write.
“I have no home,” was the sad answer, to which Aunt
Betsey responded in astonishment, “Hain't no home!
Where does your marm live?”
“Mother is dead,” said the girl, her tears dropping
fast upon the pillow.
Instinctively the landlady drew nearer to her, as she
asked, “And your pa—where is he?”
“I never saw him,” said the girl, while her interrogator
continued: “Never saw your pa, and your marm is dead
—poor child what is your name, and where did you come
from?”
For a moment the stranger hesitated, and then thinking
it better to tell the truth at once, she replied, “My
name is 'Lena. I lived with my uncle a great many miles
from here, but I wasn't happy. They did not want me
there, and I ran away. I am going to my cousin, but I'd
rather not tell where, so you will please not ask me.”
There was something in her manner which silenced
Aunt Betsey, who, erelong, proposed that she should go
up stairs and lie down on a nice little bed, where she
should feel better soon.
“Mebby, then, you'd eat a mouffle or two. We've got
some roasted pork, and Hetty'll warm over the gravy;”
but 'Lena's stomach rebelled at the very thought, seeing
which, the landlady went back to the kitchen, where she
soon prepared a bowl of gruel, in spite of the discouraging
remarks of her husband, who, being a little after
the Old Hunks order, cautioned her “not to fuss too
much, as gals that run away warn't apt to be plagued with
money.”
Fortunately, Aunt Betsey's heart covered a broader
sphere, and the moment the stage was gone she closed the
door to shut out the dust, dropped the green curtains,
and drawing from the spare-room a large, stuffed chair,
bade 'Lena “see if she couldn't set up a minit.” But this
was impossible, and all that long, sultry afternoon she lay
upon the lounge, holding her aching head, which seemed
well-nigh bursting with its weight of pain and thought.
“Was it right for her to run away? Ought she not to
have staid and bravely met the worst? Suppose she were
to die there alone, among strangers and without money,
for her scanty purse was well-nigh drained.” These and
similar reflections crowded upon her, until her brain grew
wild and dizzy, and when at sunset the physician came
again, he was surprised to find how much her fever had
increased.
“She ought not to lie here,” said he, as he saw how the
loud shouts of the school-boys made her shudder. “Isn't
there some place where she can be more quiet?”
At the head of the stairs was a small room, containing
a single bed and window, which last looked out upon the
garden and the graveyard beyond. Its furniture was of
the plainest kind, it being reserved for more common travelers,
His wife would far rather have given her the front chamber,
which was large, airy and light, but Uncle Tim Aldergrass
said “No,” squealing out through his little
peaked nose that “'twarn't an atom likely he'd ever more'n
half git his pay, anyway, and he warn't a goin' to give up
the hull house.”
“How much more will it be if she has the best chamber,”
asked Jerry, pulling at Uncle's Tim's coat-tail and
leading him aside. “How much will it be, 'cause if 'tain't
too much, she shan't stay in that eight by nine pen.”
“A dollar a week, and cheap at that,” muttered Uncle
Tim, while Jerry, going out behind the wood-house, counted
over his funds, sighing as he found them quite too small
to meet the extra dollar per week, should she long continue
ill.
“If I hadn't of fooled so much away for tobacker and
things, I shouldn't be so plaguy poor now,” thought he,
forgetting the many hearts which his hard-earned gains
had made glad, for no one ever appealed in vain for help
from Jerry Langley, who represented one class of Yankees,
while Timothy Aldergrass represented another.
The next morning just as daylight was beginning to be
visible, Jerry knocked softly at Aunt Betsey's door, telling
her that for more than an hour he'd heard the young
lady takin' on, and he guessed she was worse. Hastily
throwing on her loose-gown Aunt Betsey repaired to 'Lena's
room, where she found her sitting up in the bed,
moaning, talking, and whispering, while the wild expression
of her eyes betokened a disordered brain.
“The Lord help us! she's crazy as a loon. Run for the
doctor quick!” exclaimed Mrs. Aldergrass, and without
boot or shoe, Jerry ran off in his stocking-feet, alarming
the physician, who immediately hastened to the inn, pronouncing
first feared.
Rapidly she grew worse, talking of her home, which
was sometimes in Kentucky and sometimes in Massachusetts,
where she said they had buried her mother. At
other times she would ask Aunt Betsey to send for Durward
when she was dead, and tell him how innocent she
was.
“Didn't I tell you there was something wrong?” Uncle
Timothy would squeak. “Nobody knows who we
are harborin' nor how much 'twill damage the house.”
