CHAPTER XXXIII.THE WANDERER.Fiercely the noontide blaze of a scorching July sun was falling upon the huge walls of the “Laurel Hill Sun,” where a group of idlers were lounging on the long, narrow piazza, some niching into still more grotesque carving the rude, unpainted railing, while others, half reclining on one elbow, shaded their eyes with their old slouch hats, as they gazed wistfully toward the long hill, eager to catch the first sight of the daily stage which was momentarily expected.“Jerry is late, to-day—but it’s so plaguy hot he’s favorin’ his hosses, I guess,” said the rosy-faced landlord, with that peculiar intonation which stamped him at once a genuine Yankee.“A watched pot never biles,” muttered one of the loungers, who regularly for fifteen years had been at his post, waiting for the stage, which during all that time had brought him neither letter, message, friend, nor foe.But force of habit is everything, and after the very wise saying recorded above, he resumed his whittling, never again looking up until the loud blast of the driver’s horn was heard on the distant hill-top, where the four weary, jaded horses were now visible. It was the driver’s usual custom to blow his horn from the moment he appeared on the hill, until with a grand flourish he reined his panting steeds before the door of the inn. But this time there was one sharp, shrill sound, and then all was still, the omission eliciting several remarks not very complimentary to the weather, which was probably the cause of “Jerry’s” unwonted silence. Very slowly the vehicle came on, the horses never leaving a walk, and the idler of fifteen years’ standing, who for a time had suspended his whittling, “wondered what was to pay.”A nearer approach revealed three or four male passengers, all occupied with a young lady, who, on the back seat, was carefully supported by one of her companions.“A sick gal, I guess. Wonder if the disease is catchin’?” said the whittler, standing back several paces and looking over the heads of the others, who crowded forward as the stage came up. The loud greeting of the noisy group was answered by Jerry with a low “sh—sh,” as he pointed significantly at the slight form which two of the gentlemen were lifting from the coach, asking at the same time if there were a physician near.“What’s the matter on her? Hain’t got the cholery, has she,” said the landlord, who, having hallooed to his wife to “fetch up her vittles,” now appeared on the piazza ready to welcome his guests.At the first mention of cholera, the fifteen years’ man vamosed, retreating across the road, and seating himself on the fence under the shadow of the locust trees.“Who is she, Jerry?” asked the younger of the set, gazing curiously upon the white, beautiful face of the stranger, who had been laid upon the lounge in the common sitting-room.“Lord only knows,” said Jerry, wiping the heavy drops of sweat from his good-humored face; “I found her at the hotel in Livony. She came there in the cars, and said she wanted to go over to ’tother railroad. She was so weak that I had to lift her into the stage as I would a baby, and she ain’t much heavier. You orto seen how sweet she smiled when she thanked me, and asked me not to drive very fast, it made her head ache so. Zounds, I wouldn’t of trotted the horses if I’d never got here. Jest after we started she fainted, and she’s been kinder talkin’ strange like ever since. Some of the gentlemen thought I’d better leave her back a piece at Brown’s tavern, but I wanted to fetch her here, where Aunt Betsy could nuss her up, and then I can kinder tend to her myself, you know.”This last remark called forth no answering joke, for Jerry’s companions all knew his kindly nature, and it was no wonder to them that his sympathies were so strongly enlisted for the fair girl thus thrown upon his protection. It was a big, noble heart over which Jerry Langley buttoned his driver’s coat, and when the physician who had arrived pronounced the lady too ill to proceed any further, he called aside the fidgety landlord, whose peculiarities he well knew, and bade him “not to fret and stew, for if the gal hadn’t money, Jerry Langley was good for a longer time than she would live, poor critter;” and he wiped a tear away, glancing, the while, at the burying-ground which lay just across the garden, and thinking how if she died, her grave should be beneath the wide-spreading oak, where often in the summer nights he sat, counting the head-stones which marked the last resting place of the slumbering host, and wondering if death were, as some had said, a long, eternal sleep.Aunt Betsey, of whom he had spoken, was the landlady, a little dumpy, pleasant-faced, active woman, equally in her element bending over the steaming gridiron, or smoothing the pillows of the sick-bed, where her powers of nursing had won golden laurels from Others than Jerry Langley. When the news was brought to the kitchen that among the passengers was a sick girl, who was to be left, her first thought, natural to everybody, was, “What shall I do ?” while the second, natural to her, was, “Take care of her, of course.”Accordingly, when the dinner was upon the table, she laid aside her broad check apron, substituting in its place a half-worn silk, for Jerry had reported the invalid to be “every inch a lady;” then smoothing her soft, silvery hair with her fat, rosy hands, she repaired to the sitting-room, where she found the driver watching his charge, from whom he kept the buzzing flies by means of his bandana, which he waved to and fro with untiring patience.“Handsome as a London doll,” was her first exclamation, adding, “but I should think she’d be awful hot with them curls, dangling’ in her neck! If she’s goin’ to be sick they’d better be cut off!”If there was any one thing for which Aunt Betsey Aldergrass possessed a particular passion, it was forhair-cutting, she being barber general for Laurel Hill, which numbered about thirty houses, store and church inclusive, and now when she saw the shining tresses which lay in such profusion upon the pillow, her fingers tingled to their very tips, while she involuntarily felt for her scissors! Very reverentially, as if it were almost sacrilege, Jerry’s broad palm was laid protectingly upon the clustering ringlets, while he said, “No, Aunt Betsey, if she dies for’t, you shan’t touch one of them; ’twould spile her hair, she looks so pretty.”Slowly the long, fringed lids unclosed, and the brown eyes looked up so gratefully at Jerry, that he beat a precipitate retreat, muttering to himself that “he never could stand the gals, anyway, they made his heart thump so!”“Am I very sick, and can’t I go on?” asked the young lady, attempting to rise, but sinking back from extreme weakness.