SUSPENSE.
Oh, weary struggle! Silent tears
Tell seemingly no doubtful tale;
And yet they leave it short, and fears
And hopes are strong and will prevail.
My calmest fate escapes not pain;
And, feeling that the hope is vain,
I think that he will come again.—WORDSWORTH.
At daylight Pina awoke. Finding her mistress still sleeping heavily
under the influence of the sedative, she arose and replenished the fire
and then went down stairs and got her own breakfast.
After which she prepared some very strong coffee and some delicate milk
toast, and took it up to the lady’s chamber and set it upon the hearth
to be kept warm until her mistress should awake.
But with the hapless young wife the awakening was but the return to
anguish.
With great difficulty Pina prevailed on her to take a little food. There
was but one argument the girl could successfully use with the expectant
mother—her child. To keep up her strength for its sake, Drusilla tried
to eat and drink, though even the coffee and the soft toast seemed to
choke her in her effort to swallow them.
After this little repast she fell back upon her pillow, too
spirit-broken to wish to leave her bed.
Pina opened the front windows to let in the cheerful light of the golden
autumn morning; and then she took the breakfast tray down into the
kitchen.
Leo was sitting there, polishing his cutlery.
“How’s mist’ess?” inquired the boy.
“It’s hard to say. I know I’d rather see her in a rale bad spell of
illness, like the typus fever, or something, than this way. Her heart’s
broke; that’s how she is. And I tell you what, Leo, long’s master’s done
broke faith with mist’ess I don’t see how we got any call to keep faith
long o’ him,” grumbled the girl.
“Broke faith with her?” echoed the boy, pausing in his work.
“Yes, that letter he writ said he wasn’t coming back no more. And that’s
what’s killed her.”
“My goodness!”
“And now look here, Leo—if _he’s_ not coming back to take care of her,
somebody must, that is certain. I don’t know enough, although I did help
mammy to bring up all my little brothers and sisters.”
“Well, what do you want _me_ to do? I’ll do anything in the world for
mist’ess.”
“Well, I tell you. Leo, I want you to go down to Alexdry and fetch mammy
to her.”
“But good gracious me alive, that is as much as my ears are worth!
Didn’t master order us not to have any followers, not even our own kin
folks?”
“But I told you before, if master don’t keep faith long o’ mist’ess, we
ain’t got no call to keep faith long o’ him, ’specially when it’s to
rist her life.”
“Oh, if that’s the case, I’ll go at once,” answered the boy. For it was
only necessary to convince him that his mistress’s safety depended on
“mammy’s” arrival to make him eager to go and fetch her.
Yet just as he was about to leave the kitchen he turned and inquired;
“But isn’t better to ask mist’ess first?”
“_No_; she would be sure to object, though it’s for her own safety. You
go and fetch mammy. And then I’ll let on to mist’ess how she come on a
wisit to me, promiscuous like, and I’ll ’vise mist’ess to see mammy.”
“All right; but if you get me into a scrape for nothing, you know, Pina,
it will be your own fault.”
“Just so; and I’ll be willing to bear all the blame.”
Leo went upon his errand, and Pina hurried up to her mistress’s chamber.
Drusilla had thrown herself out of bed, and was walking distractedly up
and down the room, with her dark hair falling down over her white
night-dress, her face pale, her eyes wild, and her fingers wreathed and
wrung together in an agony of grief.
Vain were all Pina’s efforts to soothe her.
“Oh, I do but feel my trouble more and more! more and more as the hours
go by! If I only could see him! If I could see him once and speak to
him, he would hear me! he could not let me die before his sight,” she
sobbed forth, with her eyes streaming with tears, whose fountains seemed
exhaustless.
“It’s like p’isoning of her to save her life; but it’s what the doctors
do, and I must do it,” said Pina, as she poured out a large dose of
valerian and coaxed the sufferer to drink it.
As before, the powerful sedative quickly took effect. And Drusilla let
her maid lead her to her resting chair near the window, and seat her in
it, and put a foot cushion under her feet.