But as day after day went by, and 'Lena's fever raged
more fiercely, even Uncle Tim relented, and when she
would beg of them to take her home and bury her by the
side of Mabel, where Durward could see her grave, he
would sigh, “Poor critter, I wish you was to home,” but
whether this wish was prompted by a sincere desire to
please 'Lena, or from a more selfish motive, we are unable
to state. One morning, the fifth of 'Lena's illness, she
seemed much worse, talking incessantly and tossing from
side to side, her long hair floating in wild disorder over
her pillow, or streaming down her shoulders. Hitherto
Aunt Betsey had restrained her barberic desire, each day
arranging the heavy locks, and tucking them under the
muslin cap, where they refused to stay. Once the doctor
himself had suggested the propriety of cutting them
away, adding, though, that they would wait awhile, as it
was a pity to lose them.
“Better be cut off than yanked off,” said Aunt Betsey,
on the morning when 'Lena in her frenzy would occasionally
tear out handfulls of her shining hair and scatter it
over the floor.
Satisfied that she was doing right, she carefully approached
the bedside, and taking one of the curls in her
sprang up, and gathering up her hair, exclaimed,
“No, no, not these; take everything else, but leave me
my curls. Durward thought they were beautiful, and I
cannot lose them.”
At the side door below, the noonday stage was unloading
its passengers, and as the tones of their voices came
in at the open window, 'Lena suddenly grew calmer, and
assuming a listening attitude, whispered, “Hark! He's
come. Don't you hear him?”
But Aunt Betsey heard nothing, except her husband
calling her to come down, and leaving 'Lena, who had
almost instantly become quiet, to the care of a neighbor,
she started for the kitchen, meeting in the lower hall with
Hetty, who was showing one of the passengers to a room
where he could wash and refresh himself after his dusty
ride. As they passed each other, Hetty asked, “Have
you clipped her curls!”
“No,” answered Mrs. Aldergrass, “she wouldn't let
me touch 'em, for she said that Durward, whom she talks
so much about, liked 'em, and they mustn't be cut off.”
Instantly the stranger, whose elegant appearance both
Hetty and her mistress had been admiring, stopped, and
turning to the latter, said, “Of whom are you speaking?”
“Of a young girl that came in the stage, sick, five or
six days ago,” answered Mrs. Aldergrass.
“What is her name, and where does she live?” continued
the stranger.
“She calls herself 'Lena, but the 'tother name I don't
know, and I guess she lives in Kentucky or Massachusetts.”
The young man waited to hear no more, but mechanically
followed Hetty to his room, starting and turning
pale as a wild, unnatural laugh fell on his ear.
“It is the young lady, sir,” said Hetty, observing his
doctor says she'll die if she don't stop.”
The gentleman nodded, and the next moment he was,
as he wished to be, alone. He had found her then—his
lost 'Lena—sick, perhaps dying, and his heart gave one
agonized throb as he thought, “What if she should die?
Yet why should I wish her to live?” he asked, “when
she is as surely lost to me as if she were indeed resting in
her grave!”
And still, reason as he would, a something told him that
all would yet be well, else, perhaps, he had never followed
her. Believing she would stop at Mr. Everett's, he had
come on thus far, finding her where he least expected it,
and spite of his fears, there was much of pleasure mingled
with his pain as he thought how he would protect and care
for her, ministering to her comfort, and softening, as far
as possible, the disagreeable things which he saw must
necessarily surround her. Money, he knew, would purchase
almost everything, and if ever Durward Bellmont
felt glad that he was rich, it was when he found 'Lena
Rivers sick and alone at the not very comfortable inn of
Laurel Hill.
As he was entering the dining-room, he saw Jerry—
whose long, lank figure and original manner had afforded
him much amusement during his ride—handing a dozen or
more oranges to Mrs. Aldergrass, saying, as he did so,
“They are for Miss 'Lena. I thought mebby they'd taste
good, this hot weather, and I ransacked the hull town to
find the nicest and best.”
For a moment Durward's cheek flushed at the idea of
'Lena's being cared for by such as Jerry, but the next instant
his heart grew warm toward the uncouth driver,
who, without any possible motive save the promptings of
his own kindly nature, had thus thought of the stranger
waiting, but to the surprise and regret of his fellow-passengers,
who had found him a most agreeable traveling
companion, Durward said he was not going any further
that day.
“A new streak, ain't it?” asked Jerry, who knew he
was booked for the entire route; but the young man
made no reply, and the fresh, spirited horses soon bore the
lumbering vehicle far out of sight, leaving him to watch
the cloud of dust which it carried in its train.
