BREAKING.
They’d met e’er yet the world had come,
To wither up the springs of truth;
Amid the holy joys of home,
And in the first warm flush of youth.
They parted, not as lovers part,
With earnest vows of constancy—
She with her wronged and bleeding heart,
And he rejoicing to be free!—ANONYMOUS.
“Alick! Alick! Oh, Alick, where are you? Answer me! Speak to me, if you
can! Oh, give me some sign where to search for you,” Drusilla cried,
running wildly out into the wintry night, in the direction from which
she had heard the shots, and fearing at every point to find her husband
dead or wounded.
“Hush!” whispered a voice through the darkness. And the next moment her
husband stood by her side.
“Oh, Alick, thank Heaven you are alive and safe! You _are_ safe, are you
not, dear?” she eagerly inquired.
“Yes; but that infernal villain has got off!”
“Oh, never mind, so that you are not hurt. You are _not_ hurt, are you,
Alick?”
“No; I have not been in any danger; but that cursed caitiff! he has
escaped!”
“Oh dear, let him go; so you are sure you are not wounded? You _are_
sure, are you not, dear? You are quite sure neither of those shots
struck you?”
“The shots were fired by my own hand, and I’m only sorry they missed
their mark, and that diabolical scoundrel got off! He ran like a quarter
horse, Devil fly away with him! I would have given a thousand dollars to
have him here with my foot on his neck! By all I hold sacred, I would!”
“Oh Alick, do stop thinking about him, and think about yourself! You are
so excited I don’t believe you know whether you are wounded or not; you
may be bleeding to death now, somewhere under your coat! Oh Alick, dear,
come in the house and let me look.”
“It is you who are excited, little goose. You are shaking like an ague!
Come in the house yourself, and get warm and quiet,” he said, tucking
her under his arm and leading her towards the cottage.
“But Alick, dear, tell me, are you _very_ certain—”
“No, I’m not ‘_very_’ certain; I’m only just _certain_ that I have not a
single scratch. That—that—miserable miscreant was unarmed, I suppose,
Satan burn him!”
“Who was he, Alick, do you know?”
“How should I? I only know that he was some felon spy, who has doubtless
been hanging about the house, and peeping through the windows o’
nights.”
“A spy, Alick? Only a spy? Why I thought he was a robber and a
murderer.”
“My little love, a spy is the most dangerous character of the three. We
may defend ourselves against robbers and murderers; but not against
spies. The first are beasts of prey; but the last are venomous
serpents—snakes in the grass. No one knows how long that infamous wretch
has been lurking around our house, or how often he has been peeping in
at our windows, or how much he has seen.”
“Dear Alick, we have only seen _him_ three times.”
“But he may have seen us, three hundred times. Of course our eyes were
not always on the window.”
“That is true; but, after all, what of it, Alick? He could not harm us
by looking at us,” said the honest young creature, who knew she had
nothing to hide.
“Ugh! if I had him under my feet, I would not leave a whole bone in his
body!” cried the double-dealing man, who was conscious that he had a
great deal to conceal.
“Well, never mind, Alick, dear. For my part, I am well content that the
man got off, and you have no broken bones to account for. For, after
all, he committed no great crime in looking in at a lighted window at
night. Why, Alick, in walking through the streets of the city in the
evening you and I used to do the same thing, only for the harmless
pleasure of looking in to an interior, upon a pretty domestic picture of
a family circle around their tea-table, or something of the sort. And
this man might have had no worse purpose.”
“His purpose, whatever it might have been, should have cost him his life
if I had caught him!” said Mr. Lyon, grimly.
“Then I am truly glad you did not catch him. Oh, be content, Alick, for
you may be sure, now that the man has been seen and chased, he will
never come to trouble us again!”
“I don’t know that he will. But he didn’t seem to dread being seen,
however. It was his taunting laugh, you know, that drew my notice to
him. He seemed to try to catch my eye by mocking my laugh. I think he
had seen all he wished to see, and that this was to be his last visit;
so he let his presence be known, to annoy us. Ah! if I ever find out who
he is, he shall pay dearly for his frolic!” exclaimed Alick.
By this time they reached the house and entered it.
Alexander made Drusilla sit down in the easy chair before the fire, and
then he went and carefully closed and fastened the doors and windows,
and finally came and took a seat by her side.
And they sat there a little while to warm and rest themselves before
going up stairs to bed.
“Alick,” said Drusilla, “I hope if you ever do find out who that man is,
you will do him no harm.”
“I will be his death,” exclaimed Alexander, grinding his teeth.
“No, no, no; he may have been some poor forlorn creature, who having no
home of his own, looked in upon ours, as upon a paradise.”
“He was, more likely, some vulgar wretch, who in prowling about here at
night, after game, has found out that a very pretty little woman lives
here, often all alone, and has made up his mind to get as many peeps at
her as he can.”
