DRUSILLA’S DESTINATION.
One human hand my own to take,
One human heart my own to raise,
One loving human voice to break
The silence of my days.
Saviour, if this wild prayer be wrong
And what I seek I may not find,
Oh, make more hard, and stern, and strong
The frame-work of my mind!—OWEN MEREDITH.
Having finished reading all the letters and papers that had been
submitted to her examination, in proof of the perfidy of her husband,
Drusilla sat on, for a few moments, pale, still, and mute. She would not
weep now—the fountain of her tears was dry at last. She could scarcely
feel—her heart was stunned almost to insensibility.
Now she knew the very worst. Now she could not doubt that her husband
had deserted her and that he meditated the crime of marriage with his
cousin Anna.
Yes, the crime!
For, notwithstanding all that Richard Hammond had said and thought to
the contrary, she knew that she herself not only ought to have been, in
right—but really was, in fact—the true wife of Alexander Lyon; and that
it was but a slight legal informality, unsuspected by her and even by
him at the time of their marriage, of which he was now about to avail
himself in breaking the sacred bonds that bound him to his young wife,
in order to unite himself to his wealthy cousin. She knew that this
intended act would be a sin, and she feared that it might be construed
into a felony. There was an ugly word in the dictionary called “bigamy,”
and its penalty was uglier still—the state’s prison. To save Alexander
in his moral insanity, from such guilt and such degradation, she
resolved to go to Old Lyon Hall and stop the intended marriage, even
though the adventure should cost her her life.
“And the wedding is to be celebrated on the evening of the fifteenth,
and this is the morning of the fourteenth, and I have but little more
than twenty-four hours to do all that must be done to save him!” she
said, speaking her mind aloud, to the infinite surprise and alarm of
Leo, who was still standing before her and who now looked as if he
thought his mistress had gone crazy,—and “well she might,” he said to
himself, as he gazed on her where she sat with her hands clasped to her
temples.
Drusilla reflected intently for a few moments. There were several ways
of reaching Old Lyon Hall,—one was to go by steamer down the Potomac to
Chesapeake Bay and up James River to the Stormy Petrel landing, and then
by turnpike to the Porcupine Mountain; another was to take the railway
train from Alexandria to Richmond, and then the stage-coach across the
country. Both these routes were favored by the Lyon family when they had
leisure and were travelling for recreation. But both required two days
of travel.
Drusilla saw that she must take the third, which was the shortest if the
roughest route—the old line of stagecoaches running between Washington
city and Western Virginia. It is true this road was very dangerous,
especially at night. It crossed the Blue Ridge, the Shenandoah, and the
Alleghany mountains. It wound around terrible heights where there were
many hundred feet of perpendicular rock above and below, with little
width of way between. Once in a while you heard of a coach being crushed
by the fall of the rocks from above, or dashed to pieces by going over
the side of the precipice. Upon the whole this was not a favored route
with travellers who could avoid it. But Drusilla resolved to take it
because it was the shortest to her place of destination, and in less
than twenty-four hours it would take her to a little mountain hamlet
within ten miles of Old Lyon Hall. True, she might meet with an accident
on the road, but if she should lose her life she might serve Alick by
that means as well or better than by preventing his marriage with Anna,
since if she (Drusilla) were dead, that marriage would be no longer
criminal.
“Leo,” she inquired, looking up at the anxious boy, “what is the hour?”
Leo glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle-piece, and answered:
“It is nearly one, ma’am.”
“Do you know what time the night coach for Western Virginia leaves
Washington?”
“I don’t know what time it leaves Washington, ma’am, but it passes
through Alexandry at five.”
“Then it must start at about three or half-past. Leo! hurry down stairs;
tell your mother and Pina to come to me immediately. Then go to the
stable and put the horses to the carriage, and prepare yourself to drive
me to town, and be as quick as you possibly can; do you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the amazed boy, making his awkward bow, and going
on his errand.
Drusilla, with a marvellous new life in her system, arose and went to
her bureau drawers and began hastily to select certain indispensable
conveniences for her journey, and to pack them into a travelling bag.
Ah! at that moment, and under those circumstances what painful feelings
that pretty Turkey morocco bag awakened; for “sorrow’s crown of sorrow
is the memory of happier days.”
The bag had been given to her first, by old Mrs. Lyon, when that lady
had hoped to take her favorite down to old Lyon Hall to the wedding of
Alick and Anna. And well Drusilla remembered how much she was pleased
with the gift that combined beauty with utility; how much she admired
its construction, with its various pockets and recesses for the
reception of all sorts of travelling necessaries. But she never went
down to that wedding, which never took place, as you already know.