“Considerable sick, I guess,” answered the landlady, taking from a side cupboard an immense decanter of camphor, and passing it toward the stranger. “Considerable sick, and I wouldn’t wonder if you had to lay by a day or so. Will they be consarned about you to home, ’cause if they be, my old man’ll write.”“I have no home,” was the sad answer, to which Aunt Betsey responded in astonishment, “Hain’t no home! Where does your marm live?”“Mother is dead,” said the girl, her tears dropping fast upon the pillow.Instinctively the landlady drew nearer to her, as she asked, “And your pa—where is he?”“I never saw him,” said the girl, while her interrogator continued: “Never saw your pa, and your marm is dead—poor child, what is your name, and where did you come from?”For a moment the stranger hesitated, and then thinking it better to tell the truth at once, she replied, “My name is ’Lena. I lived with my uncle a great many miles from here, but I wasn’t happy. They did not want me there, and I ran away. I am going to my cousin, but I’d rather not tell where, so you will please not ask me.”There was something in her manner which silenced Aunt Betsey, who, erelong, proposed that she should go upstairs and lie down on a nice little bed, where she would be more quiet. But ’Lena refused, saying she should feel better soon.“Mebby, then, you’d eat a mouffle or two. We’ve got some roasted pork, and Hetty’ll warm over the gravy;” but ’Lena’s stomach rebelled at the very thought, seeing which, the landlady went back to the kitchen, where she soon prepared a bowl of gruel, in spite of the discouraging remarks of her husband, who, being a little after theOld Hunksorder, cautioned her “not to fuss too much, as gals that run away warn’t apt to be plagued with money”Fortunately, Aunt Betsey’s heart covered a broader sphere, and the moment the stage was gone she closed the door to shut out the dust, dropped the green curtains, and drawing from the spare-room a large, stuffed chair, bade ’Lena “see if she couldn’t set up a minit.” But this was impossible, and all that long, sultry afternoon she lay upon the lounge, holding her aching head, which seemed well-nigh bursting with its weight of pain and thought. “Was it right for her to run away? Ought she not to have stayed and bravely met the worst? Suppose she were to die there alone, among strangers and without money, for her scanty purse was well-nigh drained.” These and similar reflections crowded upon her, until her brain grew wild and dizzy, and when at sunset the physician came again he was surprised to find how much her fever had increased.“She ought not to lie here,” said he, as he saw how the loud shouts of the school-boys made her shudder. “Isn’t there some place where she can be more quiet?”At the head of the stairs was a small room, containing a single bed and a window, which last looked out upon the garden and the graveyard beyond. Its furniture was of the plainest kind, it being reserved for more common travelers, and here the landlord said ’Lena must be taken. His wife would far rather have given her the front chamber, which was large, airy and light, but Uncle Tim Aldergrass said “No,” squealing out through his little peaked nose that “’twarn’t an atom likely he’d ever more’n half git his pay, anyway, and he warn’t a goin’ to give up the hull house.”“How much more will it be if she has the best chamber,” asked Jerry, pulling at Uncle Tim’s coattail and leading him aside. “How much will it be, ’cause if ’taint too much, she shan’t stay in that eight by nine pen.”“A dollar a week, and cheap at that,” muttered Uncle Tim, while Jerry, going out behind the wood-house, counted over his funds, sighing as he found them quite too small to meet the extra, dollar per week, should she long continue ill.“If I hadn’t of fooled so much away for tobacker and things, I shouldn’t be so plaguy poor now,” thought he, forgetting the many hearts which his hard-earned gains had made glad, for no one ever appealed in vain for help from Jerry Langley, who represented one class of Yankees, while Timothy Aldergrass represented another.The next morning just as daylight was beginning to be visible, Jerry knocked softly at Aunt Betsey’s door, telling her that for more than an hour he’d heard the young lady takin’ on, and he guessed she was worse. Hastily throwing on her loose gown Aunt Betsey repaired to ’Lena’s room, where she found her sitting up in the bed, moaning, talking, and whispering, while the wild expression of her eyes betokened a disordered brain.“The Lord help us! she’s crazy as a loon. Run for the doctor, quick!” exclaimed Mrs. Aldergrass, and without boot or shoe, Jerry ran off in his stocking-feet, alarming the physician, who immediately hastened to the inn, pronouncing ’Lena’s disease to be brain fever, as he had at first feared.Rapidly she grew worse, talking of her home, which was sometimes in Kentucky and sometimes in Massachusetts, where she said they had buried her mother. At other times she would ask Aunt Betsey to send for Durward when she was dead, and tell him how innocent she was.“Didn’t I tell you there was something wrong?” Uncle Timothy would squeak. “Nobody knows who we are harborin’ nor how much ’twill damage the house.”But as day after day went by, and ’Lena’s fever raged more fiercely, even Uncle Tim relented, and when she would beg of them to take her home and bury her by the side of Mabel, where Durward could see her grave, he would sigh, “Poor critter, I wish you was to home,” but whether this wish was prompted by a sincere desire to please ’Lena, or from a more selfish motive, we are unable to state. One morning, the fifth of ’Lena’s illness, she seemed much worse, talking incessantly and tossing from side to side, her long hair floating in wild disorder over her pillow, or streaming down her shoulders. Hitherto Aunt Betsey had restrained herbarbericdesire, each day arranging the heavy locks, and tucking them under the muslin cap, where they refused to stay. Once the doctor himself had suggested the propriety of cutting them away, adding, though, that they would wait awhile, as it was a pity to lose them.“Better be cut off than yanked off,” said Aunt Betsey, on the morning when ’Lena in her frenzy would occasionally tear out handfulls of her shining hair and scatter it over the floor.Satisfied that she was doing right, she carefully approached the bedside, and taking one of the curls in her hand, was about to sever it, when ’Lena, divining her intentions, sprang up, and gathering up her hair, exclaimed, “No, no, not these; take everything else, but leave me my curls. Durward thought they were beautiful, and I cannot lose them.”At the side door below, the noonday stage was unloading its passengers, and as the tones of their voices came in at the open window, ’Lena suddenly grew calmer, and assuming a listening attitude, whispered, “Hark! He’s come. Don’t you hear him?”But Aunt Betsey heard nothing, except her husband calling her to come down, and leaving ’Lena, who had almost instantly become quiet, to the care of a neighbor, she started for the kitchen, meeting in the lower hall with Hetty, who was showing one of the passengers to a room where he could wash and refresh himself after his dusty ride. As they passed each other, Hetty asked, “Have you clipped her curls?”