“Oh, Alick!”
“That is the secret, now I come to think quietly over the matter, my
dear; and your brilliantly lighted windows were the beacons that first
drew him here to gaze on you at will; to feast his eyes on your beauty;
perhaps to fall in love with you! Come, what do you think of it all
now?” inquired Mr. Lyon, maliciously.
“Oh, Alick, Alick, don’t talk so to me. I am your wife. Such thoughts——”
She paused, and blushing deeply, turned away her head.
“What is the matter, little love?” he laughed.
“You should not breathe such thoughts to me, dear Alick. But—I shall
draw the curtains before the windows every evening in future.”
“I think it would be just as well you should do so. The light shining
through their crimson folds will be enough to guide me home at night,”
he said, as he arose and lighted the bedroom candles.
She set the guard up before the grate, and put out the lamps.
They left the drawing-room and went up stairs together; but when they
reached their chamber door, he put one of the candles in her hand,
saying kindly:
“Good night, my dear child. I hope you will have a good sleep.”
And before she could answer, he opened the door of an opposite chamber,
passed in and locked it behind him, leaving her standing still in
astonishment.
This was the first time, while at home, that he had ever slept out of
their mutual room. She could not imagine why he should do so now. If he
had not spoken so kindly to her, she might have supposed he was angry
with her. But his good night had been even unusually gentle and tender;
it had seemed almost plaintive and deprecating. But then he had not only
passed their chamber and gone into another room, but he had locked the
door behind him, thus securing himself against possible intrusion. Whose
intrusion? she asked herself—hers, his wife’s? Well, she was his wife,
she thought; but dearly as she loved him, scarcely living, except by his
side, she would never intrude upon his chosen solitude.
She stood there in perplexed and painful thought, inquiring and
wondering why he left her and locked her out. Perhaps, after all, she
said to herself, he was still a little angry with her, for having cried
so much that evening. She must find out. She could not go to rest, she
would never be able to sleep without knowing whether he was really
displeased with her, and reconciling him to herself. She would not
intrude upon him, she thought, no, never! But she would rap at his door
and ask if she had offended him, and if so, she would do all that she
could to atone for such offence. For she must make friends with him
before she left the spot, or—die!
So she went and rapped at his door and then waited.
She heard him moving about the room, but he made no response.
She thought he had not heard her, so she rapped again.
“Well! Who is there?” he inquired from within.
“It is I, your little Drusa, Alick,” she answered, in a low and
tremulous tone.
“What do you want, Drusilla?”
“Oh, Alick dear, my heart is breaking; please don’t be mad with me,” she
pleaded, in her most plaintive voice.
“I am not mad with you, child; why should you think so?”
“Oh, Alick, I thought—I thought you were displeased, because—because—”
She could not go on.
“What reason could I have for being angry with you, child?” he asked
again, putting his question in a form that he thought she could more
easily answer.
“Why, my crying so much this evening,” she said.
“Oh, bosh! that is all over now. No, little Drusa, I have no cause, no
just cause of complaint against you. If I am ever angry with you, it is
from my own quick temper, and by no fault of yours, my child. Now go to
bed like a good girl, or rather like a sweet little saint as you truly
are. Good night, my little Drusa,” he said.
“Good night, dear Alick,” she answered, turning sadly away.
She went to her own room and set the candle on the mantle-piece, sank
into her easy chair, and lapsed into sorrowful thought.
“He said he was not angry with me; yes, he said so; but he never told me
why he left my room, and he never even opened the door to speak to me,
nor yet kissed me good night. No, he is not angry with me; not angry,
but sick and tired of me, as I might have known he would be; for what am
I to please him who has been used to ladies of the highest rank and
culture? Yes, he is sick and tired of me, and it is not his fault—it is
mine; and I wish, oh, I wish, it were no sin to die!”
And she dropped her head upon the arm of her chair and wept bitterly;
wept till she was so exhausted that she slipped from the chair to the
carpet, and, grovelling there, wept on.
Her tears like her grief, seemed inexhaustible; for, when the daylight
dawned and the sun rose, she was still lying where she had sunk overcome
with sorrow.
At length when the morning was well advanced, she remembered her
housewifely duties, and slowly got up and rang the bell for her maid.
Then, lest her evening dress should excite the girl’s curiosity, as it
did on a former occasion, she quickly took it off and threw around her a
chamber wrapper.
Pina came in and put fresh logs on the fire, and filled the ewers, and
laid out clean towels, and then stood waiting.
“There is nothing more, Pina; you may go,” said her mistress.
And the maid left the room.
Drusilla bathed her eyes and face, and combed her hair, and dressed
herself as tastefully as if she had slept through a happy night and
waked to a gladsome morning.
