PROOFS.
Concealment is no more; facts speak
All circumstance that may compel
Full credence to the tale they tell,
And now her tortured heart and ear,
Hath nothing more to feel, or hear.—BYRON.
It was long, very long, before the most strenuous and persevering
efforts of her servants could bring the stricken and unconscious
sufferer back to consciousness. As always before, the return to
sensibility was but the return to sorrow. But the nurse prepared a dose
of morphine, and, murmuring to her of her babe, persuaded her to take
it. And soon she was buried in the blessed oblivion of sleep.
Leo sat over the kitchen fire, wishing himself a man and a white man,
that he might avenge the wrongs of his worshipped mistress. In his small
way, very much as the child Willie Douglas felt towards the beautiful
and discrowned Mary Stuart, felt this poor fellow towards the wronged
lady of his own allegiance. Late in the evening, to him, sitting there,
came Pina.
“Well, and how is she now?” inquired the boy.
“Gone to bed. Mammy give her something to put her to sleep. Mammy knows
what to do. My goodness, Leo, what a blessing it is that we fetched
mammy to her!”
“Yes, indeed, that it was, Pina.”
“And now you clear out here. I want to get some supper ready for mammy
to eat. She hasn’t had no dinner, nor even a mortal bite since
breakfast. My gracious, what a tiresome thing it is to have a house
always up side down like ours. Just as if there was a somebody a being
buried or a being borned every day in the week! and all on account of
that man! Yes, I _will_ call him ‘that man,’ if I’m hashed for it!—that
man! that man! that man! there, now! And I don’t see no use no men ever
is, ’cept ’tis to make a fuss in the family! And I know as the Lord made
the wimmin; but I b’lieve in my heart and soul the debil made all the
men, jest to spile the Lord’s work! And I wish there wasn’t a man in the
world, ’cept ’tis _you_, Leo, and Cousin Charley, and daddy! So there,
now! And now why don’t you go ’bout your business and leave me room to
move ’round the range and get supper?”
Leo, with a certain sense of shame in belonging to that offending and
prescribed sex created by the devil for the confusion of the world,
gladly took himself out of the kitchen and went to keep his appointment
with his fellow sinner.
He found Mr. Richard Hammond in the little back parlor of the suburban
inn.
Dick was seated at a table; with writing materials, and also, alas! with
brandy, tobacco and pipes before him.
“Your mistress? I hope she is better?” exclaimed Dick, eagerly, on
seeing his messenger.
“Yes, sir; the wimmin, they have fetched her out’n her fainty fit all
right, and they have put her to sleep comfortable,” replied the boy.
“Thank Heaven!” exclaimed Dick.
“Well, sir, that is all I have to tell you; and now, as I may be missed,
I think I had better hurry back,” said Leo.
“Wait; here is a letter I wish you to take to your mistress.”
“Another one, sir?” inquired the boy, distrustfully.
“Yes; but _this_ letter is to prepare her for the receipt of the packet.
I wish you to give her _this_ letter _first_. And after she has read it,
hand her the packet.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And here is your reward,” said Mr. Hammond, putting a piece of gold in
the boy’s hand.
“If you please, sir, I don’t like to take any pay for serving of her,”
said Leo, hesitatingly.
“Nonsense! Take it for serving me, then,” laughed Dick, forcing the
money upon the youth.
Leo pocketed the fee, and hurried home.
It was quite dark when he reached the house.
All that night mammy sat up and watched by the bedside of her charge.
Drusilla slept soundly and late.
All dreaded her awakening. But to the surprise and relief of her
attendants, she awoke quite calmly; though whether her quietude was the
lethargy produced by the continued influence of the morphine, or whether
it was the apathy of despair, it was hard to tell. She permitted the
nurse to bathe her face and hands, and to smoothe her hair. She partook
slightly of the light breakfast that was brought her. But beyond these
she scarcely moved, looked or spoke. After an hour or two she intimated
that she would rise; and, with the assistance of her nurse, she got up,
dressed herself, and went to her easy chair. And there she sat, pale,
mute, and still as death.
“Mammy,” whispered Pina, “speak to her—make her talk. Indeed it scares
me all but to death to see her that away.”
“Hush,” muttered the nurse, “let her alone. ‘It’s ill waking sleeping
dogs’—which I mean to say, long as she’s quiet be thankful for it, and
don’t ’sturb her.”
“But I’d rather see her cry, and scream, and rave, than see her so.”
“That’s because you’s a fool; for I hadn’t, and that’s a fact, in her
sitivation, too! Go ’long gal; what you know?”
Meanwhile, Leo watched for an opportunity to execute the commission
entrusted to him. He did not find one until the afternoon, when mammy
and Pina being seated at their early dinner, sent Leo with an armful of
wood up to the lady’s chamber to replenish the fire.
When the boy had done that duty, swept up the hearth, and replaced the
shovel and tongs, he turned to where his mistress sat, in her chair,
pale, silent, and motionless as a statue, and he drew the letter from
his pocket, and offered her, saying, respectfully:
“From the gentleman who was here yesterday, ma’am.”
Drusilla mechanically took the letter, and stared blankly at the boy for
a moment.
“Where did you get this?” she inquired, as she broke the seal; and her
voice sounded strangely to her attendant as she asked the question.
“From the gentleman who was here yesterday, ma’am, as I said,” repeated
Leo.
