A DARK RIDE.
As yet ’tis midnight deep, the weary clouds,
Slow meeting, mingle into solemn gloom,
The while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep.—THOMSON.
As soon as Alexander Lyon had bid good night to his uncle and cousin, he
hurried to the livery stable where he had left his horse, doubting that
it would be open at so late an hour.
But it was not yet closed for the night; so upon Mr. Lyon’s requirement
one of the hostlers led out the horse, already saddled and bridled for
the road.
“A dark night, sir,” said this official, as he put the reins in the
hands of the rider.
“Yes, and a dark road before me,” replied the young gentleman.
“I hope for your sake it isn’t a long one, sir.”
“It is about five miles directly in the face of the wind,” laughed Mr.
Lyon.
“Sorry to hear it on your account, sir. The weather’s sharpish. The
wind’s got round to the northud and blows up pretty keenish. I wish you
well at your journey’s end, sir.”
“Thank you. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Alexander rode briskly away.
The night had grown bitterly cold; but his horse was fresh, and the
rider thought that in such weather as this it would do the beast no harm
to ride him hard. So he put him into a gallop, and soon left the
gas-lighted, populous streets behind, and found himself in a dark and
lonely road, where nothing was to be seen on either side but wintry
woods and stubble fields, frozen brooks and straggling fences, and at
long intervals some isolated dwelling.
At length he came to the old turnpike road leading through the woods
towards his home. Here it was necessary to slacken speed; for the road
was obstructed in many places, and the sky was very dark. So he drew
rein at the entrance of the wood, and went on in a walk.
Notwithstanding the rapidity with which he had galloped over the five
miles on the Seventh street road, his blood was half stagnant with the
cold. His face, after smarting fiercely in the wind had lost all sense
of feeling, and his hands were so numb that he could scarcely hold the
bridle.
In addition to his physical discomfort he experienced much mental
disturbance; and both together made him irritable and angry with himself
and all the world. He was vexed with his uncle and cousin for being in
Washington: with Richard Hammond for being always at hand to wait upon
the beautiful heiress; with the old man in Brazil for dying and leaving
the young spendthrift a fortune to recommend him; and, above all, with
himself—not exactly for having married poor little Drusilla, but
certainly for having by his own act put it out of his power to marry
Anna; and _worse_ than all, he was vexed in advance with his sweet
little wife for the reception he felt sure she would give him when he
should get home.
As he rode slowly through the woods he muttered to himself:
“I _know_ she has been watching for me ever since noon to-day, just
because I said that I would be home then. She has been watching more
than twelve hours. And now of course she has worried herself into a fit
of intense anxiety, and most likely of illness besides. And there she
is, no doubt, sitting with a pale face and red eyes, weeping over a
smouldering fire, or an extinguished one. And she will meet me either
with tears or sorrowful reproaches, or both! And, after all, what can I
say for myself? Ah, bah, why will women take such things so much to
heart? As if it was not enough to have been driven almost to mental
distraction for her sake to-day, without being subjected to a scene
to-night.”
So growling within himself, the culprit rode slowly onward towards his
home, and the nearer he got to it the more slowly he rode. He actually
dreaded to meet Drusilla. But ride on slowly as he might, he could not
put off forever the inevitable moment of arrival.
He soon saw the light of his home gleaming through the trees.
“There, I knew it!” he said to himself. “She _is_ sitting up for me.
There are the drawing-room windows all ablaze, and not a shutter closed.
I had a faint hope that she might have gone to bed and cried herself to
sleep, like a child as she is. But that’s all over now. I’ve got to meet
her with her red eyes and pale face. Confound it all, if she does get up
a scene, I’ll teach her a lesson she’ll not soon forget!” he growled,
trying to work himself up into a fit of rage in anticipation of the
dreaded meeting. And yet, in the midst of all his efforts, his heart
reproached him, and he relented a little towards his young wife. So now
it was half in anger and half in compunction he drew near his home.
To give himself more time, to postpone the evil hour as long as
possible, he first rode around to the stable to put up his horse
himself.
And then he walked slowly to the house and knocked at the front door.
It flew open on the instant.
And there stood Drusilla, warm, glad, beaming with delight, radiant with
welcome.