“No,” answered Mrs. Aldergrass, “she wouldn’t let me touch ’em, for she said that Durward, whom she talks so much about, liked ’em, and they mustn’t be cut off.”Instantly the stranger, whose elegant appearance both Hetty and her mistress had been admiring, stopped, and turning to the latter, said, “Of whom are you speaking?”“Of a young girl that came in the stage, sick, five or six days ago,” answered Mrs. Aldergrass.“What is her name, and where does she live?” continued the stranger.“She calls herself ’Lena, but the ’tother name I don’t know, and I guess she lives in Kentucky or Massachusetts.”The young man waited to hear no more, but mechanically followed Hetty to his room, starting and turning pale as a wild, unnatural laugh fell on his ear.“It is the young lady, sir,” said Hetty, observing his agitated manner. “She raves most all the time, and the doctor says she’ll die if she don’t stop.”The gentleman nodded, and the next moment he was as he wished to be, alone. He had found her then—his lost ’Lena—sick, perhaps dying, and his heart gave one agonized throb as he thought, “What if she should die? Yet why should I wish her to live?” he asked, “when she is as surely lost to me as if she were indeed resting in her grave!”And still, reason as he would, a something told him that all would yet be well, else, perhaps, he had never followed her. Believing she would stop at Mr. Everett’s, he had come on thus far, finding her where he least expected it, and spite of his fears, there was much of pleasure mingled with his pain as he thought how he would protect and care for her, ministering to her comfort, and softening, as far as possible, the disagreeable things which he saw must necessarily surround her. Money, he knew, would purchase almost everything, and if ever Durward Bellmont felt glad that he was rich, it was when he found ’Lena Rivers sick and alone at the not very comfortable inn of Laurel Hill.As he was entering the dining-room, he saw Jerry—whose long, lank figure and original manner had afforded him much amusement during his ride—handing a dozen or more oranges to Mrs. Aldergrass, saying, as he did so, “They are for Miss ’Lena. I thought mebby they’d taste good, this hot weather, and I ransacked the hull town to find the nicest and best.”For a moment Durward’s cheek flushed at the idea of Lena’s being cared for by such as Jerry, but the next instant his heart grew warm toward the uncouth driver who, without any possible motive save the promptings of his own kindly nature, had thus thought of the stranger girl. Erelong the stage was announced as ready and waiting, but to the surprise and regret of his fellow-passengers, who had found him a most agreeable traveling companion, Durward said he was not going any further that day.“A new streak, ain’t it?” asked Jerry, who knew he was booked for the entire route; but the young man made no reply, and the fresh, spirited horses soon bore the lumbering vehicle far out of sight, leaving him to watch the cloud of dust which it carried in its train.Uncle Timothy was in his element, for it was not often that a guest of Durward’s appearance honored his house with more than a passing call, and with the familiarity so common to a country landlord, he slapped him on the shoulder, telling him “there was the tallest kind of fish in the Honeoye,” whose waters, through the thick foliage of the trees were just discernible, sparkling and gleaming in the bright sunlight.“I never fish, thank you, sir,” answered Durward, while the good-natured landlord continued: “Now you don’t say it! Hunt, then, mebby?”“Occasionally,” said Durward, adding, “But my reason for stopping here is of entirely a different nature. I hear there is with you a sick lady. She is a friend of mine, and I am staying to see that she is well attended to.”“Yes, yes,” said Uncle Timothy, suddenly changing his opinion of ’Lena, whose want of money had made him sadly suspicious of her. “Yes, yes, a fine gal; fell into good hands, too, for my old woman is the greatest kind of a nuss. Want to see her, don’t you?—the lady I mean.”“Not just yet; I would like a few moments’ conversation with your wife first,” answered Durward.Greatly frustrated when she learned that the stylish looking gentleman wished to talk with her, Aunt Betsey rubbed her shining face with flour, and donning another cap, repaired to the sitting-room, where she commenced making excuses about herself, the house, and everything else, saying, “’twant what he was used to, she knew, but she hoped he’d try to put up with it.”As soon as he was able to get in a word, Durward proceeded to ask her every particular concerning ’Lena’s illness, and whether she would probably recognize him should he venture into her presence,“Bless your dear heart, no. She hain’t known a soul on us these three days. Sometimes she calls me ‘grandmother,’ and says when she’s dead I’ll know she’s innocent. ’Pears Like somebody has been slanderin’ her, for she begs and pleads with Durward, as she calls him, not to believe it. Ain’t you the one she means?”Durward nodded, and Mrs. Aldergrass continued:“I thought so, for when the stage driv up she was standin’ straight in the bed, ravin’ and screechin’, but the minit she heard your voice she dropped down, and has been as quiet ever since. Will you go up now?”Durward signified his willingness, and following his landlady, he soon stood in the close, pent-up room where, in an uneasy slumber, ’Lena lay panting for breath, and at intervals faintly moaning in her sleep. She had fearfully changed since last he saw her, and with a groan, he bent over her, murmuring, “My poor ’Lena,” while he gently laid his cool, moist hand upon her burning brow. As if there were something soothing in its touch, she quickly placed her little hot, parched hand on his, whispering, “Keep it there. It will make me well.”For a long time he sat by her, bathing her head and carefully removing from her face and neck the thick curls which Mrs. Aldergrass had thought to cut away. At last she awoke, but Durward shrank almost in fear from the wild, bright eyes which gazed so fixedly upon him, for in them was no ray of reason. She called him “John” blessing him for coming, and saying, “Did you tell Durward. Doesheknow?”“I am Durward,” said he. “Don’t you recognize me? Look again.”