“There, mist’ess, sit there and be quiet. I wouldn’t lay down on the bed
too much. It isn’t good for you. Sit by the window and look out at the
Lord’s good sunshine. Bless you, the sun shines still, spite of all the
fools and wilyuns in the world. And here, I’ll bring you your Bible and
set it on your little stand before you. You used to take comfort in your
Bible. Lor’! if we only loved _Him_ half as well as we do some of his
onworthy creeturs we needn’t have our hearts broke by ’em,” said Pina,
as she made the arrangement she proposed. But her last sentiment was
spoken _sotto voce_ and did not reach the ears of her inattentive
mistress.
Instead of deriving the consolation from the sacred volume which indeed
she was too much overcome to seek, Drusilla dropped her head upon its
open pages and seemed to pray, or weep, in silence.
“To think, when she gets wiolent, I have to knock her down with a dose
of walerian this way! It’s a most like murder. And how’s it a gwine to
end? I wish mammy would come. I hope she ’aint got no engagement nowhere
else,” muttered Pina to herself as she went and made up the bed.
At noon it was a work of difficulty and of diplomacy for Pina to get her
mistress to swallow a few spoonfuls of the chicken broth she had
prepared for her.
In the afternoon Drusilla was so much prostrated that Pina assisted her
to bed, and darkened the room, that she might sleep, if possible.
Late in the evening Leo returned from Alexandria, bringing with him a
middle-aged, motherly-looking colored woman, who called herself “Aunt
Hector, honey,” but whom Pina rushed to embrace as “mammy.”
As soon as the overjoyed daughter had relieved her mammy of bonnet,
shawl and umbrella, and had sent them by Leo with the “big box, little
box, ban-box and bundle,” up to the servants’ bedrooms over the kitchen,
she set about getting tea for the traveller.
She laid a cloth upon which she arranged her own best service, with cold
ham, fried chicken, fresh butter, Maryland biscuits, and, lastly, a pot
of fragrant imperial.
While Leo was out in the stable attending to his horses, the mother and
daughter sat down to the table together.
“Now what sort of a home is this here you’ve got here, gal, where the
marser is allus gone and the missus allus grievin’ day in and day out?”
“Well, mammy, you know as one follows the other; and if the master’s
always gone the mist’ess is likely to be always grieving, if so be she
cares for him, which our mist’ess do.”
“What’s he gone so much for? It looks bad.”
“So it do, mammy, which it is bad too.”
“But what’s he gone _for_?”
“He say business—let me see—connected—yes, that’s it—with his late
father’s will.”
“Um hum; allus some excuse with them men. To begin so airly, too; ‘fore
he’s married a year. Lor’, I thought you was agoing to have such a happy
home, living fellow sarvint with your own dear brother, long of a young
married pair with the highest of wages, and no ’sideration but to live
quiet and keep away company. But, deary me! who can count on anything?
Well, gal, I’m glad to get leave to come to see you at last. But what
can I do for you? That boy, Leo, I couldn’t get nothink out’n him, ’cept
’twas the marser was allus gone and the missus was allus grievin’, and
you wanted me to come and nuss her.”
“Yes, mammy, that was it. And I hope you can stop now you are here.”
“Oh, yes, I can stop fast enough. I have just got through nussin Mrs.
Porter with her fifth. And Liza Jane, she’s out of service now and
stopping home with me to mend up her clothes; so she can take care of
the house and chillun.”
“How is sister Liza Jane and the rest?”
“Oh, they’s well enough. All had the fever ’n agur in the airly part of
the season, but when the frost came it killed it. But where’s the young
madam?”
“Sleeping now, mammy. I had to give her a great big dose of walerian.”
“_You—you_ dare to dose a lady? Look here, gal, don’t you set yourself
up for a doctoress because your mammy’s one.”
“Lor’, mammy, what’s walerian? I’ve seen you give it to ladies for the
hysterics by tea spoonfuls.”
“Seen _me_? Yes, but I tell you what, gal, you’ve got to p’izen a great
many patients before you can be trusted to give physic like an ole
’oman. But don’t you try that on again, gal, I tell you.”