Uncle Timothy was in his element, for it was not often
that a guest of Durward's appearance honored his house
with more than a passing call, and with the familiarity so
common to a country landlord, he slapped him on the
shoulder, telling him “there was the tallest kind of fish in
the Honeoye,” whose waters, through the thick foliage of
the trees, were just discernible, sparkling and gleaming
in the bright sunlight.
“I never fish, thank you, sir,” answered Durward, while
the good-natured landlord continued: “Now you don't
say it! Hunt, then, mebby?”
“Occasionally,” said Durward, adding, “But my reason
for stopping here is of entirely a different nature. I
hear there is with you a sick lady. She is a friend of
mine, and I am staying to see that she is well attended to.
“Yes, yes,” said Uncle Timothy, suddenly changing his
opinion of 'Lena, whose want of money had made him
sadly suspicious of her. “Yes, yes, a fine gal; fell into
good hands, too, for my old woman is the greatest kind
of a nuss. Wan't to see her, don't you?—the lady I
mean.”
“Not just yet; I would like a few moments' conversation
with your wife first,” answered Durward.
Greatly frustrated when she learned that the stylish-looking
rubbed her shining face with flour, and donning another
cap, repaired to the sitting-room, where she commenced
making excuses about herself, the house, and everything
else, saying, “'t want what he was used to, she knew, but
she hoped he'd try to put up with it.”
As soon as he was able to get in a word, Durward proceeded
to ask her every particular concerning 'Lena's illness,
and whether she would probably recognize him
should he venture into her presence.
“Bless your dear heart, no. She hain't known a soul
on us these three days. Sometimes she calls me `grandmother,'
and says when she's dead I'll know she's innocent.
'Pears like somebody had been slanderin' her, for
she begs and pleads with Durward, as she calls him, not
to believe it. Ain't you the one she means?”
Durward nodded, and Mrs. Aldergrass continued: “I
thought so, for when the stage driv up she was standin'
straight in the bed, ravin' and screechin', but the minit she
heard your voice she dropped down, and has been as quiet
ever since. Will you go up now?”
Durward signified his willingness, and following his
landlady, he soon stood in the close, pent-up room, where,
in an uneasy slumber, 'Lena lay panting for breath, and
at intervals faintly moaning in her sleep. She had fearfully
changed since last he saw her, and, with a groan, he
bent over her, murmuring, “My poor 'Lena,” while he
gently laid his cool, moist hand upon her burning brow.
As if there were something soothing in its touch, she
quickly placed her little hot, parched hand on his, whispering,
“Keep it there. It will make me well.”
For a long time he sat by her, bathing her head and
carefully removing from her face and neck the thick curls
which Mrs. Aldergrass had thought to cut away. At
the wild, bright eyes which gazed so fixedly upon him,
for in them was no ray of reason. She called him “John,”
blessing him for coming, and saying, “Did you tell Durward.
Does he know?”
“I am Durward,” said he. “Don't you recognize me?
Look again.”
“No, no,” she answered, with a mocking laugh, which
made him shudder, it was so unlike the merry, ringing
tones he had once loved to hear. “No, no, you are not
Durward. He would not look at me as you do. He
thinks me guilty.”
It was in vain Durward strove to convince her of his
indentity. She would only answer with a laugh, which
grated so harshly on his ear that he finally desisted, and
suffered her to think he was her cousin. The smallness of
her chamber troubled him, and when Mrs. Aldergrass
came up he asked if there was no other apartment where
'Lena would be more comfortable.
“Of course there is,” said Aunt Betsey. “There's the
best chamber I was goin' to give to you.”
“Never mind me,” said he. “Let her have every comfort
the house affords, and you shall be amply paid.”
Uncle Timothy had now no objection to the offer, and
the large, airy room with its snowy, draped bed was soon
in readiness for the sufferer, who, in one of her wayward
moods, absolutely refused to be moved. It was in vain
that Aunt Betsey plead, persuaded, and threatened, and
at last in despair Durward was called in to try his powers
of persuasion.
“That's something more like it,” said 'Lena, and when
he urged upon her the necessity of her removal, she
asked, “Will you go with me?”
“Certainly,” said he.
“And stay with me?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I'll go,” she continued, stretching her arms toward
him as a child toward its mother.
A moment more and she was reclining on the soft downy
pillows, the special pride of Mrs. Aldergrass, who bustled
in and out, while her husband, ashamed of his stinginess,
said “they should of moved her afore, only 't was a bad
sign.”