“No, no,” she answered, with a mocking laugh, which made him shudder, it was so unlike the merry, ringing tones he had once loved to hear. “No, no, you are not Durward. He would not look at me as you do. He thinks me guilty.”It was in vain Durward strove to convince her of his identity. She would only answer with a laugh, which grated so harshly on his ear that he finally desisted, and suffered her to think he was her cousin. The smallness of her chamber troubled him, and when Mrs. Aldergrass came up he asked if there was no other apartment where ’Lena would be more comfortable.“Of course there is,” said Aunt Betsy. “There’s the best chamber I was goin’ to give to you.”“Never mind me,” said he. “Let her have every comfort the house affords, and you shall be amply paid.”Uncle Timothy had now no objection to the offer, and the large, airy room with its snowy, draped bed was soon in readiness for the sufferer, who, in one of her wayward moods, absolutely refused to be moved. It was in vain that Aunt Betsey plead, persuaded, and threatened, and at last in despair Durward was called in to try his powers of persuasion.“That’s something more like it,” said ’Lena, and when he urged upon her the necessity of her removal, she asked, “Will you go with me?”“Certainly,” said he.“And stay with me?”“Certainly.”“Then I’ll go,” she continued, stretching her arms toward him as a child toward its mother.A moment more and she was reclining on the soft downy pillows, the special pride of Mrs. Aldergrass, who bustled in and out, while her husband, ashamed of his stinginess, said “they should of moved her afore, only ’twas a bad sign.”During the remainder of the day she seemed more quiet, talking incessantly, it is true, but never raving if Durward were near. It is strange what power he had over her, a word from him sufficing at any time to subdue her when in her most violent fits of frenzy. For two days and nights he watched by her side, never giving himself a moment’s rest, while the neighbors looked on, surmising and commenting as people always will. Every delicacy of the season, however costly, was purchased for her comfort, while each morning the flowers which he knew she loved the best were freshly gathered from the different gardens of Laurel Hill, and in broken pitchers, cracked tumblers, and nicked saucers, adorned the room.At the close of the third day she fell into a heavy slumber, and Durward, worn out and weary, retired to take the rest he so much needed. For a long time ’Lena slept, watched by the physician, who, knowing that the crisis had arrived, waited anxiously for her waking, which came at last, bringing with it the light of returning reason. Dreamily she gazed about the room, and in a voice no longer strong with the excitement of delirium, asked, “Where am I, and how came I here?”In a few words the physician explained all that was necessary for her to know, and then going for Mrs. Aldergrass, told her of the favorable change in his patient, adding that a sudden shock might still prove fatal. “Therefore,” said he, “though I know not in what relation this Mr. Bellmont stands to her, I think it advisable for her to remain awhile in ignorance of his presence. It is of the utmost consequence that she be kept quiet for a few days, at the end of which time she can see him.”All this Aunt Betsey communicated to Durward, who unwilling to do anything which would endanger ’Lena’s safety, kept himself aloof, treading softly and speaking low, for as if her hearing were sharpened by disease she more than once, when he was talking in the hall below, started up, listening eagerly; then, as if satisfied that she had been deceived, she would resume her position, while the flush on her cheek deepened as she thought, “Oh, what if it had indeed been he!”Nearly all the day long he sat just without the door, holding his breath as he caught the faint tones of her voice, and longing for the hour when he could see her, and obtain, if possible, some clue to the mystery attending her and his father. His mother’s words, together with what he had heard ’Lena say in her ravings, had tended to convince him thatshe, at least, might be innocent, and once assured of this, he felt that he would gladly fold her to his bosom, and cherish her there as the choicest of heaven’s blessings. All this time ’Lena had no suspicion of his presence, but she wondered at the many luxuries which surrounded her, and once, when Mrs. Aldergrass offered her some choice wine, she asked who it was that supplied her with so many comforts. Aunt Betsey’s, forte did not lay in keeping a secret, and rather evasively she replied, “You mustn’t ask me too many questions just yet!”’Lena’s suspicions were at once aroused, and for more than an hour she lay thinking—trying to recall something which seamed to her like a dream. At last calling Aunt Betsey to her, she said, “There was somebody here while I was so sick—somebody besides strangers—somebody that stayed with me all the time—who was it?”“Nobody, nobody—I mustn’t tell,” said Mrs. Aldergrass, hurriedly, while ’Lena continued, “Was it Cousin John?”“No, no; don’t guess any more,” was Mrs. Aldergrass’s reply, and ’Lena, clasping her hands together, exclaimed, “Oh, could it he be?”The words reached Durward’s ear, and nothing but a sense of the harm it might do prevented him from going at once to her bedside. That night, at his earnest request, the physician gave him permission to see her in the morning, and Mrs. Aldergrass was commissioned to prepare her for the interview. ’Lena did not ask who it was; she felt that she knew; and the knowledge that he was there—that he had cared for her—operated upon her like a spell, soothing her into the most refreshing slumber she had experienced for many a weary week. With the sun-rising she was awake, but Mrs. Aldergrass, who came in soon after, told her that the visitor was not to be admitted until about ten, as she would by that time have become more composed, and be the better able to endure the excitement of the interview. A natural delicacy prevented ’Lena from objecting to the delay, and, as calmly as possible, she watched Mrs. Aldergrass while she put the room to rights, and then patiently submitted to the arranging of her curls, which during her illness had become matted and tangled. Before eight everything was in readiness, and soon after, worn out by her own exertions, ’Lena again fell asleep.“How lovely she looks,” thought Mrs. Aldergrass. “He shall just have a peep at her,” and stepping to the door she beckoned Durward to her side.Never before had ’Lena, seemed so beautiful to him, and as he looked upon her, he felt his doubts removing, one by one. She was innocent—it could not be otherwise—and very impatiently he awaited the lapse of the two hours which must pass ere he could see her, face to face. At length, as the surest way of killing time, he started out for a walk in a pleasant wood, which skirted the foot of Laurel Hill.Here for a time we leave him, while in another chapter we speak of an event which, in the natural order of things, should here be narrated.