“Lor’, mammy, what on the yeth was I to do with her, when she was raving
distracted mad a-most? a pacing up and down the room a tearing of her
beautiful hair out by the roots, and wringing and a twisting of her
fingers often her hands all but! I ’clare to the Lord and man I was
’fraid of my soul as she’d dash herself against a wall, or fling herself
out’n the window. And nothing on yeth but walerian would quell her.
That’s the reason I sent for you. I didn’t like to take the
’sponsability to keep on a knocking of her over with that there weepon;
but I couldn’t let her ’stroy herself neither, so I had to give it to
her, whether or no, till you came.”
“But what on the yeth did the creetur take on so about? Not _his_ being
away.”
“Yes, it was, mammy. His being away and his disappointing of her by not
coming back when he promised. Men is such wilyuns!”
“And wimmin is sich fools! For my part, when the chillun’s well the men
may go to Old Nick for me! But she ’aint got no chillun to comfort her,
poor young thing.”
“Not _yet_, mother,” said Pina, significantly.
“‘Not yet?’ What do you mean, gal? _Soon will!_”
“Yes, mammy.”
“When?”
“Don’t know exactly; neither does she; but soon; and that’s another
reason why I sent for you.”
“Um hum. Well, if that’s so, she’s not to be let to go raving and
tearing about, let who will come or stay away,” said the wise woman.
The abrupt entrance of Leo put an end to this part of the gossip.
The boy sat down at the table and took his tea.
“And now, mammy,” said Pina, “as it’s late and you’re tired, I’ll show
you where you are to sleep. _I_ shall have to stop in the room with the
mist’ess.”
“And mind you, don’t give her any more physic, ’out calling me fust,”
said mammy, as she followed her daughter up to the little room above the
kitchen.
Pina dismissed Leo to the stable loft, fastened up the house, raked out
the kitchen fire, and then returned to her mistress’s chamber.
The poor little lady was in a troubled sleep, broken by fitful sighs and
sobs, and muttered words of which “Alick” was the only one to be
distinctly heard.
Pina just loosened her own clothes and sat down in the lounging chair by
the side of the bed to watch or sleep, as the case might be. She slept,
of course; and her sleep was so deep that she did not know her, mistress
awoke and arose a little after midnight and paced the floor, weeping and
wringing her hands, until daylight, when she fell exhausted upon the bed
and dropped into a short and fitful slumber, disturbed with gasps and
starts.
By sunrise Pina opened her own eyes, and seeing her mistress lying very
much as she had left her when she fell asleep, the girl arose and
replenished the fire and went down into the kitchen.
Here she found “mammy” making herself at home and in full blast before
the range getting the breakfast.
“Well, and when am I to see the madam, I’d like to know?” inquired Aunt
Hector.
“Soon’s ever she wakes, mammy; which you know you couldn’t see her last
night, ’pon account of you being tired and she sleepy.”
“How is she this morning?”
“Sleeping like an angel, which so she’s been a doing of all night.”
“Um hum, you been a giving of her more o’ that walerian!”
“Deed I aint, mammy, which she hasn’t needed of it.”
When Pina and her mother and brother had had their breakfast, the girl
prepared some rich and delicate chocolate and some nice light muffins
for her mistress’s morning meal, and took them up to the lady’s chamber.
Drusilla was awake, though pale and worn.
After having bathed her face and hands with diluted Florida water, she
consented to take a little of the refreshments that Pina brought and sat
upon a stand by her bedside.
While Drusilla sat up in bed and sipped her chocolate, Pina broached the
subject of her mother’s presence in the house.
“Mist’ess, I want to tell you, ma’am, as my ole mammy has come to see
me, a little bit. I hope you has nothing of no objection _now_, ma’am?”
“None in the world, Pina. Mr. Lyon——” She had nearly broken down and
wept again when she pronounced his name; but she gasped, recovered
herself and went on—“Mr. Lyon used to object to having even your
relatives come to the house, but now that he is not here their coming or
going can make no difference.”
“And you don’t object on your own account, ma’am?”