And she went down stairs to see to the breakfast. The cozy drawing-room,
the bright fire, the clean hearth, the neat table, all the accessories
of her sweet home, and, above all, the clear sunshiny morning, early
harbinger of spring, cheered her spirits and inspired more hopeful
thoughts than had been hers on the evening previous.
“Alick loved me from my childhood,” she said, “and chose me freely for
his wife from all others that he might have had. And he is very good to
me. He spoke gently to me even last night. Perhaps he is not so weary of
me as I think. Perhaps he loves me still. And my doubts come only from
my own fancies. Oh, Heaven grant that it may be so. I will see how he
will meet me this morning. But, oh! if I should be so keen to note every
word and look that he gives me, or don’t give me, how ill I should
requite his love. Shall I turn jealous fool, and watch my Alick as if he
were a foe to be suspected, and not my dear husband to be loved and
trusted to the last? No, Alick, dear, no; I will do you no such wrong. I
know I’m a big little fool, but not such a one as that, either. What if
he did leave me last night. Perhaps he needed to be very quiet, after so
much excitement as he has had these two nights. I am sure, I am so
nervous sometimes that I cannot bear a movement or a ray of light in my
room, and why should he not be subject to the same moods, even if he is
a strong man? Come, I will trust my husband, as well as love him.”
This reaction of feeling, brought about mostly by the blessed sunshine
of morning and the benign influence of home, called back the color to
the young wife’s cheeks and the light to her eyes.
Alexander came down earlier than usual. And she arose from her seat to
receive his morning kiss.
But she did not get it. He passed her, and dropped into his chair, and
said:
“Ring for breakfast, Drusa. I must get off to town sooner by an hour
this morning.”
With a suppressed sigh, she pulled the bell; and when Pina appeared, she
ordered breakfast to be served immediately.
Alexander was thoughtful even to gloom. He had to break to Drusilla the
news of his intended sudden departure. And he dreaded to do it, and he
did not know how to begin.
The morning meal was served. They sat down to the table. Drusilla poured
out the coffee, and, in handing her husband his cup, she said:
“You are not feeling well this morning, Alick, dear?”
“No, Drusa, I am not well, in spirits at least. I have a very painful
duty before me, little Drusa,” he answered, catching at this opening for
his discourse.
“I am very sorry, Alick,” she replied, and then waited for his further
speech.
“I shall be obliged to leave home for a short time. I did not like to
tell you last night, lest it should disturb your rest,” he said, little
knowing how utterly his desertion had deprived her of that rest.
“Oh, Alick, dear, must you really go?”
“I must really go, Drusilla. That business connected with my father’s
will obliges me to do so,” he gravely said.
“Shall you take me with you, Alick?” she asked, in a low, timid voice.
“No, Drusa; of course not. If I could take you along I should not feel
so badly about going,” he answered.
“Oh, Alick, I am so sorry, dear.”
“I shall not stay very long, Drusa. I shall come back to you as soon as
I possibly can, my child.”
“I know you will, Alick. Where do you go?”
“Into Virginia, of course, where our estates lie.”
“Oh, what a troublesome business that is connected with your father’s
will, to be sure—to bother you so much as it has ever since we have been
married. Why cannot lawyers make wills so clear that there can be no
mistake about their meaning?”
“Ah, why indeed?” repeated Mr. Lyon, laughing in spite of his secret
self-reproach.
“When do you start, dear Alick?”
“To-morrow morning, my child.”
“So soon! Oh, that is very sudden!”
“These matters admit of no delay, Drusa. Now, my little woman, don’t
look so downcast. It is unpleasant enough for me to have to leave you.
Don’t add to my vexation by your looks.”
“No, Alick, I will not if I can help it. You will want your clothes got
ready,” she added, cheerfully, “and the time is short. Tell me at once,
please, what you would like to take with you, and I will pack them up
to-day.”
“Oh, a dozen of each sort of under-garment; one morning and one evening
suit; my dressing-case and writing-case; those are all, I think. Have
them put into the little black Russia leather trunk.”
“I will pack them myself, Alick dear, and then they will be sure to be
done right.”
“As you please, little woman.”
“How long shall you be gone, Alick? Can you tell me that?”
“Oh, not exactly. The length of my absence depends upon circumstances.
Not more than a week or ten days at most.”
“At least you will be sure to be back within the fortnight?”
“Yes, certainly. But you know we can talk over all this to-night, when I
get back from town. I shall certainly be home to tea,” said Mr. Lyon, as
he arose from the table.
“Then I shall hope to see you. And I know you will come if you _can_,
Alick,” she answered, as she thought of her constant disappointments in
this respect.
He understood her, and he answered, as he drew on his riding-coat:
“I _can_ be back this last evening, and I _will_. Good-bye until I see
you again, little Drusa.”
And he put on his hat and hurried out of the house, pulling on his
gloves as he passed.
And the next moment he mounted his horse and galloped away.