CRUEL TREACHERY.
And be these juggling fiends no more believed,
That palter with us in a double sense;
That keep the word of promise to the ear
And break it to the hope.—SHAKSPEARE.
Alexander had come and gone like a dream. And, in truth, his flying
visit had given his young wife little comfort. He had spent more than
half the few hours he had passed at home in grumbling.
As usual, she could not find it in her heart to blame him. To keep up
her spirits, she set about putting in order her little house that had
been somewhat disarranged by his sudden arrival and departure. In the
words of another wronged woman, she was “resigned, but not happy.”
Her days passed quietly, if not cheerfully. She occupied herself with
her small household affairs; with making up the pretty liliputian
wardrobe upon which she was engaged; with taking care of her birds; and
with gardening, walking and riding during the day.
She spent her evenings in reading and writing, or singing and playing.
She was comforted with three sweet hopes: the first was for his letters,
the second his return, and the third the arrival of the little stranger.
She arose with the earliest dawn of day, and she retired early in the
evening, and so her health continued to improve.
But day succeeded day, until a week had passed away, and still she
received no letter from her absent husband. Then she grew weary and sad.
The truth is that Alexander, with a false mercy in keeping with his
false course at this time, was putting into practice his sapient plan of
“breaking with her gradually,” which was just distilling to her, drop by
drop, the bitterness of “despised love;” inflicting on her the
intolerable torture of a slow heart-breaking.
After ten days had gone by she received a note from him; it was short,
cool and dry. He said that he had reached Richmond in safety, but had
been too busy to write before; that he was well and hoped she was; and
that he remained her affectionate—“A.” There were not half a dozen lines
in the whole letter, and Drusilla thought the writing did not look like
Alexander’s hand. But she read it over and over again, and her tears
dropped slowly down upon it as she murmured:
“‘Too busy to write’ to me—‘too busy to write.’ Oh, Alick, dear, what
sort of business would it be that could keep me from writing to you for
ten whole days? But, then, I am a woman and you are a man, and that
makes all the difference, I suppose. But, oh, my heart is so weak—so
weak, my Heavenly Father!” she cried, suddenly, in her sorrow, appealing
to the All Compassionate.
And then again she betook herself to work as an antidote to despair.
After this a heart-sickening month of silence passed away, in which she
heard no word from him. And then she got a second note, dated from some
distant village in New England, from which he wrote to tell her that he
had been travelling for the last four weeks, and he was travelling still
upon that business growing out of his father’s will; that it would be
useless for her to write to him, as he was continually moving rapidly
from place to place, and could not wait to receive her letters. His
health continued good, and he hoped that hers did. And he was ever her
friend—“A.”
This letter filled less than half a page, and the writing was even less
like Alexander’s than that of the other one had been. And Drusilla wept
bitterly over it.
“If I were not his wife, I should think he was deserting me by degrees,”
she sobbed, hitting at last the very truth.
In addition to all her other causes of distress, she had the bitterness
of knowing that he had not waited to get one of the affectionate daily
letters she had directed to him at Richmond; that they were all wasted,
like her love, because he had not even taken the trouble to tell her
that he was going to travel.
And now one word about Alexander’s duplicity, which he called
discretion. (If people could be got to call crimes by their right names,
perhaps they would not commit them.) When Alexander was at home, having
access to all Drusilla’s boxes, he secretly got possession of all the
letters he had ever written to her and he destroyed them. His first
subsequent letter was written from Richmond, to which he had come with
his uncle and cousin for a sojourn of a few days previous to setting out
with them on a tour of pleasure. His second one was from a hamlet in the
Green Mountains, where he was staying with the General and Miss Anna, in
these first warm days of July. Both letters were written in a disguised
hand, and signed only with his initial, lest they should ever be brought
up against him.
Some suspicion of his bad faith was forcing its way even into the
confiding bosom of his wife. But the heart-wasting weariness of the next
few weeks, who can tell? To keep her heart from breaking, she kept
steadily at work. Ah, work! How great is the love of our Heavenly Father
in commuting the very curse laid upon man at his fall into blessings; in
infusing into the very punishment of his sins consolation for his
suffering. For surely, in addition to its creative and productive force,
work has consoling power, since, next after religion, it is to the
desolate and wearyhearted the greatest comfort on earth.
Drusilla found it so; for, if occupation did not give her happiness, it
certainty kept her from despair. The months rolled slowly on. One of the
most distressing elements in her misery was the fact she could not even
write to her husband, not knowing where to direct her letters; and this
was farther embittered by the knowledge that he himself had cut off all
such communication between them.