Fiercely the noontide blaze of a scorching July sun was falling upon the huge walls of the “Laurel Hill Sun,” where a group of idlers were lounging on the long, narrow piazza, some niching into still more grotesque carving the rude, unpainted railing, while others, half reclining on one elbow, shaded their eyes with their old slouch hats, as they gazed wistfully toward the long hill, eager to catch the first sight of the daily stage which was momentarily expected.
“Jerry is late, to-day—but it’s so plaguy hot he’s favorin’ his hosses, I guess,” said the rosy-faced landlord, with that peculiar intonation which stamped him at once a genuine Yankee.
“A watched pot never biles,” muttered one of the loungers, who regularly for fifteen years had been at his post, waiting for the stage, which during all that time had brought him neither letter, message, friend, nor foe.
But force of habit is everything, and after the very wise saying recorded above, he resumed his whittling, never again looking up until the loud blast of the driver’s horn was heard on the distant hill-top, where the four weary, jaded horses were now visible. It was the driver’s usual custom to blow his horn from the moment he appeared on the hill, until with a grand flourish he reined his panting steeds before the door of the inn. But this time there was one sharp, shrill sound, and then all was still, the omission eliciting several remarks not very complimentary to the weather, which was probably the cause of “Jerry’s” unwonted silence. Very slowly the vehicle came on, the horses never leaving a walk, and the idler of fifteen years’ standing, who for a time had suspended his whittling, “wondered what was to pay.”
A nearer approach revealed three or four male passengers, all occupied with a young lady, who, on the back seat, was carefully supported by one of her companions.
“A sick gal, I guess. Wonder if the disease is catchin’?” said the whittler, standing back several paces and looking over the heads of the others, who crowded forward as the stage came up. The loud greeting of the noisy group was answered by Jerry with a low “sh—sh,” as he pointed significantly at the slight form which two of the gentlemen were lifting from the coach, asking at the same time if there were a physician near.
“What’s the matter on her? Hain’t got the cholery, has she,” said the landlord, who, having hallooed to his wife to “fetch up her vittles,” now appeared on the piazza ready to welcome his guests.
At the first mention of cholera, the fifteen years’ man vamosed, retreating across the road, and seating himself on the fence under the shadow of the locust trees.
“Who is she, Jerry?” asked the younger of the set, gazing curiously upon the white, beautiful face of the stranger, who had been laid upon the lounge in the common sitting-room.
“Lord only knows,” said Jerry, wiping the heavy drops of sweat from his good-humored face; “I found her at the hotel in Livony. She came there in the cars, and said she wanted to go over to ’tother railroad. She was so weak that I had to lift her into the stage as I would a baby, and she ain’t much heavier. You orto seen how sweet she smiled when she thanked me, and asked me not to drive very fast, it made her head ache so. Zounds, I wouldn’t of trotted the horses if I’d never got here. Jest after we started she fainted, and she’s been kinder talkin’ strange like ever since. Some of the gentlemen thought I’d better leave her back a piece at Brown’s tavern, but I wanted to fetch her here, where Aunt Betsy could nuss her up, and then I can kinder tend to her myself, you know.”
This last remark called forth no answering joke, for Jerry’s companions all knew his kindly nature, and it was no wonder to them that his sympathies were so strongly enlisted for the fair girl thus thrown upon his protection. It was a big, noble heart over which Jerry Langley buttoned his driver’s coat, and when the physician who had arrived pronounced the lady too ill to proceed any further, he called aside the fidgety landlord, whose peculiarities he well knew, and bade him “not to fret and stew, for if the gal hadn’t money, Jerry Langley was good for a longer time than she would live, poor critter;” and he wiped a tear away, glancing, the while, at the burying-ground which lay just across the garden, and thinking how if she died, her grave should be beneath the wide-spreading oak, where often in the summer nights he sat, counting the head-stones which marked the last resting place of the slumbering host, and wondering if death were, as some had said, a long, eternal sleep.
Aunt Betsey, of whom he had spoken, was the landlady, a little dumpy, pleasant-faced, active woman, equally in her element bending over the steaming gridiron, or smoothing the pillows of the sick-bed, where her powers of nursing had won golden laurels from Others than Jerry Langley. When the news was brought to the kitchen that among the passengers was a sick girl, who was to be left, her first thought, natural to everybody, was, “What shall I do ?” while the second, natural to her, was, “Take care of her, of course.”
Accordingly, when the dinner was upon the table, she laid aside her broad check apron, substituting in its place a half-worn silk, for Jerry had reported the invalid to be “every inch a lady;” then smoothing her soft, silvery hair with her fat, rosy hands, she repaired to the sitting-room, where she found the driver watching his charge, from whom he kept the buzzing flies by means of his bandana, which he waved to and fro with untiring patience.
“Handsome as a London doll,” was her first exclamation, adding, “but I should think she’d be awful hot with them curls, dangling’ in her neck! If she’s goin’ to be sick they’d better be cut off!”
If there was any one thing for which Aunt Betsey Aldergrass possessed a particular passion, it was forhair-cutting, she being barber general for Laurel Hill, which numbered about thirty houses, store and church inclusive, and now when she saw the shining tresses which lay in such profusion upon the pillow, her fingers tingled to their very tips, while she involuntarily felt for her scissors! Very reverentially, as if it were almost sacrilege, Jerry’s broad palm was laid protectingly upon the clustering ringlets, while he said, “No, Aunt Betsey, if she dies for’t, you shan’t touch one of them; ’twould spile her hair, she looks so pretty.”
Slowly the long, fringed lids unclosed, and the brown eyes looked up so gratefully at Jerry, that he beat a precipitate retreat, muttering to himself that “he never could stand the gals, anyway, they made his heart thump so!”
“Am I very sick, and can’t I go on?” asked the young lady, attempting to rise, but sinking back from extreme weakness.
“Considerable sick, I guess,” answered the landlady, taking from a side cupboard an immense decanter of camphor, and passing it toward the stranger. “Considerable sick, and I wouldn’t wonder if you had to lay by a day or so. Will they be consarned about you to home, ’cause if they be, my old man’ll write.”