Next, nearly two years afterward, she had packed this very bag for her
journey to meet Alick and to be married to him, herself.
And now she was packing it to go and prevent his marriage with his
cousin. Truly, the little bag was associated with weddings for good or
ill.
While Drusilla was stowing away combs, brushes, soap, cologne, napkins,
handkerchiefs, chamber-slippers, etc., into her travelling bag, and
reflecting on all its happy and unhappy associations, she was
interrupted by the hasty entrance of Pina and Pina’s mammy, both with
their eyes wide open in astonishment; for Leo had startled them both
with the announcement that his mistress had ordered the carriage quite
suddenly to go the city.
“And now, ma’am, what is all this, to be sure?” inquired “mammy,” with
the authority, not to say the insolence, belonging even to the best of
her sisterhood.
“What is what, nurse?” questioned Drusilla, with calm dignity.
“That boy—which I believe he’s lying, and if he is I will chastise him
well for it—says how you has ordered the carriage to go to Washington
immediate; which I know, ma’am, you would never think of doing nothing
so unprudent; and I’ll give it to Leo well for scaring of me with his
lies.”
“Leo has told you no falsehood. I have ordered the carriage to take me
to the city,” said Drusilla, calmly.
“Well, ma’am, I hope you’ll follow my ’vice and think better of it, and
do no such undiscreet thing,” said mammy, grimly.
“I have no choice, nurse. This is not with me a matter of will, but of
necessity. I must go to Washington to take the night coach for Western
Virginia.”
At this announcement, mammy stared for a moment in speechless
consternation. Then lifting both her hands, she exclaimed:
“To take the night coach for Wes’ Wirginy! Well, Lord! And is you
crazy?”
“No, not crazy; though I know how strange my purpose must seem to you,”
answered Drusilla, quietly, as she folded some white linen collars, and
placed them in her bag.
“And DOES you know the dangers?”
“Of the road? Well, I recollect that there was a coach upset on the
Hogback Mountain, and nine passengers killed or wounded, only last
spring.”
“I don’t mean the road, though that’s as bad as bad can be, to my
sartain knowledge, which has travelled of it once. I mean your
siteration, there! do you know the dangers of _that_, a bumping and a
thumping, and a tumbling and a rumbling over them rocky roads? I say, do
you know the dangers of _that_?”
“No, I don’t, nurse; I only know that whatever they are, I must face
them,” said Drusilla, so calmly and so firmly, that the old woman knew
at once that it would be utterly vain to try to turn her from her
purpose.
“But, for goodness sake, _why_ must you go?”
“From imminent necessity, nurse, that I can’t stop now to explain. I
wish you to be kind enough to pack up under clothing and other
necessaries enough to last me a week. Pina, empty the little red trunk
and bring it here to nurse.”
“But, for patience’s sake, whar is you going, child?”
“I am going to see my husband.”
“You are going to your death!”
“Perhaps. If so, I shall serve him just as well,” murmured Drusilla, in
a low tone.
“But, child, tell me, what’s the great ’cessity? What for must you go to
see your husband sich a long distance over sich roads in your
siteration, and to the rist of your life?”
“He is—in imminent danger,” said Drusilla, evasively.
“Lor! and that was the bad news as that gentleman brought you?”
“Yes, it was.”
“And it overcomed you so! Well, Lord! to think of the tender heart! But
what is the matter of him, honey?—pleurisy, I shouldn’t wonder! That’s
most in general what ails people this time of the year. Is it pleurisy,
honey?”
“No, not that; but do not stop now to ask questions. I have no time to
answer them. Here is Pina with the trunk. And here are my keys. Go to my
wardrobes and bureaus, and select what is needful for my journey. And
pray be quick about it, for I have no time to lose.”
“Well, but honey, hear me for one minute first. It may be that he is
very ill, but he may get over it, ’out your gwine to see him. Yes, and
if you go, he may get well and you may die. And anyway, I don’t see the
use of two lives and maybe three lives risted instead of one. Take my
’vice, honey, and stay quietly at home.”
“Nurse, listen. I should suffer a thousand times more in _mind_ to stay
here, than I possibly could to go the journey that I have fully resolved
to take,” said Drusilla.
“Well, honey, in either case your life must be risted, I suppose; and of
course you have got a right to take your choice _how_ it shall be
risted. So now, all I got to do is to make your journey as comfor’ble as
I can.”