“No, Pina, no; I don’t. It is good to have your mother to come to see
you. I wish, oh, how I _do_ wish I had a mother to come to see me, in my
great trouble!” she added, with a little sob.
The tears rose to Pina’s eyes, as she answered:
“My mammy is only a poor colored ’oman; but indeed, ma’am, if you will
let her, she will do for you as loving and as tender as any mother.”
“Will she stay with you long, Pina!”
“She would like to stay some weeks, if you would let her, ma’am.”
“She can stay as long as she likes, for your sake, my good girl. But
your mother—she must be in years, Pina?”
“She’s past fifty, ma’am, I believe.”
“Is she—experienced?”
“Beg pardon, ma’am?”
“Is she—wise, skillful, knowing, I mean, about sickness and about
children?”
“Oh! yes, ma’am, which that is her perfession, brought up to it, ma’am.”
“Then I think it very providential that she is here now. Oh, I am very
inexperienced and helpless! Pina, I think I should like to see your
mother and have a little talk with her. When you take away this service
you may bring her up.”
“Oh yes, ma’am! thank you, ma’am. She’ll be so glad to pay her ’spects
to you,” said the girl, delighted that the proposal she had so much
dreaded to make, had been so kindly received.
But the moment Pina left the room, Drusilla fell back upon her pillow in
a storm of sobs and tears, and gasping forth at intervals:
“Oh, Alick! Alick dear, to leave me at such a time as this, and I so
friendless and so ignorant, I might die! I wish I could!”
After a few moments, hearing footsteps on the stairs, she ceased
sobbing, and tried to compose herself.
Pina discreetly knocked at the door.
“Wait a moment,” said Drusilla, wiping her eyes and smothering the last
convulsive throes of her bosom. And then——“Come in,” she called.
Pina entered, showing in her mother.
Drusilla turned with forced calmness to welcome the stranger.
“How do you do? What is your name?” she inquired, in a gentle tone.
“My name’s Aunt Hector, honey, ladies’ nuss, which I have recommendments
to show from the head doctors, ma’am,” answered “mammy,” curtseying.
“I think it very fortunate for me that you are here. I hope you will be
able to stay with me.”
“Which it is my intention so to do, long as I shall be wanted, honey,
and no longer.”
“Thank you, I would like to talk with you a little. I have no mother,
and I am as ignorant as a child of many things I ought to know—Pina, my
good girl, you may leave the room, and you needn’t come back until you
are called. I wish to speak in private to this good nurse.”
As Pina left the room and closed the door behind her, mammy turned to
her patient, and said:
“I hope, ma’am, that gal does her duty, which it is always my pride and
ambition to bring up my chillun so to do.”
“She is a very good girl, and pleases me perfectly.”
“I am oncommon glad to hear it, ma’am.”
“And now I wish to speak to you of——” Drusilla hesitated.
“Yes, honey, I understand. Speak out and don’t mind me. I’m an ole nuss,
you know, chile.”
Thus encouraged, Drusilla began to speak of the state of her own health,
of her youthful inexperience, and of her forlorn circumstances.
In doing this she tried to cover the sin of her guilty husband, by
explaining his absence in the stereotyped manner that he himself had
often used, and putting it upon the ground of “business connected with
his late father’s will.”
But this effort was too much for her superficial composure. The very
name of Mr. Lyon overthrew her self-control. In speaking of him her
voice faltered, then she choked, gasped and broke into a violent fit of
sobs and tears that shook her fragile frame almost to the point of
dissolution.
The nurse was much too wise to coax or scold her patient. But the sly
old fox, who had blown her daughter up for meddling with dangerous
drugs, went herself and mixed a composing draught for the sufferer—and
not of the harmless valerian that had been administered by Pina, but of
potent morphine that in a few moments sent Drusilla into a sleep that
lasted all that afternoon and night.
But, ah! when she did at length awake, on this the third morning after
the great blow had fallen on her, she awoke but to the renewal of
anguish intolerable; of sorrow that refused to be comforted; of despair
that had forgotten the very existence of hope.