“I have no home,” was the sad answer, to which Aunt Betsey responded in astonishment, “Hain’t no home! Where does your marm live?”
“Mother is dead,” said the girl, her tears dropping fast upon the pillow.
Instinctively the landlady drew nearer to her, as she asked, “And your pa—where is he?”
“I never saw him,” said the girl, while her interrogator continued: “Never saw your pa, and your marm is dead—poor child, what is your name, and where did you come from?”
For a moment the stranger hesitated, and then thinking it better to tell the truth at once, she replied, “My name is ’Lena. I lived with my uncle a great many miles from here, but I wasn’t happy. They did not want me there, and I ran away. I am going to my cousin, but I’d rather not tell where, so you will please not ask me.”
There was something in her manner which silenced Aunt Betsey, who, erelong, proposed that she should go upstairs and lie down on a nice little bed, where she would be more quiet. But ’Lena refused, saying she should feel better soon.
“Mebby, then, you’d eat a mouffle or two. We’ve got some roasted pork, and Hetty’ll warm over the gravy;” but ’Lena’s stomach rebelled at the very thought, seeing which, the landlady went back to the kitchen, where she soon prepared a bowl of gruel, in spite of the discouraging remarks of her husband, who, being a little after theOld Hunksorder, cautioned her “not to fuss too much, as gals that run away warn’t apt to be plagued with money”
Fortunately, Aunt Betsey’s heart covered a broader sphere, and the moment the stage was gone she closed the door to shut out the dust, dropped the green curtains, and drawing from the spare-room a large, stuffed chair, bade ’Lena “see if she couldn’t set up a minit.” But this was impossible, and all that long, sultry afternoon she lay upon the lounge, holding her aching head, which seemed well-nigh bursting with its weight of pain and thought. “Was it right for her to run away? Ought she not to have stayed and bravely met the worst? Suppose she were to die there alone, among strangers and without money, for her scanty purse was well-nigh drained.” These and similar reflections crowded upon her, until her brain grew wild and dizzy, and when at sunset the physician came again he was surprised to find how much her fever had increased.
“She ought not to lie here,” said he, as he saw how the loud shouts of the school-boys made her shudder. “Isn’t there some place where she can be more quiet?”
At the head of the stairs was a small room, containing a single bed and a window, which last looked out upon the garden and the graveyard beyond. Its furniture was of the plainest kind, it being reserved for more common travelers, and here the landlord said ’Lena must be taken. His wife would far rather have given her the front chamber, which was large, airy and light, but Uncle Tim Aldergrass said “No,” squealing out through his little peaked nose that “’twarn’t an atom likely he’d ever more’n half git his pay, anyway, and he warn’t a goin’ to give up the hull house.”
“How much more will it be if she has the best chamber,” asked Jerry, pulling at Uncle Tim’s coattail and leading him aside. “How much will it be, ’cause if ’taint too much, she shan’t stay in that eight by nine pen.”
“A dollar a week, and cheap at that,” muttered Uncle Tim, while Jerry, going out behind the wood-house, counted over his funds, sighing as he found them quite too small to meet the extra, dollar per week, should she long continue ill.
“If I hadn’t of fooled so much away for tobacker and things, I shouldn’t be so plaguy poor now,” thought he, forgetting the many hearts which his hard-earned gains had made glad, for no one ever appealed in vain for help from Jerry Langley, who represented one class of Yankees, while Timothy Aldergrass represented another.
The next morning just as daylight was beginning to be visible, Jerry knocked softly at Aunt Betsey’s door, telling her that for more than an hour he’d heard the young lady takin’ on, and he guessed she was worse. Hastily throwing on her loose gown Aunt Betsey repaired to ’Lena’s room, where she found her sitting up in the bed, moaning, talking, and whispering, while the wild expression of her eyes betokened a disordered brain.
“The Lord help us! she’s crazy as a loon. Run for the doctor, quick!” exclaimed Mrs. Aldergrass, and without boot or shoe, Jerry ran off in his stocking-feet, alarming the physician, who immediately hastened to the inn, pronouncing ’Lena’s disease to be brain fever, as he had at first feared.
Rapidly she grew worse, talking of her home, which was sometimes in Kentucky and sometimes in Massachusetts, where she said they had buried her mother. At other times she would ask Aunt Betsey to send for Durward when she was dead, and tell him how innocent she was.
“Didn’t I tell you there was something wrong?” Uncle Timothy would squeak. “Nobody knows who we are harborin’ nor how much ’twill damage the house.”
But as day after day went by, and ’Lena’s fever raged more fiercely, even Uncle Tim relented, and when she would beg of them to take her home and bury her by the side of Mabel, where Durward could see her grave, he would sigh, “Poor critter, I wish you was to home,” but whether this wish was prompted by a sincere desire to please ’Lena, or from a more selfish motive, we are unable to state. One morning, the fifth of ’Lena’s illness, she seemed much worse, talking incessantly and tossing from side to side, her long hair floating in wild disorder over her pillow, or streaming down her shoulders. Hitherto Aunt Betsey had restrained herbarbericdesire, each day arranging the heavy locks, and tucking them under the muslin cap, where they refused to stay. Once the doctor himself had suggested the propriety of cutting them away, adding, though, that they would wait awhile, as it was a pity to lose them.
“Better be cut off than yanked off,” said Aunt Betsey, on the morning when ’Lena in her frenzy would occasionally tear out handfulls of her shining hair and scatter it over the floor.
Satisfied that she was doing right, she carefully approached the bedside, and taking one of the curls in her hand, was about to sever it, when ’Lena, divining her intentions, sprang up, and gathering up her hair, exclaimed, “No, no, not these; take everything else, but leave me my curls. Durward thought they were beautiful, and I cannot lose them.”
At the side door below, the noonday stage was unloading its passengers, and as the tones of their voices came in at the open window, ’Lena suddenly grew calmer, and assuming a listening attitude, whispered, “Hark! He’s come. Don’t you hear him?”