“Thank you. That is indeed all that you can do,” said Drusilla.
“But mind, honey, _I gwine long with you_,” said mammy, with grim
resolution.
“You? You going, nurse? I have not asked you!” exclaimed Drusilla, in
astonishment.
“No, honey, you haven’t axed me; which I believe you never even thought
of so doing. But if you must travel—by night, too—surely you’d never
think of travelling alone in your state of health.”
“That is true—I never thought of it.”
“Which it seems to me you never do think of yourself, honey.”
“But it is a hard journey for you to undertake. Would not Pina do as
well to go with me?”
“Hi, honey, what good Pina going to be, case you taken ill on the road?
No, child, long as you _will_ go, you must consent to take the ole ’oman
along to look after you.”
“I believe you are right; quite right; and I thank you very much. But
now you must let Pina pack that little trunk for me, while you go and
get ready to attend me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And be very quick, nurse. See, it is half-past one. It will take us an
hour to ride to Washington, and I wish to be there by three o’clock, so
as to make sure of the coach.”
“All right, ma’am. I will be ready in half an hour.”
And the old woman hurried away, not ill pleased to vary the monotony of
her life at Cedarwood by a journey, this fine weather, into the
mountainous regions of Virginia. It is true that this was a measure she
would not have recommended to her patient; but, since that lady was
resolved upon it, “mammy” made the best of it, and determined to draw
what good she might out of the change of scene and circumstances.
In just ten minutes mammy returned to the room, dressed for her journey,
and equipped with a carpet bag that contained all her travelling
belongings.
“You have been very quick,” said Drusilla, approvingly.
“Yes, honey; which it is my pride and ambition always so to be. I had
half an hour; that’s thirty minutes—three times ten. The first ten
minutes I gives to getting myself ready. Now, the next ten minutes I
gives to something else,” said mammy, speaking hastily, and, _while_
speaking, drawing from a closet a small red morocco trunk, which she
proceeded to pack with a full supply of body linen and all the
necessaries of a baby’s first toilet, setting the baby’s basket in the
tray in the top of the trunk.
“What is all that for?” inquired Drusilla, who was busy hooking up her
travelling dress.
“Never you mind, honey. You go on a fixing of yourself, and leave me
alone. And there, the second ten minutes is up!” said the old woman, as
she fastened down and locked the trunk.
“But what is that for?” persisted Drusilla.
“Lor’, honey, does you forget? There’s three of us going this journey.
And that trunk is for the third one. And now I have got only the last
ten minutes left, and I must give that to something else still,” said
mammy, as she flew down stairs.
Meanwhile Drusilla, while putting on her cloak, bonnet and gloves, gave
Pina many charges about the care of the house, the birds, the dogs, and
all the pets of the establishment, which would be in her charge during
the absence of the mistress.
And Pina promised the utmost fidelity; but begged her lady to order Leo
to sleep in the house, because she, Pina, would be afraid to sleep there
alone.
Drusilla had but just promised this, when “mammy” reappeared with a
large and well-filled luncheon basket.
“How thoughtful you are. And how thankful I ought to be that I have you
to think for me and to take care of me at this crisis,” said Drusilla,
with feeling.
“Lor, honey, what’s the use of my having lived fifty year in this world
if I _aint_ thoughtful? And what call you to be thankful to me, for
doing of that which it is my bounden duty to do, seeing I’m paid for
it?” replied mammy, laughing, for her spirits were rising with the
excitement of the journey before her.
“Ah, nurse, there are some services that cannot be purchased or paid
for, and yours are of that sort.”
“Not a bit, honey. And now the time is up and we’s all ready. And here’s
everything you can possibly want. And Leo, he told me to tell you as the
carriage was waiting.”
“Thank you; we will go then.”
“Yes, honey.——And, now, Pina, you be good gal and take care of the house
while your missus is gone,” said the nurse, turning to her daughter.
“Yes, mammy. When will missus be home?”
“When you sees her, you fool; and not a minute sooner. And mind you have
everything ready for her when she comes; fire made in her room and all;
mind that, or it will be the worse for you.”
“Yes, mammy.”
Drusilla gave a last glance around the room, so full of pleasing and
painful memories—the room which she felt she might never see again; and
then, silently commending herself to Providence, she left it and led the
way down stairs.
The carriage stood ready; the luggage was piled on behind. Leo had the
door open and the steps down. Drusilla entered, followed by her nurse.
Both took a kind last leave of Pina, who thrust her head and hands in at
the window for the purpose. And Leo cracked his whip and started his
horses.