During the remainder of the day she seemed more
quiet, talking incessantly, it is true, but never raving if
Durward were near. It is strange what power he had
over her, a word from him sufficing at any time to subdue
her when in her most violent fits of frenzy. For two days
and nights he watched by her side, never giving himself
a moment's rest, while the neighbors looked on, surmising
and commenting as people always will. Every delicacy
of the season, however costly, was purchased for her comfort,
while each morning the flowers which he knew she
loved the best were freshly gathered from the different
gardens of Laurel Hill, and in broken pitchers, cracked
tumblers, and nicked saucers, adorned the room.
At the close of the third day she fell into a heavy slumber,
and Durward, worn out and weary, retired to take
the rest he so much needed. For a long time 'Lena slept,
watched by the physician, who, knowing that the crisis
had arrived, waited anxiously for her waking, which came
at last, bringing with it the light of returning reason.
Dreamily she gazed about the room, and in a voice no
longer strong with the excitement of delirium, asked,
“Where am I, and how came I here?”
In a few words the physician explained all that was necessary
for her to know, and then going for Mrs. Aldergrass,
told her of the favorable change in his patient, adding
said he, “though I know not in what relation this
Mr. Bellmont stands to her, I think it advisable for her to
remain awhile in ignorance of his presence. It is of the
utmost consequence that she be kept quiet for a few days,
at the end of which time she can see him.”
All this Aunt Betsey communicated to Durward, who,
unwilling to do anything which would endanger 'Lena's
safety, kept himself aloof, treading softly and speaking
low, for as if her hearing were sharpened by disease, she
more than once, when he was talking in the hall below,
started up, listening eagerly; then, as if satisfied that she
had been deceived, she would resume her position, while
the flush on her cheek deepened as she thought, “Oh,
what if it had indeed been he!”
Nearly all the day long he sat just without the door,
holding his breath as he caught the faint tones of her
voice, and longing for the hour when he could see her,
and obtain, if possible, some clue to the mystery attending
her and his father. His mother's words, together with
what he had heard 'Lena say in her ravings, had tended
to convince him that she, at least, might be innocent, and
once assured of this, he felt that he would gladly fold her
to his bosom, and cherish her there as the choicest of
heaven's blessings. All this time 'Lena had no suspicion
of his presence, but she wondered at the many luxuries
which surrounded her, and once, when Mrs. Aldergrass
offered her some choice wine, she asked who it was that
supplied her with so many comforts. Aunt Betsey's forte
did not lay in keeping a secret, and rather evasively she
replied, “You mustn't ask me too many questions just
yet!”
'Lena's suspicions were at once aroused, and for more
than an hour she lay thinking—trying to recall something
Betsey to her, she said, “There was somebody here while
I was so sick—somebody besides strangers—somebody that
staid with me all the time—who was it?”
“Nobody, nobody—I mustn't tell,” said Mrs. Aldergrass,
hurriedly, while 'Lena continued, “Was it Cousin
John?”
“No, no; don't guess any more,” was Mrs. Aldergrass'
reply, and 'Lena, clasping her hands together, exclaimed,
“Oh, could it be he.”
The words reached Durward's ear, and nothing but a
sense of the harm it might do prevented him from going
at once to her bedside. That night, at his earnest request,
the physician gave him permission to see her in the
morning, and Mrs. Aldergrass was commissioned to prepare
her for the interview. 'Lena did not ask who it was;
she felt that she knew; and the knowledge that he was
there—that he had cared for her—operated upon her like
a spell, soothing her into the most refreshing slumber she
had experienced for many a weary week. With the sunrising
she was awake, but Mrs. Aldergrass, who came in
soon after, told her that the visitor was not to be admitted
until about ten, as she would by that time have become
more composed, and be the better able to endure the excitement
of the interview. A natural delicacy prevented
'Lena from objecting to the delay, and, as calmly as possible,
she watched Mrs. Aldergrass while she put the room
to rights, and then patiently submitted to the arranging
of her curls, which during her illness had become matted
and tangled. Before eight everything was in readiness,
and soon after, worn out by her own exertions, 'Lena
again fell asleep.
“How lovely she looks,” thought Mrs. Aldergrass.
door she beckoned Durward to her side.
Never before had 'Lena seemed so beautiful to him, and
as he looked upon her, he felt his doubts removing, one
by one. She was innocent—it could not be otherwise—
and very impatiently he awaited the lapse of the two
hours which must pass ere he could see her, face to face.
At length, as the surest way of killing time, he started out
for a walk in the pleasant wood which skirted the foot of
Laurel Hill.
Here for a time we leave him, while in another chapter
we speak of an event which, in the natural order of
things, should here be narrated.
| CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE WANDERER. 'Lena Rivers | |