Still she continued to send Leo daily to the post-office in the hope of
getting a letter from him; but week after week wore away without
bringing news of Alexander.
In the hope of hearing of him, if she could not hear from him, she wrote
and ordered the principal daily papers from all the great cities in the
north. And huge was the bundle that Leo brought every day from the news
agent in Washington.
And when she was disappointed in getting a letter, as she was always
sure to be, she would, with a morbid eagerness, carefully con over the
names in the list of arrivals at the various hotels in all the cities,
in the faint hope of seeing his name in some one of them.
But this was worse than “hunting for a needle in a haystack,” for it was
hunting for what was lost somewhere else.
Sometimes in fear and trembling she would even look over the deaths and
the casualties, in the dread of seeing his name among the victims. But
she never saw it anywhere. We could have told her, “Naught is never in
danger.” If she did not see the name of her truant husband, she saw
something else that startled her, and it was this:
NEXT OF KIN.—If the heirs of the late Reverend Malcomb Sterling should
see this advertisement they will please to communicate immediately
with the undersigned, from whom they will hear something to their
advantage.
KENT & HENEAGE,
Solicitors, 33 Bar street, Baltimore.
Drusilla stared at this notice in astonishment. And then she read it
over again two or three times. _She_ was the only living representative
of the late Malcomb Sterling. Her father’s last pastoral charge had been
in Baltimore. This advertisement appeared in a Baltimore paper, and the
firm to be communicated with were Baltimore lawyers. Clearly the notice
originated with some one who had taken pains to trace her poor father’s
last abiding place, in order to advertise there for his heirs. It must,
therefore, be of considerable importance.
Her first impulse was to cut out the piece and enclose it in a letter to
her husband, that he might deal with it as he should deem proper. But
then she instantly recollected that she was ignorant of Mr. Lyon’s
address.
After a little reflection she concluded that it was her own duty to
communicate with the advertising parties.
So she sat down and wrote to the firm of Kent & Heneage, and told them
that she was the only child of the late Reverend Malcomb Sterling, by
his wife Anna.
She sent off this letter; and soon forgot all about the matter in her
all-engrossing anxiety to hear from her husband.
As before, she every day sent Leo to the post office, with orders if he
should find a letter by the first mail to hasten home with it
immediately; if not, to wait for the second mail.
On a fresh and brilliant morning of the third day after she had written
to the lawyers, Drusilla was at work in her flower-garden, when she saw
Leo galloping toward the house, and holding out at arm’s length a
letter.
The face of the boy, who had seen and understood his mistress’s daily
disappointment, was beaming with delight, as he drew rein before her,
sprang from his saddle, and handed her the letter.
She seized it eagerly, believing it to be from her husband, and
exclaimed in her joy:
“Oh, thank you, Leo! At last—at last! Oh, I’m so glad!”
“’Deed, so am I, ma’am—glad as if I’d had a fortin left me,” answered
the boy, showing in every tone and look as much sympathy as he could
combine with very much respect, “which it is from master, ma’am, and I
hope he is well?”
But the little lady’s face had fallen. The letter was not from her
beloved husband, announcing his speedy arrival. It was only from the
firm of Kent & Heneage, and it _only_ informed her of her inheritance of
a vast estate, by the decease of a bachelor great-uncle, who was a
merchant of San Francisco with a corresponding house in Baltimore, and
who had recently died intestate in the first mentioned city.
This news would have made some women very happy. But not Drusilla. The
reaction with her was great. Tears of disappointment swelled her
eyelids, and dropped upon the open page.
Leo, who was watching her in reverential interest, seeing her tears, now
spoke:
“I hope nothing is amiss with master, ma’am!”
“No—I don’t know. Oh, Leo! it is not from your master; it is nothing but
a mere business letter from a lawyer!” said the little lady, with a
sigh.
“Is that all, ma’am?” responded the boy in a disappointed tone.
“All, Leo,” his mistress answered, as she turned sadly towards the
house.
She did not care a farthing for the death or the inheritance of the old
bachelor uncle, of whom she had not heard mention made more than three
times in her life, and who, while he was rolling in wealth, had left her
dying father, her mother and herself to suffer the bitterest pains of
poverty.
She neglected to answer the lawyer’s letter, and gave herself up to
grief and anxiety about her careless but still beloved husband, until a
week had passed away, when she received another, and a very urgent
letter from Messrs. Kent & Heneage, asking to hear from her by return
mail.
