THE SORROWS OF THE YOUNG WIFE.
Yet for all this, let him stand
In my thoughts, untouched by blame,
Could he help it, if my hand
He had claimed, with hasty claim?
That was wrong, perhaps, but then
Such things be, and will again.
Women cannot judge for men.—E. B. BROWNING.
One morning near the last of February, when the young wife arose,
leaving her husband still in bed heavily sleeping off his fatigue, she
found that it was snowing fast, the flakes coming down fine and thick as
sifted flour, and promising a deep and heavy fall. And she was glad to
see it, for she said to herself:
“Surely Alick cannot leave home on such a tempestuous day as this.”
And if it had been possible for her fireside and breakfast table to have
been brighter and more attractive than they always were, she would have
made them so this morning for his sake. And the hope, the almost
certainty of having him home all day long made her face radiant with joy
and beauty.
Presently he came down heavily enough.
“What beastly weather!” he said, looking through the window at the
thickly falling snow.
Her face fell a little, she scarcely knew why. But she touched the bell
and ordered the breakfast served.
“And tell Leo to have my horse at the door in half an hour,” added
Alick.
“You are not going out on such a day as this, dear Alick,” she said.
“Yes, I am. It is that horrid business. Now, Drusilla, my little woman,
do try to be cheerful and don’t vex me by looking that way,” he said, as
he saw her grave face.
“I am only sorry, dear, that you have to leave home in such weather,
that is all,” she answered, as she turned and busied herself with
pouring out the coffee that was just then set upon the table.
And he ate his breakfast in haste, dressed in haste and then mounted his
horse and hurried off to town.
The snow continued to fall and the day passed very heavily with the poor
young wife. Still her thought was for her husband.
“Oh, what a night he will have to come home in,” she said to herself
again and again, as she saw that the weather grew worse and worse as the
day waned later and later.
At length towards evening she could keep her anxiety to herself no
longer, and she said to her maid:
“Oh, Pina, what a night for Mr. Lyon to ride home in!”
“Indeed, ma’am, I don’t think he will come at all.”
“Not come home at all!” echoed Pina’s mistress, aghast.
“Why you see, ma’am, it will be dangerous. Only look out. The fences are
nearly all covered and the snow is still falling,” said the girl,
pointing through the windows of the kitchen where this conversation took
place.
“I see,” sighed the lonely wife, and her heart seemed to sink like lead
in her bosom. But then she took herself to task and said:
“Why should I feel so miserable because my husband must stay away from
me for one night? I would much rather that he should stay all night in
Washington than risk his life in attempting to return home in the
darkness, through such a snow-storm as this, in which all landmarks seem
to be lost.”
And so she tried to reason with her longing heart.
At night, however, it stopped snowing. But the wind came up from the
northwest and blew very hard, and the new fallen snow began to freeze as
firm as adamant.
“What do you think now, Pina? Do you think your master can get home?”
inquired the master’s wife of her maid.
“Lor, ma’am, why this is worse than the other.”
“What is, Pina?”
“This freeze is worse than the falling snow, ma’am; because it will make
the roads all as slippery as glass; so, even if his horse is rough shod,
master will hardly be able to get home.”
“Well, Pina, I trust that he will run no risk. But, in case he should
come, we must have everything ready for him as usual. The worse the
weather, the more comfort he will want. So you must dress the wild duck
for the roaster, and I will make a little cabinet pudding,” said Pina’s
mistress, tying on an apron and tucking up her sleeves.
“We may prepare for him, ma’am, but he will never return such a night as
this, you may take my word for that. It would be as much as his life and
limbs are worth to attempt it,” answered the girl.
These words made the young wife very uneasy. Much as she wished for his
presence, she now prayed that he might not set out to return. And it was
with some comfort she reflected that Alexander never unnecessarily ran
any risk; that he would certainly be able to judge of the dangers of the
roads, and would as certainly avoid them. Still, in the event of his
returning that night, she was determined to have everything ready for
him.
As night deepened, it grew colder and colder. Outside it was like the
polar regions. There
“Dread winter spread his latest glooms
And reigned tremendous—”
—all darkness, snow and ice.
Inside, all was light, warmth and comfort.
In the drawing-room a large bright fire was burning; the little table
was laid for supper; the easy chair and the warm slippers were ready.
At ten o’clock, Drusilla, as usual, would have dismissed her maid to
bed, but the girl pleaded to remain up “for this once” with her
mistress.
“If you please, ma’am, master will not be home to-night, I’m certain
sure of it. But you’ll sit up all the same. So please let me sit up with
you till you gives it up.”
“As you like, Pina,” replied the young mistress.
And the little lady settled herself in one of the easy chairs before the
fire, and the maid nestled down among the foot cushions in the corner.
In less than an hour, Pina, overcome with the heat of the fire and the
heaviness of her own head, fell fast asleep.
And Drusilla watched on, almost as much alone as if her maid had been a
hundred miles away—as very likely she was, in the spirit.
Drusilla was hoping against hope, that her too much loved husband might
return home and in safety; but she could not justify this hope to her
reason, for certainly this was a night in which no man in his senses,
who valued his life and limbs, would take the road; and just as
certainly, Alexander had a wholsome regard for his own; so it was not
likely that he would risk them.
