path: root/69972-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69972 ***

                          THE CHANGED BRIDES.


                                    BY

                      MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

    AUTHOR OF “HOW HE WON HER,” “FAIR PLAY,” “THE BRIDES’ FATE,” “THE
    DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE LOST
 HEIRESS,” “THE FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,”
  “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “LADY OF THE
  ISLE,” “GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “VIVIA,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,”
   “INDIA,” “THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE DESERTED
   WIFE,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,”
                 “THE WIDOW’S SON,” “PRINCE OF DARKNESS.”


                ’TIS AN OLD TALE, AND OFTEN TOLD—
                A MAIDEN TRUE, BETRAYED FOR GOLD.—SCOTT.


                             PHILADELPHIA:
                       T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
                          306 CHESTNUT STREET.




        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by

                        T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

 In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and
                for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.


                 MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.

          Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume.

             _FAIR PLAY, OR, THE TEST OF THE LONE ISLE._
               _HOW HE WON HER, A SEQUEL TO FAIR PLAY._
                 _THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS._
                   _THE MOTHER-IN-LAW._
                     _THE THREE BEAUTIES._
                       _THE WIFE’S VICTORY._
                         _THE CHANGED BRIDES._
             _THE BRIDES’ FATE. SEQUEL TO CHANGED BRIDES._
               _THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN._
                 _THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY._
                   _THE FORTUNE SEEKER._
                     _THE DESERTED WIFE._
                       _THE LOST HEIRESS._
                         _RETRIBUTION._
             _FALLEN PRIDE; OR, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE._
               _THE FATAL MARRIAGE._
                 _THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD._
                   _LOVE’S LABOR WON._
                     _THE MISSING BRIDE._
                       _LADY OF THE ISLE._
                         _THE TWO SISTERS._
             _INDIA; OR, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER._
               _VIVIA; OR, THE SECRET OF POWER._
                 _THE CURSE OF CLIFTON._
                   _THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER._
                     _THE WIDOW’S SON._
                       _ALLWORTH ABBEY._
                         _THE BRIDAL EVE._

        Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.


Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the
above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on
receipt of their price by the Publishers,

             T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
                     306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.




                                   TO

                          MISS EDITH HENSHAW,

                          OF WASHINGTON CITY;

                                  THIS

                           WORK IS INSCRIBED,

                                  WITH

                        THE LOVE OF HER SISTER.

 PROSPECT COTTAGE,
         GEORGETOWN, D. C.
                 MAY, 1869.




                               CONTENTS.


        Chapter                                             Page
             I. —ON THE EVE OF A GRAND WEDDING                23
            II. —AT THE OLD HALL                              41
           III. —THE HOUSELESS WANDERER AND THE BRIDE ELECT   53
            IV. —A CHILD’S LOVE                               57
             V. —THE CHILD MEETS HER FATE                     71
            VI. —THE NEXT FEW YEARS                           83
           VII. —THE GIRL’S FIRST GRIEF                       94
          VIII. —FATAL LOVE                                  104
            IX. —BRIDAL FAVORS                               113
             X. —WHAT WAS DONE WITH DRUSILLA                 128
            XI. —JOY FOR DRUSILLA                            142
           XII. —A REALLY HAPPY BRIDE                        153
          XIII. —THE CHILD BRIDE AT HOME                     162
           XIV. —THE WILD WOOD HOME BY DAY                   167
            XV. —CLOUDLESS JOYS                              176
           XVI. —A QUEEN OF FASHION                          190
          XVII. —MORAL MADNESS                               197
         XVIII. —A DARK RIDE                                 202
           XIX. —A NEGLECTED WIFE                            211
            XX. —RIVALRY                                     217
           XXI. —THE SORROWS OF THE YOUNG WIFE               222
          XXII. —DIFFICULTIES OF DECEPTION                   232
         XXIII. —SILENT SORROW                               241
          XXIV. —THE SPECTRAL FACE                           248
           XXV. —CAUGHT                                      255
          XXVI. —A MEMORABLE NIGHT                           262
         XXVII. —A GREAT DISCOVERY                           270
        XXVIII. —HIS LOVE                                    278
          XXIX. —HER LOVE                                    284
           XXX. —BREAKING                                    293
          XXXI. —FIRST ABSENCE                               303
         XXXII. —BRIGHT HOPES                                307
        XXXIII. —A SURPRISE                                  316
         XXXIV. —GONE FOR GOOD                               326
          XXXV. —CRUEL TREACHERY                             334
         XXXVI. —AGONY                                       346
        XXXVII. —SUSPENSE                                    355
       XXXVIII. —HOPING AGAINST HOPE                         365
         XXXIX. —DICK HAMMOND IS ASTONISHED                  372
            XL. —DICK’S NEWS                                 387
           XLI. —PROOFS                                      403
          XLII. —DRUSILLA’S DESTINATION                      410
         XLIII. —THE DREARY NIGHT RIDE                       419
          XLIV. —HOW SHE SPED                                437
           XLV. —DRUSILLA’S ARRIVAL                          445
          XLVI. —THE DESPERATE REMEDY                        459
         XLVII. —EXPOSURE                                    478
        XLVIII. —BALM FOR THE BRUISED HEART                  492