But Aunt Betsey heard nothing, except her husband calling her to come down, and leaving ’Lena, who had almost instantly become quiet, to the care of a neighbor, she started for the kitchen, meeting in the lower hall with Hetty, who was showing one of the passengers to a room where he could wash and refresh himself after his dusty ride. As they passed each other, Hetty asked, “Have you clipped her curls?”
“No,” answered Mrs. Aldergrass, “she wouldn’t let me touch ’em, for she said that Durward, whom she talks so much about, liked ’em, and they mustn’t be cut off.”
Instantly the stranger, whose elegant appearance both Hetty and her mistress had been admiring, stopped, and turning to the latter, said, “Of whom are you speaking?”
“Of a young girl that came in the stage, sick, five or six days ago,” answered Mrs. Aldergrass.
“What is her name, and where does she live?” continued the stranger.
“She calls herself ’Lena, but the ’tother name I don’t know, and I guess she lives in Kentucky or Massachusetts.”
The young man waited to hear no more, but mechanically followed Hetty to his room, starting and turning pale as a wild, unnatural laugh fell on his ear.
“It is the young lady, sir,” said Hetty, observing his agitated manner. “She raves most all the time, and the doctor says she’ll die if she don’t stop.”
The gentleman nodded, and the next moment he was as he wished to be, alone. He had found her then—his lost ’Lena—sick, perhaps dying, and his heart gave one agonized throb as he thought, “What if she should die? Yet why should I wish her to live?” he asked, “when she is as surely lost to me as if she were indeed resting in her grave!”
And still, reason as he would, a something told him that all would yet be well, else, perhaps, he had never followed her. Believing she would stop at Mr. Everett’s, he had come on thus far, finding her where he least expected it, and spite of his fears, there was much of pleasure mingled with his pain as he thought how he would protect and care for her, ministering to her comfort, and softening, as far as possible, the disagreeable things which he saw must necessarily surround her. Money, he knew, would purchase almost everything, and if ever Durward Bellmont felt glad that he was rich, it was when he found ’Lena Rivers sick and alone at the not very comfortable inn of Laurel Hill.
As he was entering the dining-room, he saw Jerry—whose long, lank figure and original manner had afforded him much amusement during his ride—handing a dozen or more oranges to Mrs. Aldergrass, saying, as he did so, “They are for Miss ’Lena. I thought mebby they’d taste good, this hot weather, and I ransacked the hull town to find the nicest and best.”
For a moment Durward’s cheek flushed at the idea of Lena’s being cared for by such as Jerry, but the next instant his heart grew warm toward the uncouth driver who, without any possible motive save the promptings of his own kindly nature, had thus thought of the stranger girl. Erelong the stage was announced as ready and waiting, but to the surprise and regret of his fellow-passengers, who had found him a most agreeable traveling companion, Durward said he was not going any further that day.
“A new streak, ain’t it?” asked Jerry, who knew he was booked for the entire route; but the young man made no reply, and the fresh, spirited horses soon bore the lumbering vehicle far out of sight, leaving him to watch the cloud of dust which it carried in its train.
Uncle Timothy was in his element, for it was not often that a guest of Durward’s appearance honored his house with more than a passing call, and with the familiarity so common to a country landlord, he slapped him on the shoulder, telling him “there was the tallest kind of fish in the Honeoye,” whose waters, through the thick foliage of the trees were just discernible, sparkling and gleaming in the bright sunlight.
“I never fish, thank you, sir,” answered Durward, while the good-natured landlord continued: “Now you don’t say it! Hunt, then, mebby?”
“Occasionally,” said Durward, adding, “But my reason for stopping here is of entirely a different nature. I hear there is with you a sick lady. She is a friend of mine, and I am staying to see that she is well attended to.”
“Yes, yes,” said Uncle Timothy, suddenly changing his opinion of ’Lena, whose want of money had made him sadly suspicious of her. “Yes, yes, a fine gal; fell into good hands, too, for my old woman is the greatest kind of a nuss. Want to see her, don’t you?—the lady I mean.”
“Not just yet; I would like a few moments’ conversation with your wife first,” answered Durward.
Greatly frustrated when she learned that the stylish looking gentleman wished to talk with her, Aunt Betsey rubbed her shining face with flour, and donning another cap, repaired to the sitting-room, where she commenced making excuses about herself, the house, and everything else, saying, “’twant what he was used to, she knew, but she hoped he’d try to put up with it.”
As soon as he was able to get in a word, Durward proceeded to ask her every particular concerning ’Lena’s illness, and whether she would probably recognize him should he venture into her presence,
“Bless your dear heart, no. She hain’t known a soul on us these three days. Sometimes she calls me ‘grandmother,’ and says when she’s dead I’ll know she’s innocent. ’Pears Like somebody has been slanderin’ her, for she begs and pleads with Durward, as she calls him, not to believe it. Ain’t you the one she means?”
Durward nodded, and Mrs. Aldergrass continued:
“I thought so, for when the stage driv up she was standin’ straight in the bed, ravin’ and screechin’, but the minit she heard your voice she dropped down, and has been as quiet ever since. Will you go up now?”
Durward signified his willingness, and following his landlady, he soon stood in the close, pent-up room where, in an uneasy slumber, ’Lena lay panting for breath, and at intervals faintly moaning in her sleep. She had fearfully changed since last he saw her, and with a groan, he bent over her, murmuring, “My poor ’Lena,” while he gently laid his cool, moist hand upon her burning brow. As if there were something soothing in its touch, she quickly placed her little hot, parched hand on his, whispering, “Keep it there. It will make me well.”
For a long time he sat by her, bathing her head and carefully removing from her face and neck the thick curls which Mrs. Aldergrass had thought to cut away. At last she awoke, but Durward shrank almost in fear from the wild, bright eyes which gazed so fixedly upon him, for in them was no ray of reason. She called him “John” blessing him for coming, and saying, “Did you tell Durward. Doesheknow?”
“I am Durward,” said he. “Don’t you recognize me? Look again.”