Still, Drusilla waited and watched until the clock struck twelve. Then,
as her maid was snoring sonorously, to say nothing of baking her head by
getting it almost into the fire, Drusilla woke her up and ordered her
off to bed.
Pina, too utterly wearied with watching, and too stupid with sleep to
make any resistance, stumbled off to her attic, finding her way as a
somnambulist might.
And Drusilla was left quite alone. The clock struck two. And still she
watched on and on. She thought there was little use in doing so, but she
could not help it. She continued, at intervals, to stare through the
windows, and to listen to every sound without, though she saw nothing
but the darkness of the night, and the glimmer of the snow-clad,
spectral looking trees, and heard nothing but the howling of the wind
and the rattling of the icicles.
But suddenly, through all deeper sounds, she heard the merry ringing of
sleigh-bells!
And she started to her feet, for she knew in an instant, that her
husband had come home in a sleigh—a possibility that had never occurred
either to herself or her servant.
She ran to the door and pulled it open. But Alexander had turned around
to the stable, and so it was some ten minutes before he returned to the
door.
It flew open at his knock, and Drusilla threw herself in his arms; she
could not help this, she was so overjoyed at his almost unhoped for
return in safety that night.
“Up still, my faithful little darling?” he said, kissing her.
“Yes; and I hope you are very hungry this time, as well as very cold,
dear Alick, for I have such a supper for you!”
“Yes? Well you may swear that I am famished, for I have not broken my
fast since luncheon,” he laughed.
She helped him to draw off his overcoat, and hung it up in the hall; and
then she pulled him with affectionate solicitude and playful force out
from the cold hall into the snug little drawing-room, and made him
comfortable.
“Dear Alick, your hands are almost frozen! You must have had a real
Laplander’s ride, and without the Laplander’s furs. How came you to
undertake it, dear?” she asked, as she pushed him down in his arm-chair,
and sat on a cushion at his side, and took his icy hands between her own
warm ones, and rubbed them. “Why did you come, Alick, dear?”
“My darling, it is bad enough for me to stay away from you as much as I
do—as much as I am _compelled_ to do on account of that vexatious
business; but really it would be too bad to stay away all night, and I
never mean to do that,” he answered.
“Oh, Alick dear, how glad I am to hear you say so. And I am so glad you
came to-night, since you have reached home in safety. The servants
thought that you would not come, that it would be too dangerous a
journey to undertake on horseback.”
“So it would, my dear, and that is the reason why I bought the sleigh;
which, besides, I thought would be useful this winter.”
“Oh, yes, indeed, so it will. And we are both so fond of sleighing. We
shall have some fine sleighing together,” she said.
He made no reply to the observation, for he knew full well that he
should have no time to realize her anticipations.
“Don’t you remember, Alick, the fine sleigh rides we used to have in the
Christmas holidays, when you used to come home to spend them; and when
you used to take Miss Anna out, and always insist that your ‘child,’ as
you called me, should go along, too? Do you remember, Alick?”
“Yes, little Drusa, quite well,” he answered gravely, and with some
emotion, as he tenderly smoothed her hair with his hand.
“Oh, can I ever forget all your kindness to me from that time to the
very present? Can I ever do too much—can I ever do enough for you?”
“Poor little Drusa!” he murmured.
“But there, your hands are warm now, and I will set the supper on the
table,” said the busy little housewife.
When Alick was warmed and fed, and comforted and satisfied, he turned
from the table and the fire towards his little wife, and said:
“Well, Drusa, as I had the sleigh I thought I might as well bring
something home in it besides myself. So I walked into several of the
book stores and picked up the best of the new books that are published.”
“New books! Oh, thank you, dear Alick; where are they?” eagerly
exclaimed Drusilla, rising from her chair to look for them; for she who
had so few amusements—so few?—I should have said no amusements at
all,—was delighted at the mention of new books. “Where are they, Alick
dear?” she repeated, glancing around the room.
“Sit down, my pet. Do you think I could have brought them in my hand, or
in my pocket? Why, they are an armful for a railway porter. I left them
in the sleigh in the stable. You shall have a glorious time over them
to-morrow; it is too late to look at them to-night even if we had them
lying before us; for, do you see what o’clock it is?”
Drusilla glanced up at the Ormolu time-piece on the mantle shelf, and
saw, with surprise, that it was nearly two o’clock in the morning.
And Alexander arose at the same moment to put up the guard and close the
shutters, saying, with a smile,
“We have to be our own servants when we are so unreasonable as to sit up
so late, love.” And soon after both retired.
The next day was intensely cold, but clear and brilliant; the ground was
covered deep with hard frozen snow, and the trees were clothed with
frost and ice, and the sun shone out of a bright blue sky, lighting up
all the scene with blinding radiance.
Immediately after breakfast, Mr. Lyon had the sleigh brought around to
the door. The packages, left in it from the night before, were ordered
to be taken out and brought into the drawing-room.
“Here, little one! here are some dozens of new books that will help you
to kill the time between this and my return,” said Alexander, directing
her attention to the packages.