“Is he here to-day?”
“No, ma’am.”
“When then did you get this?”
“Yesterday, ma’am, before he left the neighborhood,” answered the boy.
Drusilla read the letter. It was directed very formally to Mrs.
Alexander Lyon, Cedarwood Cottage. It ran thus:
DROVERS’ REST, Tuesday Evening.
MY DEAREST LADY.—As the executioner, kneeling, begs pardon of the
victim he is about to slay, so humbly at your feet I would implore
forgiveness for the blow I am fated to strike you, as well as for all
the pain I have already been forced to give you. But after having
stated some strange facts to you, I feel bound to prove the truth of
my statement. The bearer of this will also deliver to you certain
papers, to which I beg leave to call your particular attention. Your
own pure spirit will teach you how to act in the premises. And now, my
dear Mrs. Lyon, I can not close this letter without entreating you to
remember, and to take comfort in the remembrance, that in this great
trial of yours you are only the sufferer, not the sinner; that in the
judgment of all good and honorable people you will be held blameless.
And as for myself, here in all honesty of purpose, as in the sight of
Heaven, I offer you my utmost services. All that a brother might do
for a beloved sister, or a father for an idolized daughter in her
distress, I will do for you. I and all I possess shall be at your
commands; and my business and my pleasure shall at any time give way
to your requirements of me. A letter directed to me at the general
post-office, Washington, will always find me, where-ever I may be, and
always as Your respectful friend,
RICHARD HAMMOND.
Drusilla read this letter, and with a sigh, but without a syllable, she
laid it aside, and held out her hand to Leo, saying:
“Give me the other papers.”
The boy drew from his pocket the large, yellow envelope, and delivered
it to her.
She opened it and emptied out its contents. The first that caught her
eye was a newspaper with a marked passage in it. She took it up. It was
the _Valley Courier_, a little local journal published in the county
town near the county-seat of General Lyon. And the marked passage was as
follows:
MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE.—We understand that Alexander Lyon, Esq., of
Crow Wood, only son and heir of the late eminent Chief Justice of that
name, is about to lead to the hymeneal altar his cousin, the beautiful
and accomplished Anna, the grand-daughter and sole heiress of the
veteran General Lyon, of old Lyon Hall and of Revolutionary celebrity.
The engagement has been of long standing, the nuptials having been
twice arrested by the hand of death. Now however, we are happy to
learn that, both at Crow Wood, the seat of the bridegroom, and at Old
Lyon Hall, the home of the bride, the most splendid preparations are
on foot in honor of the joyful occasion.
Drusilla read this article and, without a word of comment, a movement of
feature, or a change of color, she put it down and took up a letter with
a broken seal. She unfolded and read it. It was from General Lyon to
Richard Hammond.
OLD LYON HALL, Nov. 1, 18—.
MY DEAR DICK:—Alick and Anna are to be married on Thursday, the
fifteenth instant. And now, my dear boy, I wish you, with your
accustomed frankness and good humor, to “let by-gones be by-gones,”
and to come down and be present at the wedding. I know it will be
painful to you; but brave men do not shrink from pain. And, Dick, you
know that there are but four of us left out of all the old stock—Dick,
Alick, Anna and me. I have long passed the threescore and ten years
allotted as the natural term of a man’s life, and so may daily look
for my summons hence. Dick, Alick and Anna seem to me as my own
children. Dick, you have never in your life pleased me with one single
sight of your face at Old Lyon Hall. I know why you have kept away, my
boy. But now I trust you will conquer your reluctance and come, rather
than grieve the soul of Your loving uncle,
LEONARD LYON.
Still without a syllable of complaint, or a variation of complexion, she
let this letter flutter down from her hand, and she raised the sole
remaining one.
This was a sealed envelope, directed to herself. She broke the seal and
found an old and closely written communication from General Lyon to
Richard Hammond, which it is unnecessary to give here at length. It was
very necessary, however, for Drusilla’s knowledge of the whole truth
that she should read every line of it. So at least thought Dick, and
therefore he had sent it to her with the others, but _sealed_, lest
other eyes should see its meaning. In this letter General Lyon spoke of
the long season in Washington during which himself, Alick, Anna and Dick
were always together. And thus Drusilla, for the first time, learned the
true nature of that “business connected with his late father’s will”
which had taken Alexander daily and nightly from her side. And now she
discovered the double-dealing and the deep dishonor of the man she
called her husband.
She dropped this last letter, and it fell at her feet. Her face turned
no paler, because in fact it was already as pale as it could possibly
be, and had not a vestige of color to lose.
She had already suffered so much, so much that it seemed impossible for
her to suffer more. Blow after blow had fallen with cruel weight upon
her young heart, until it seemed benumbed.
Besides, what had she learned now worse than that which she had known
and wept for many days—his treachery to her? Only through the numbness
of her heart and the dullness of her head, one feeling and one thought
clearly and strongly moved—that his marriage with Miss Lyon must be
arrested and he himself saved from this last culmination of his criminal
career.
The extremity of sorrow, when it does not destroy life or reason, always
strengthens the character. Such must have been its effect upon Drusilla
to enable her to rise above her misery and her weakness, with the fixed
determination to go in person to Old Lyon Hall, for the purpose of
preventing that “MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE” which the _Valley Courier_ had
announced to the world with such a grand flourish of editorial trumpets.