“I heard you come,” she exclaimed—“I heard you ride around to the stable
first, and so I was here ready to open for you. But oh! how cold you
look. Come in quickly,” she said, taking him by his frozen hands and
drawing him into the hall, and then closing and bolting the front door
with her own nimble fingers.
For an instant he was so “taken aback” by her unexpected manner that he
positively shrank from her. But the next moment he caught her and folded
her to his bosom, as he murmured:
“My darling, darling child! My own dearest and best little Drusilla! how
could I ever leave you! Heart of my heart, I will never leave you again
for a whole day alone as long as I live in this world.”
Rash vow! but he meant, at the moment, to keep it.
“Yes, that is what I am,” she whispered—“heart of your heart. That is
the sweetest and the truest name you ever called me. And now let me help
you off with your overcoat, and then you can come into the drawing-room.
There is a good fire.”
He let her assist him in taking off his coat, and then he followed her
into the drawing-room, where, as she had said, there was a good fire.
His easy chair was standing before it, and his furred slippers were
lying on the rug. And she had even brought down the boot-jack and laid
it by the slippers.
Near the easy chair stood a small round table, covered with a white
damask cloth and laid for two persons.
A bright tea-kettle sat singing before the fire, and two small silver
covered dishes sat upon the hearth.
Seeing these simple preparations for his comfort and seeing the happy
little creature who had made them, his heart smote him, first for having
left her alone so late, and then for having entertained such hard
thoughts of her.
“My darling child, how kind of you to do all this for me. But I am sorry
you took the trouble,” he said, putting his arm around her and drawing
her towards him where he sat in his resting chair.
“But suppose it made me happy to do it? Suppose it interested and amused
me while waiting for you?” she asked.
“Ah, ‘waiting’ indeed! how long you have waited! I was in hopes that you
had gone to bed and gone to sleep; but when I saw the lights in the
drawing-room windows, I knew that you were still up.”
“I left the shutters open on purpose; I thought the light would look
cheerful to you as you rode home through the woods.”
“Dear heart! I ought to have known your loving motive as I came along;
but I didn’t. Ah, weren’t you tired and sleepy with waiting?” he asked,
as he drew her on his knee.
“Why no. It is not so _very_ late, after all. And I have sat up many and
many a night later than this only to finish a piece of needle-work I
happened to be pleased with, or book I was interested in. And wouldn’t I
much sooner sit up to give my dearest a good warm supper after his long,
cold ride?”
“My pet, my love, my darling, my—oh! what can I call you that will be
good enough and dear enough for you?”
“Call me no hard names at all,” she said, gayly, kissing him and
springing from his lap. “But take off your boots while I put supper on
the table.”
Poor little Drusilla, these arrangements of hers were not according to
the usages of “good society.” Now, Anna Lyon would have let her husband
go up to the top of the house in the cold before she would have
permitted the boot-jack to be brought into the drawing-room; and would
have let him broken his fast in a dreary dining-room, or even gone
hungry and thirsty to bed, before she would have allowed a kettle to be
boiled, or a supper to be laid, in the drawing-room. And only a few
hours before this Alexander had been lamenting in his heart his little
wife’s deficiencies in the manners of “good society.” But now he was
hungry and cold, and so,—flagrant as her breach of etiquette was, he did
not seem to see it; he only realized that he was at this moment the
happiest man, with the loveliest wife, in existence.
The supper was soon placed upon the table. Of the two silver covered
dishes, one was found to contain a pair of nicely roasted partridges,
and the other equally well roasted potatoes. Besides these, there was a
fresh salad prepared, as he thought none but Drusilla could prepare it.
And there were light biscuits and delicate jellies and fresh fruits. And
there were “schnapps” and lemons and loaf sugar, and all the materials
for the hot punch that she thought he would like after his cold ride.
“Tell me, darling,” said Alexander, after he had refreshed himself with
these viands, and was taking his ease between the table and the fire,
“tell me how you have passed the lonely day. Were you very lonely and
very anxious?”
“No,” she answered, “I wasn’t lonely. I was very busy, and I was
thinking of you, and looking for you. And—yes, I am forced to admit that
I was a little anxious.”
“Poor child! I had promised to be home at noon. What did you think, and
what did you do when I failed to come?”