                          THE CHANGED BRIDES.




                               CHAPTER I.
                     ON THE EYE OF A GRAND WEDDING.

               Blow, blow, thou wintry wind!
               Thou art not so unkind
                   As man’s ingratitude;
               Thy tooth is not so keen,
               Because thou art not seen,
                   Altho’ thy breath be rude.

               Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky!
               Thou dost not bite so nigh
                   As benefits forgot;
               Tho’ thou the waters warp,
               Thy sting is not so sharp
                   As friend remembered not.—SHAKSPEARE.


A wild and wintry night, in a wild and wintry scene! The old turnpike
road running through the mountain pass, lonely at the best times, seemed
quite deserted now.

The old Scotch toll-gate keeper sat shivering over his blazing hickory
wood fire, and listening to the dashing rain and beating wind that
seemed to threaten the destruction of his rude dwelling.

His old wife sat near him, spinning yarn from a small wheel that she
turned with the united action of hand and foot.

“Ugh!” shuddered the old man, as a blast fiercer than ever shook the
house, “it ’ill ding down the old dwelling next, and no harm done! An it
were once blown away, the company would behoove to build us anither
strong enough to stand the storms o’ these parts. Hech! but it’s awfu’
cold.”

“Pit anither log on the fire, gudeman. Wood’s plenty enough, that’s a
blessing,” said the old woman, without ceasing to turn her wheel.

“Wha’s the use, Jenny? Ye’ll no warm sic an old place as this. Eh,
woman, but whiles my knees are roasting, my back is freezing.”

“Aweel, then gae away to bed wid ye, Andy, and I’ll tuck ye up warm, and
bring ye your hot toddy.”

“Nay, Jenny, worse luck, I maun sit up to let the bridegroom through the
gate.”

“The bridegroom? Hoot, man! He’ll no pass the road on sic a wild night
as this.”

“Will he no, and his bonny bride waiting? Jenny, woman, what like o’
wind or weather would ha’ stopt me the day we were gaun to be married?
So ye maun gie me my pipe, gudewife, for I bide here to open the gate
for the blithe bridegroom to pass through.”

“But he maun see that no tender lassie can take the road in sic a storm
as this, and they were to be married by special license at nine, and gae
away in a grand travelling carriage at ten, to meet the steamboat at
eleven. But that can no be now, for the rain is comin’ down like Noah’s
flood, and the wind blowing a hurricane, to say naething o’ the roads
all being turned into rinning rivers,” argued Jenny.

“It will be for _her_ to decide whether it can or canna be. It will be
for _him_ to take the road in the worst weather that ever fell from
heaven, if it be to keep his tryst with his troth-plighted bride. So gie
me my pipe, Jenny, for I’se stop up to let the bridegroom gae by.”

“He willna come now, and so ye’ll see, gudeman,” said the wife, as she
filled his pipe, and pressed the tobacco well down into the bowl with
her big fore finger.

“An he does na come through wind or rain or snow, or ony ither like o’
weather the Lord please to send this night, and I were Miss Anna Lyon,
I’d cast him off in the morn like old shoes,” nodded Andy, as he took
the pipe from his wife and put it into his mouth.