This one she immediately answered. And this was the beginning of a long
epistolary correspondence between Drusilla and Kent & Heneage of
Baltimore, and Speight & Wright of San Francisco. In the course of this
correspondence the heiress learned that both those legal firms had been
the solicitors of her uncle, the millionaire, and that the first had
managed his business in Baltimore, and the last in San Francisco; that
the whole estate, comprising the property in both cities, was estimated
at three millions of dollars, and consisted in warehouses, shipping
goods, and bank stock. But she was also advised that she would be
required to prove her identity, and establish every link in the chain of
evidence that connected her with her uncle before she could take
possession of the property. And Messrs. Kent & Heneage tendered her the
help of all their legal skill, learning and experience, in establishing
her claims.
Young as she was, Drusilla saw at once that there would be no difficulty
in proving herself the lawful heiress of the deceased Crœsus. So she
wrote to the lawyers that the genealogical line to be traced was very
plain, short and straight; that every point in its progress could be
proved by church registers, court records, private letters, and personal
friends.
Then the firm wrote to her requesting a personal interview, and offering
either to receive her at their office in Baltimore, or to visit her at
her own home in Washington.
And here arose Drusilla’s first difficulty. She had dated her letters,
not from Cedarwood, but simply from Washington City, and though she had
signed them Drusilla Sterling Lyon, she had not said one word about her
state as a married woman, thus unconsciously leaving it to be assumed
that she was a widow, acting upon her own responsibility. She could not
write of her marriage, because it had been her husband’s will that it
should be kept secret from all but the faithful servants who were in
their confidence. And for this cause, also, she could neither visit the
lawyers at their office, nor receive them at her house. She was puzzled
how to act.
“Oh, Alick, Alick, dear,” she sighed, as she read over again the
lawyer’s letter; “Oh, Alick, darling, how your long absence and this
forced secrecy does constantly compromise me. I find myself in a cruelly
false position. What shall I do now? Wait till I see you before I take
another step in this matter? That is what I must do.”
And she sat down and wrote to Messrs. Kent & Heneage, telling them that
it was not just at present convenient for her to leave home, or to
receive visitors, but that she hoped it might be so in a few weeks.
“And this looks very like a subterfuge,” she said to herself as she
revised her own lines. “And what will they think of me for putting them
off in this foolish way? Think me an impostor as likely as not. And who
can wonder if they do? Oh, Alick! Alick!”
She sent her letter off, and for a week or ten days, she heard no more
of her legal friends. This correspondence, embarrassing as it was to
her, and difficult as it was for her to manage, upon account of her
false position as a secretly wedded wife, had nevertheless done her
good, in distracting her thoughts from the intense grief and anxiety she
had suffered from the long absence and total silence of her husband.
Meanwhile, the summer wore wearily away. On the first of September, she
received another letter from her new legal acquaintances, praying her no
longer to neglect so important a manner as the establishment of her
claims to the heirship of the great Sterling property.
Amid painful feelings of shame that she might not speak out plainly,
that she must be secretive and seem deceitful, she penned a reply,
asking the lawyer’s pardon for having appeared neglectful; beseeching
them yet to have a little patience with her; telling them that
circumstances which she could not at present command, precluded her from
proceeding farther in this matter; but expressing an earnest hope that
in a short time she might be able to do so. She begged to assure them
that as she was truly the lawful heiress of her deceased uncle, Charles
Sterling, being the only surviving descendant of his only brother, and
he having left no other kindred, so her claim to the estate could not
fail to be established; and that when it should be, she begged them to
believe, that they should find that their time and labor, and kind
interest in her affairs, had not been thrown away.
There was a simple, earnest truthfulness and good feeling in this other
mystifying letter, that must have carried conviction of the writer’s
good faith even to the unbelieving legal mind. For within three days,
Drusilla received an answer from the firm, saying that they regretted
the delay upon her own account, but would wait her pleasure and
convenience.
And so this correspondence ceased for the time being.
September passed slowly away, without bringing any letter from Mr. Lyon.
And oh, in what weariness, heaviness, sorrow and soreness of heart, it
passed with the young neglected wife, who can describe, or even imagine?
She was almost dying of hope deferred. A fatal suspicion of her
husband’s falsehood was slowly, but surely, eating its way into her
heart and life. And still the bitterest element in her sorrow was the
fact that she could make no appeal to any remaining tenderness he might
have for her, not even knowing where to write to him.