“I thought something had detained you a little, and that you would be
home very soon; and—I took a cup of tea and bit of toast for lunch,”
laughed Drusilla.
“And afterwards, when hour after hour passed, until our late dinner time
came, what then?”
“Oh, I waited, expecting you every minute, until some hours past our
dinner-time, and then—I ate my own dinner and had yours put away to be
kept warm.”
“Wise little girl.”
“But I scarcely thought you would need the dinner. I fancied you were
dining with some friend you had met in the city, and that _that_ was
keeping you.”
“Little witch! And then when it grew dark and late?”
“Oh, _then_ I grew a little nervous about you, and had ever so many
foolish imaginations—that robbers had attacked you on the dark road, or
that the horse had thrown you, or some other fatality had overtaken you;
and so I was troubled with anxiety. But I reasoned and fought against
that anxiety. I said to myself how much more likely it was that you were
spending the evening with some friend; and then I recollected that the
Italian Opera was in Washington, and I thought it most probable that you
had gone there.”
“Ah! well, and what next?”
“Why, about ten o’clock I called in Pina and told her as the night was
so sharp, and the ride so long, you would need a warm supper when you
should arrive; and that we must get one up between us for you. And so
Pina dressed the partridges, and I made the salad and set the table,
and—that was how it was. And when all was ready I made Pina and Leo go
to bed, because the poor creatures have to rise so early in the morning.
And I told them to leave the shutters open, that the light might be a
beacon to you on this dark night.”
“My darling, darling child! I always knew that your nature was as sweet
as a saint’s, but I never knew how heavenly sweet, until to-night! You
have given me such loving welcome! You have not even _looked_ a reproach
to me for disappointing you, and you have not once asked me why I did
it.”
She stopped his words with kisses. And with her arm around his neck, and
her cheek laid against his, she whispered:
“As if I hadn’t faith in you. As if I didn’t love you and trust you.”
“Oh, you dove! I would not give you for Anna Lyon and all the fine
ladies that live, or ever did, or ever will live!” he said, warmly
embracing her.
“I hope,” she whispered, softly, “that you would never wish to give me
up for any one; not that I am better than others; not that I am so good
as they; but because I am your own, and you love me. But what made you
think of Miss Lyon just then, dearest?”
“Oh, because, you know, it was planned between our parents, that Anna
and I should marry, whether we liked to do it or not; fortunately,
neither of us liked to do it.”
“‘Fortunately;’ oh yes, how very fortunately! I cannot bear to think
what I should have done, if you had married Miss Lyon,” said Drusilla,
with a shudder.
Alexander wished to divert the conversation from the dangerous topic to
which he had so thoughtlessly led it, so he said:
“And you thought I had gone to the Italian Opera, this evening, did you,
my little love?”
“Yes, I thought you had dined with some friend, and then had gone with
him to see Lucia di’ Lammermoor. Had you not?”
“No, my darling, no; I wouldn’t have left you alone all the evening, for
the sake of hearing the grandest opera ever written and played.”
“Wouldn’t you, Alick? But you might have done so. I shouldn’t have
thought hard of it. I couldn’t expect you to be tied down to me all the
time.”
“But, my darling, I wouldn’t have, broken faith with you and stayed
away, when I promised to be home, for any amusement under the sun. And
nothing but the most urgent necessity should have kept me away on this
occasion.”
“Dear Alick, nothing disagreeable to you, I hope?”
“Only disagreeable, love, in so far as it detained me from your side.”
“Then I am glad.”
“It was only—some unexpected business connected with my late father’s
will,” said Alexander, hesitatingly, and again speaking a literal truth
to give a false impression. For certainly his embarrassments with Anna
Lyon did grow out of his father’s will—will that he, Alexander, should
marry her.
But Drusilla understood him as speaking in a financial sense only—as he
intended that she should; and she brightened up and answered:
“Ah, well, Alick, dear, since it was not very vexatious business, never
mind if it _did_ keep you away from me a few hours longer than you or I
expected. I can not hope to have you always here beside me; but you are
here now; and all is made up to you, is it not?”
“Yes, dear heart of my heart, all is made up to me now,” said Alexander,
folding her fondly to his heart.
And the night that he had dreaded so much closed in this perfect peace.