“But don’t ye see, gudeman, that it’ll be nae use. She _canna_ travel on
sic a night as this.”

“I’m no that sure she will be called upon to travel the night. I heard a
rumor they had changed all that. And there was to be a grand wedding at
the old Hall, and a hall and a supper, and that the bonny bride and
bridegroom wouldna gae away till the morn. And I’se believe it,” said
Andy, taking the big tongs, picking up a live coal, and beginning to
light his pipe.

“Hoot, man, that will be no decent. She’ll behoove to marry and gae away
like ither brides, but she’ll no be married and gae away the night. The
wedding maun be pit off,” said Jenny, resuming her place at the wheel.

“Pit off! It hae been pit off twice a’ready, once when the old Judge
Lyon died, then when the old lady died. An it be pit off a third time,
it ’ill never take place. But it will no be put off. He’ll keep his
tryst, and she’ll keep her word. Worse luck that I hae to bide up to let
him through.”

“An he maun come, pity he could na ha’ come sooner.”

“Hoot, gudewife, how could he? The steamer does na stop at the Stormy
Petrel Landing until nigh noon, and it will be a good fifty miles from
here. And he travelling in his ain carriage without a change of horses
all the way over sic roads, and in sic weather as this? How will he come
sooner?”

“Eh! but I wish he were here!” cried the old woman.

“There he’ll be now!” exclaimed the old man, rising and listening, as in
a temporary lull of the tempest the sound of carriage wheels was heard
dashing, rumbling and tumbling along the road.

“Take your big shawl about you,” said Jenny, rising and reaching down a
heavy gray “maud” from its peg, and throwing it over Andy’s shoulders,
as, with a lighted candle in his hand, he went to open the door.

“Hech, sirs! what a night to take the road in! Naething but a waiting
bride should fetch a man forth in sic weather!” exclaimed the old
toll-taker, as a blast of wind and rain blew out his candle, and whirled
his shawl up over his head.

“Shut the door, gudeman, or we’ll both be drowned in our ain house, and
bide a we till I bring ye the lantern. Ye’ll no be able to take a
lighted candle out there,” said Jenny, as she ran to a corner cupboard
and brought forth an old horn machine big enough for a lighthouse or a
watch tower. She lit the candle end that was in it, and handed it to
Andy.

He having meanwhile, fastened his great shawl with several strong pins
and skewers, once more opened the door, and went forth into the pitch
dark night and raging storm.

A spacious travelling carriage stood at the toll-gate, with two crimson
lamps glowing luridly through the dark, driving tempest.

Holding down his hat with one hand and carrying the lantern with the
other, old Andy pushed on towards the carriage, and saw that its door
stood open, and a young man in a heavy travelling cloak was leaning out.

“Be gude to us, sir! is it yoursel’, sure enough? Troth, I said ye would
come,” said Andy, with a welcoming smile.

“Come! why, to be sure I would come. Did you think that any sort of
weather would have stopped me on such an occasion as this? Why, Birney,
I would have come if it had rained pitchforks, points downward, or wild
cats and mad dogs,” laughed the young man.

“Sae I said, sir; sae I said!”

“But, Birney, my friend, I must get out and stretch my limbs a little. I
want to be able to stand when I get to the Hall; but really, I have been
cramped up in this close carriage so many hours, riding over this beast
of a country so many miles, without seeing a single place where I could
stop for refreshment, that—that—in short, Birney, you must let me out
and let me in,” said the traveller.

“Surely, Mr. Alexander! surely, sir! and much honor to my humble home,”
said the old toll-taker, smiling, and bowing respectfully.

The young man, notwithstanding his “cramped” condition, leaped lightly
from his carriage, drew his travelling cloak closely around him, hoisted
a large umbrella, and unceremoniously preceded his host to the house,
where he burst suddenly in upon Jenny, who was in the act of taking a
kettle of boiling water from the fire.

“Gude save us! Mr. Alick, is it yoursel’? I could hardly believe ony
gentleman in his sober sinses would take the road on sic a night!”