“Oh, thank you, Alick. But must you go to town again to-day?”
“Of course I must; I must go every day for some time yet.”
Drusilla suppressed the sigh that arose to her lips, but she could not
forbear the question:
“And stay late, Alick?”
“That is as it may be, Drusa. I shall return as soon as I can get away.
Now amuse yourself with your books, and don’t mope.”
“Oh, no, I won’t mope,” said Drusilla. “You are so good to me, Alick, I
ought not to do so.”
He jumped into his sleigh, and sped away to the ringing of the bells.
And she watched him out of sight, and then turned into the drawing-room
and sat down among her new books, and began to unwrap them. Most of my
readers know the delight of opening and examining a package of new
books. Drusilla was absorbed in the pleasure of opening package after
package, and examining volume after volume, until at length she selected
the book that she wished to read first, and laid it aside, and then she
took the others into the library and put them in proper places.
She had scarcely completed this pleasant piece of work, before she heard
her maid calling to her:
“Oh, ma’am, ma’am, come here, please, and see the snow-birds.”
She who loved all living creatures, went into the kitchen and looked
from the windows, and saw hopping about upon the frozen snow several
hundred of these little creatures.
Drusilla, who had always spent her summers in the country, but her
winters in town, had never seen, or, if she had seen, had never
particularly noticed, these birds before.
“My! what a sight! What brings so many of them here, Pina?” she
inquired, in astonishment.
“Why, you see, ma’am, the ground and the bushes and the trees are all
covered with frost and snow and ice, and they can’t find anything to eat
in the woods or fields or lanes, and so they look for food about
houses.”
“Poor little things! What do they eat, Pina?”
“Anything eatable, ma’am, that is small enough for them to
swallow;—grains of rice, crumbs of bread, specks of meat——”
“Oh, throw out whole handfuls of rice for them,” said Drusilla.
“That would hardly do, ma’am. It would sink in the snow and be lost
before the birds could get it. But if you will let me sprinkle food on
all the window-sills around the house, you will see the little creatures
come in scores to eat. And it will amuse you, like, ma’am, to sit and
see the art of the little rogues, how one will watch from a bush to see
the coast clear, and then notify the others to come and eat.”
“Oh, then,” said Drusilla, with all the eagerness of a child, “crumble
up several loaves of bread, and sprinkle every window-sill of the house
full as it will hold.”
“Would you like some traps set in the woods, ma’am?”
“Traps, what for?”
“To catch the birds, ma’am.”
“To catch the birds?”
“Yes, ma’am. They make excellent pies, and——”
“Oh, hush—no!”
“The boys will catch them, ma’am, if you don’t. They set traps in the
woods. And they puts food under them. And the little birds go to get it,
and are caught and killed.”
“How cruel and treacherous! Poor little things, to be frozen out, and
starved out, and to come to us for food and shelter, and to be killed
and eaten. The boys shan’t trap them on our place, any way. So if you or
Leo find a trap in our woods break it up, and if you find a trapper whip
him!” said the little champion of birds, as she left the kitchen.
That day passed with Drusilla less drearily than usual.
When all her household duties had been discharged, she sat in her snug
little drawing-room, feasting upon her new books, and furtively watching
the snow-birds that were feasting upon the crumbs on the window-sill,
and which as furtively watched her, and flew away the instant they
caught her eyes, only to fly back the instant they saw them fall upon
her book again; for these little raiders did not yet know their
benefactress.
So quiet was this place that the wild creatures of the woods feared not
to approach it; and Drusilla, looking from her window, could see the
squirrel seated on a twig and nibbling his nut, or the opossum curled up
in his hole, or the fleet little hare race across the frozen snow, or
the raccoon peeping from the hollow of his tree. It was well that this
child of nature loved nature with all her children so well, for not a
human being could Drusilla see from her window.
Her beautiful wild wood home—beautiful even in the dead of winter—was
separated on all sides by many acres of thick woods from any public
thoroughfare. The road leading through the woods was a strictly private
one leading to her house, and nowhere else.
Drusilla sat alternately reading and watching her favorites, until two
o’clock in the afternoon, when Pina brought in her mistress’s simple
dinner of boiled chicken and custard pudding.
It was a solitary dinner; for things had come to such a pass now that
the little wife, instead of taking a luncheon in the middle of the day,
and waiting dinner for the husband who never, never came to eat it,
always now dined alone soon after noon.
And now Drusilla consoled herself for the absence of her husband by
thinking of the supper she would prepare for him and share with him in
the evening.
“Pina,” she said, as she saw the snow-birds fly away from the
window-sill at her slightest motion; “Pina, will I never be able to tame
these little creatures by kindness?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am; you may make them so tame that they will come and eat
out of your hand.”
“How—how can I do that?”
“By just doing as you do now, ma’am. They will soon find out as you mean
them no harm but good, and they will cease to fear you and begin to love
you,” answered the girl, as she removed the dinner service.
And Drusilla spent the afternoon as she had spent the morning.
That night Alexander, for a wonder, came home as early as eight o’clock.
And the cheerful day was succeeded by a happy evening.