“No, no,” she answered, with a mocking laugh, which made him shudder, it was so unlike the merry, ringing tones he had once loved to hear. “No, no, you are not Durward. He would not look at me as you do. He thinks me guilty.”
It was in vain Durward strove to convince her of his identity. She would only answer with a laugh, which grated so harshly on his ear that he finally desisted, and suffered her to think he was her cousin. The smallness of her chamber troubled him, and when Mrs. Aldergrass came up he asked if there was no other apartment where ’Lena would be more comfortable.
“Of course there is,” said Aunt Betsy. “There’s the best chamber I was goin’ to give to you.”
“Never mind me,” said he. “Let her have every comfort the house affords, and you shall be amply paid.”
Uncle Timothy had now no objection to the offer, and the large, airy room with its snowy, draped bed was soon in readiness for the sufferer, who, in one of her wayward moods, absolutely refused to be moved. It was in vain that Aunt Betsey plead, persuaded, and threatened, and at last in despair Durward was called in to try his powers of persuasion.
“That’s something more like it,” said ’Lena, and when he urged upon her the necessity of her removal, she asked, “Will you go with me?”
“Certainly,” said he.
“And stay with me?”
“Certainly.”
“Then I’ll go,” she continued, stretching her arms toward him as a child toward its mother.
A moment more and she was reclining on the soft downy pillows, the special pride of Mrs. Aldergrass, who bustled in and out, while her husband, ashamed of his stinginess, said “they should of moved her afore, only ’twas a bad sign.”
During the remainder of the day she seemed more quiet, talking incessantly, it is true, but never raving if Durward were near. It is strange what power he had over her, a word from him sufficing at any time to subdue her when in her most violent fits of frenzy. For two days and nights he watched by her side, never giving himself a moment’s rest, while the neighbors looked on, surmising and commenting as people always will. Every delicacy of the season, however costly, was purchased for her comfort, while each morning the flowers which he knew she loved the best were freshly gathered from the different gardens of Laurel Hill, and in broken pitchers, cracked tumblers, and nicked saucers, adorned the room.
At the close of the third day she fell into a heavy slumber, and Durward, worn out and weary, retired to take the rest he so much needed. For a long time ’Lena slept, watched by the physician, who, knowing that the crisis had arrived, waited anxiously for her waking, which came at last, bringing with it the light of returning reason. Dreamily she gazed about the room, and in a voice no longer strong with the excitement of delirium, asked, “Where am I, and how came I here?”
In a few words the physician explained all that was necessary for her to know, and then going for Mrs. Aldergrass, told her of the favorable change in his patient, adding that a sudden shock might still prove fatal. “Therefore,” said he, “though I know not in what relation this Mr. Bellmont stands to her, I think it advisable for her to remain awhile in ignorance of his presence. It is of the utmost consequence that she be kept quiet for a few days, at the end of which time she can see him.”
All this Aunt Betsey communicated to Durward, who unwilling to do anything which would endanger ’Lena’s safety, kept himself aloof, treading softly and speaking low, for as if her hearing were sharpened by disease she more than once, when he was talking in the hall below, started up, listening eagerly; then, as if satisfied that she had been deceived, she would resume her position, while the flush on her cheek deepened as she thought, “Oh, what if it had indeed been he!”
Nearly all the day long he sat just without the door, holding his breath as he caught the faint tones of her voice, and longing for the hour when he could see her, and obtain, if possible, some clue to the mystery attending her and his father. His mother’s words, together with what he had heard ’Lena say in her ravings, had tended to convince him thatshe, at least, might be innocent, and once assured of this, he felt that he would gladly fold her to his bosom, and cherish her there as the choicest of heaven’s blessings. All this time ’Lena had no suspicion of his presence, but she wondered at the many luxuries which surrounded her, and once, when Mrs. Aldergrass offered her some choice wine, she asked who it was that supplied her with so many comforts. Aunt Betsey’s, forte did not lay in keeping a secret, and rather evasively she replied, “You mustn’t ask me too many questions just yet!”
’Lena’s suspicions were at once aroused, and for more than an hour she lay thinking—trying to recall something which seamed to her like a dream. At last calling Aunt Betsey to her, she said, “There was somebody here while I was so sick—somebody besides strangers—somebody that stayed with me all the time—who was it?”
“Nobody, nobody—I mustn’t tell,” said Mrs. Aldergrass, hurriedly, while ’Lena continued, “Was it Cousin John?”
“No, no; don’t guess any more,” was Mrs. Aldergrass’s reply, and ’Lena, clasping her hands together, exclaimed, “Oh, could it he be?”
The words reached Durward’s ear, and nothing but a sense of the harm it might do prevented him from going at once to her bedside. That night, at his earnest request, the physician gave him permission to see her in the morning, and Mrs. Aldergrass was commissioned to prepare her for the interview. ’Lena did not ask who it was; she felt that she knew; and the knowledge that he was there—that he had cared for her—operated upon her like a spell, soothing her into the most refreshing slumber she had experienced for many a weary week. With the sun-rising she was awake, but Mrs. Aldergrass, who came in soon after, told her that the visitor was not to be admitted until about ten, as she would by that time have become more composed, and be the better able to endure the excitement of the interview. A natural delicacy prevented ’Lena from objecting to the delay, and, as calmly as possible, she watched Mrs. Aldergrass while she put the room to rights, and then patiently submitted to the arranging of her curls, which during her illness had become matted and tangled. Before eight everything was in readiness, and soon after, worn out by her own exertions, ’Lena again fell asleep.
“How lovely she looks,” thought Mrs. Aldergrass. “He shall just have a peep at her,” and stepping to the door she beckoned Durward to her side.
Never before had ’Lena, seemed so beautiful to him, and as he looked upon her, he felt his doubts removing, one by one. She was innocent—it could not be otherwise—and very impatiently he awaited the lapse of the two hours which must pass ere he could see her, face to face. At length, as the surest way of killing time, he started out for a walk in a pleasant wood, which skirted the foot of Laurel Hill.
Here for a time we leave him, while in another chapter we speak of an event which, in the natural order of things, should here be narrated.