“It is myself, Mistress Birney—that I know; but as to being in my sober
senses, I am not quite so sure. I see you’ve got some hot water there. I
hope you have also got a sample of that fine old Scotch whiskey your
husband used to drink in remembrance of your old country. If so,
Mistress Birney, I’ll thank you to make me a tumbler of hot toddy. It
would be very acceptable in such weather as this,” said “Mr. Alick,” as
he threw off his cloak and his cap, and dropped himself down into old
Andy’s own arm-chair, in the warm chimney corner.

“Surely, sir! surely, Mr. Alick! I’se make it directly. I’se e’en now
just gaun to mix the gude man’s night drink for himsel’,” smiled Jenny,
hospitably.

“All right! mix mine at the same time,” said the young man, stretching
out his feet to the fire, and indulging in a great yawn.

“And mix it in the big stone pitcher with the zinc cover, so it will
keep hot while we sit and drink the bonny bride, Miss Anna Lyon’s
health,” said old Andy as he came in and closed the door to keep out the
driving rain.

“Oh, look here! You know I’ve no time for health-drinking; I’m due at
the Hall these three hours; only this horrid weather, and these beastly
roads have delayed me,” exclaimed Mr. Alick, rising impatiently and
standing before the blazing fire.

He was a very good-looking young fellow, as he stood there. He had a
tall, well-proportioned form, fine regular features, a fair, roseate
complexion, light yellow hair, and bright blue eyes—smiling eyes that
seemed to love all they looked upon.

Quickly and skilfully Jenny Birney made the toddy and poured it into
large tumblers that she had previously heated by scalding them out with
boiling water.

Once more Mr. Alick dropped himself into old Andy’s chair, while he
received one of the glasses from his host.

“Eh, there sir; it’s as hot as love!” said the old man, as he passed the
pitcher that his guest might replenish his glass at his pleasure.

“It is very good,” admitted the young man when he had finished his
second tumbler. “Many thanks to you, Mistress Birney for the aid and
comfort you have given me. I feel as if you had saved my life. I can now
do the distance between this and the Hall without breaking down. And now
I must be off. Good evening to you, Mistress Birney.”

And the traveller put on his cloak and cap, took up his umbrella, and
escorted by Andy, left the cottage.

“Oh, by the way, Birney, you may bring out some of that hot stuff to my
coachman. Poor devil! it will do him no harm after he has been perched
up there so long in the rain. But hark ye, Birney! don’t let it be too
stiff; I don’t want the fellow to see more mists before his eyes than
the night and the storm make,” said Mr. Alick as he got into the
carriage.

Old Andy toddled back to his house, and after a few minutes reappeared
at the carriage with a mug of the same restorative for the man as he had
lately administered to the master.

The chilled and wearied coachman turned it down his throat almost at a
gulp, returned the mug, and thanked the donor.

Then he gathered up his reins, cracked his whip, and started his horses
at as brisk a trot as might be deemed safe on that dark night over that
rough road.

The old turnpike-keeper hurried out of the storm into the shelter of his
own cottage.

“Hech! it’s an awfu’ night! I’m glad he’s come and gone. We may pit up
the shutters now, gudewife; we’ll no be troubled wi’ ony more travellers
the night,” said old Andy, as he shook his shawl free from the clinging
rain drops, and hung it up in its place.

“Now sit ye down in your own comfortable chair, gudeman, and I’ll brew
ye a bowl o’ hot punch. Eh, hinney, ye’ll be needing it after sic’ an
exposure to the elements,” said Jenny, as she replaced the kettle over
the blaze, and drew Andy’s old arm-chair before the fire.

With a sigh of infinite relief, he let himself sink into the inviting
seat, kicked off his heavy shoes, and stretched his stockinged feet to
the genial warmth of the hearth. Andy did not rejoice in the luxury of a
pair of slippers.

“Eh, Jenny, woman, it’s good to feel oneself at ease at one’s own
fireside at last,” said the old man, as he took from the hand of his
wife a smoking tumbler of punch.

“‘It’s hot as love,’ as you say,” she nodded.

“Eh, so it is; what’s the hour, gudewife?”

“It’s gone weel on to ten,” she answered, glancing at the tall old clock
that stood in the corner, and reached from floor to ceiling.

“And I’se gaun to bed immediately, no to be bothered wi’ any more
travellers the night,” said Andy, blowing and sipping his punch.

But Andy reckoned without his host, as many of his betters do.

