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 slouch 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 plaguy 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 wise saying
recorded above, he resumed his whittling, 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 stranger, who had been laid upon
the lounge in the common 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, dangling’ 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 shan’t touch one of them; ’twould spile her hair, 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 upstairs and lie down on a nice
little bed, where she would be more quiet. But ’Lena refused, saying
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 stayed 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
a 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, and here the landlord said ’Lena must be taken.
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 Tim’s coattail and leading him aside. “How much will
it be, ’cause if ’taint 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 ’Lena’s disease to be brain fever, as he had at
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 hand, was about to sever
it, when ’Lena, divining her intentions, 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 agitated manner.
“She raves most all the time, and the 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 girl.
Erelong the stage was announced as ready and 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. Want 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 gentleman
wished to talk with her, Aunt Betsey 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, “’twant 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 has 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 last she awoke, but Durward shrank almost in
fear from 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 identity. 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 Betsy. “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 ’twas 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 that a sudden shock might still prove
fatal. “Therefore,” 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 which seamed to her like a
dream. At last calling Aunt Betsey to her, she said, “There was
somebody here while I was so sick—somebody besides strangers—somebody
that stayed 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’s reply, and ’Lena,
clasping her hands together, exclaimed, “Oh, could it he be?”
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 sun-rising 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. “He shall just have a
peep at her,” and stepping to the 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
a 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.