October came, and then,—
“When hope was coldest, and despair most deep,”
a letter arrived from Alexander. She was that evening sitting and
shivering, not from cold, but from nervousness, over a bright little
fire in her dressing-room, when Pina ran in, without the ceremony of
rapping, and exclaimed, breathlessly:
“It’s Leo, ma’am, which he’s just brung a letter from the post-office,
as he says must be from master, because it’s got Richmond printed onto
it, and he can read print, though not writing. And he says how he’ll
bring the letter in and put it into your hands himself, and here he is—”
Before Pina had finished half her speech, Drusilla had jumped up and run
to meet Leo.
As he entered the room, with his face beaming with pleasure, she
snatched the letter from his grasp, tore it open and devoured its
contents.
Ah! poor child! little comfort that long-looked for letter brought her.
It was shorter, drier and colder than any that had gone before it.
Alexander vouchsafed not one word of excuse for his long silence. He
announced his arrival at Richmond; and told her that he could not with
propriety pay her a visit that autumn, for reasons that he would explain
to her in a subsequent letter; he hoped that she was in as good health
and spirits as he begged to assure her that he himself was; and he
subscribed himself her friend and well-wisher, “A.”
Drusilla dropped the letter, and burst into a passion of sobs and tears,
that much alarmed her loving servants.
They thought no less than that their master had met with a fatal
accident, or was smitten with a deathly disorder, if he was not already
dead and buried.
They tried to help and comfort her.
Leo went and brought her a glass of ice-water.
Pina poured some Florida water upon a handkerchief and offered her,
saying caressingly:
“Oh, mist’ess, dear, don’t take on so. It’s the Lord’s will, you know.”
“It is NOT, Pina! The sin of man is NOT the will of God!” passionately
broke forth the long-suffering soul.
“Oh, mist’ess, dear, ’scuse me. I didn’t know ’twas sin. I thought ’twas
only sickness, or something.”
“I—hush!—I spoke hastily—I spoke without thinking. There, Pina, that
will do. Thank you, child. Go, leave me now; I am better by myself; _do_
go. Leo, take her away,” with difficulty gasped Drusilla.
And when she had got her servants out of the room and bolted the door,
she threw herself into her chair and gave free vent to the suppressed
sobs and tears that had been nearly choking her.
“Oh, what a letter to write me! After such a long and cruel silence too!
Cannot pay me a visit this autumn! ‘_Pay me a visit!_’ What does he mean
by that? This is his home and I am his wife. And he signs himself my
friend and well-wisher. ‘_Friend and well-wisher!_’ And no more than
that? Why he is my husband! Oh, _what_ does he mean by this cruel
letter?” she cried, with streaming eyes and heaving breast.
Then she drew from her bosom the small black silk bag, took from it the
piece of paper of which mention has already made, read it through her
tear-dimmed eyes, then kissed and replaced it, saying:
“If it was not for this precious little document, I should think he
meant to abandon me. I should fear that I was not his wife. I should
fear I had been fooled by a false marriage. But this bit of paper proves
that I am truly his lawful wife—though he treats me more like a—Ah,
Heaven forgive him! I am very glad I found this little document. It
reassures me when I doubt. And this great grief so clouds my mind that I
suppose I can’t help doubting, even when such doubt is mere madness. But
I have the paper, and ‘seeing is believing,’” she sighed.
Ah! how little the poor young creature knew that the document upon which
she founded her faith in the indissoluble legality of her marriage was
the very same upon which Alexander Lyon, her husband, based his belief
in his freedom from matrimonial bonds.
But this is a mystery.
As soon as she had recovered some degree of composure, she availed
herself of her knowledge of his address to write to him the first letter
she had been able to send him in some months. In this letter so entirely
was she taken up by her love and her sorrow, that she utterly forgot to
mention the enormous fortune that had been left her. She wrote him a
long, earnest, impassioned appeal, praying him by the love he once bore
her, and by the love that she must ever bear him, since it was the life
of her life, to come to her, if only for a little while; she said,
pathetically, that she would never ask it again.
“Oh, these words are cold and lifeless,” she wrote. “But if you were
here, my soul would find some means of reaching yours. My lips and my
eyes and my hands would show you that they only live when they meet
yours. Oh, come home! I die, Alick! I die! Come and save me! Come, if
only for a little while. Oh, my beloved, my whole heart and soul and
life goes out in this cry—_Come home!_”