Just at that moment there came a rap at the door, so low, however, that
it could scarcely be heard amid the roaring of the storm.

Yet both husband and wife turned and listened.

It was repeated.

“What’s that?” asked Andy.

“There’s some one outside,” said Jenny.

The rap was reiterated.

“Who the de’il can it be, at this unlawful hour o’ the night? Gae see,
Jenny, woman. And if it’s ony vagrants bang the door in their faces.
I’se no be troubled wi’ ony more callers the night!” cried the old man,
impatiently.

Before he had well done grumbling, the old woman had gone to the door
and opened it, letting in a furious blast of wind and rain.

“Gude guide us!” she exclaimed, starting back, aghast, at what she saw
without.

“What the de’il is it then, gude wife?” nervously demanded Andy,
starting up and seizing his old musket from its hooks above the
chimney-piece. Andy was thinking only of thieves, as is usual with many
who have little to lose.

“Pit up your gun, gude man, it’s no what ye think,” said Jenny, once
more approaching the door to peep out at the wretch that stood dripping
and shivering outside.

“For the love of Heaven, let me in a little while. I will not stay many
minutes,” pleaded a plaintive voice from the darkness.

“Who is it?” inquired Andy, coming cautiously forward in his stocking
feet.

“It’s some poor lassie, as far as I can make out. Come in wi’ ye then,”
said Jenny, stretching the door wide open, though the wind and the rain
rushed in, flooding the floor where they stood.

“Ay, come in, and ye maun, and dinna stand there like a lunatic keeping
the door open and letting in the weather,” growled Andy, as he toddled
back to his comfortable chair and dropped into it.

Before he had half uttered his churlish invitation, the stranger had
entered, and now stood in the room, with the rain running from her dark
raiment, while Jenny shut and bolted the door.

“Now then, who are ye? and what brings ye tramping on sic a night as
this?” sternly demanded Andy, as he turned and stared at the stranger.

She wore a long dark gray cloak with a hood; the cloak completely
concealed her form and its hood overshadowed her face. That was all that
Andy could make of her appearance then.

“Who are ye, I ask, and where are ye gaun the night,” he angrily
repeated.

The stranger did not answer except by dropping her face upon her open
hands.

“Andy, dinna ye see she canna speak? For the sake of our own poor lost
Katie, we maun have pity. Come away to the fire, my poor lass, and dry
your clothes, whiles I get ye something warm to take the chill out o’
your poor shivering body,” said Jenny, kindly placing her hand upon the
girl’s shoulder and gently urging her towards the fire-place.

“I’m of opinion that ye’d better find out who she is, and where she came
from, and where she’s gaun, before ye press upon her the hospitalities
of an honest house,” grumbled Mr. Birney.

“Whist, gude man! I might speer a dizzen questions, but dinna ye see for
yoursel’ that she’s in na condition to answer ane?” said Jenny, in a low
voice.

Andy growled something in which the words “tramping hizzy” were the only
ones audible.

“Come, let me hae your cloak, hinny, to hang it up to dry. See, it’s
wringing wet. Nay, nay, dinna resist gude offices,” said Mrs. Birney,
with kind persistence, as she saw that the girl made some little, mute,
pathetic resistance to the removal of her outer garment.

Jenny gently took it off her and hung it on the back of a chair to dry
by the fire.

And the young stranger stood revealed in all her loveliness and sorrow.

She was a young, slight, graceful creature, with a thin, pale face, dark
hair and dark eyebrows, long, black eye-lashes, and large, soft, gray
eyes, so full of pleading sadness that their glances went straight to
the heart of Jenny Birney. It was a child’s face; but ah, woe! it was a
matron’s form revealed there.

“Wae-sooks!” exclaimed the good wife in consternation, as she gazed upon
the young thing, and saw that, child-like as she looked, she had been
married, or——ought to have been.

Again the little, pale hands went up and covered the little, woe-forn
face.

“Sit ye down,” said Mrs. Birney, kindly. “Ye are no able to stand.”

And she drew her own low, cushioned chair to the chimney corner, and
with gentle force pushed the poor child into it. And then she took down
her little black tea-pot from the corner cupboard and began to make tea.

Mr. Birney watched the process in strong disapprobation.

His wife raised a deprecating glance to his face, murmuring, in a low
tone:

“We maun be pitiful, Andy! for our poor lost Katy’s sake, we maun be
pitiful.”

He answered that appeal by growling forth the words:

“Aweel, aweel, Jenny woman, hae your ain way! hae your ain way! Eh! but
ye’ve had it these forty years and mair! And it’s no likely that ye’ll
gie it up now!”

And so saying, the old man put his pipe in his mouth and resigned
himself to circumstances.

Mrs. Birney made a cup of tea and a round of toast, and set them on a
little stand beside her guest.

“Now eat and drink and ye’ll be better. Nay, nay, dinna shake your poor
little head! do as I bid ye. I had a child o’ my ain once. She has been
in heaven, I hope, these twenty years. Sae ye see I hae a soft place in
my heart for children, especially for lassies; sae eat and drink, and be
comforted and strengthened, and then maybe ye’ll tell me how ye came to
be out in the weather, and what I can do for ye besides giving you a bit
and sup and a bed to lie on,” coaxed the good woman.

“Thanks, thanks,” murmured the girl, as she raised the cup, and with a
feverish thirst eagerly drank the tea.

“Try some of the toast. It is done with milk; it will nourish ye,”
hospitably urged Jenny.

“Please—I cannot eat a morsel, and—I must go now,” answered the young
stranger, rising.

“Go now! Are ye daft?” exclaimed Mrs. Birney, in dismay; while Mr.
Birney took the pipe from his mouth and stared.

“No, I am not ‘daft,’ though I know how mad my purpose must seem,”
calmly answered the girl, taking her cloak from the chair upon which it
was drying by the fire.

“But—I thought ye came here for a night’s lodging, and——”

“Oh, no; I had no such design,” sighed the girl.

“But—an ye didna come for a night’s lodging, what _did_ ye come for?”

“I was nearly spent with struggling on in the face of the tempest. I was
so beaten by the wind and the rain that I thought I should have dropped
and died; I almost wish I had. But I saw the light in your window and I
tried to reach it, and I did. I came in only to rest and breathe a
little while, and get strength to go on again.”

“But where did ye come from, my poor child?” inquired the pitying woman.

“I came from Washington by the stage-coach. It put me down at the Cross
Roads, ten miles from this place.”

“Gude save us! and ye walked all that way through the storm?”

“Yes, and was nearly exhausted; but now, thanks to your charity, I feel
refreshed, and able to pursue my journey,” said the young girl, as she
tied her cloak, and drew its hood over her head.

“Indeed, then, and ye’ll no do onything o’ the sort. Eh, sirs, are we
heathen to let a wee bit lassie gae forth alane on sic a stormy
winter-night as this, when we wouldna turn an enemy’s dog from the door?
Sit ye down, my lass, and dinna ye mind the gudeman’s growling. His bark
is aye worse than his bite,” said Mrs. Birney.

And here Mr. Birney took his pipe from his mouth, and spoke these
gracious words:

“Bide ye here for the present, an’ ye will. I dinna like tramps as a
permanent institution in the house, but I’ll no turn ye out into the
storm, sae bide where ye be.”

And having uttered this oracle, old Andy replaced his pipe between his
lips, and smoked vigorously to make up for lost time.

“Ye hear what the gudeman says? Hark ye now to the wisdom of age, and
bide ye quiet till I make ye a bed, and I’ll wrap ye weel and pit ye
warm to sleep the night, and in the morn ye may gae where ye like.”

“Thanks—a thousand thanks for your dear mercy! but in the morning it
will be too late. Ah, heaven, yes!” exclaimed the girl, as a sudden
terror wildly dilated her large gray eyes. “I must go on to-night, or
fail, where failure would be despair and death!”

“Gae on to-night! Gude save us! gae on where?” exclaimed the wondering
woman.

“To Old Lyon Hall,” answered the stranger, moving towards the door.

“Stay—come back! Ye are stark daft! To the Hall?” cried Jenny, following
her guest.

“Yes, to the old Hall,” said the stranger, pausing courteously.

“Why, that’s where the grand wedding will be the night.”

“I know it,” said the girl.

“But—ye’ll surely no be one o’ the invited guests?” exclaimed Jenny in
bewilderment.

“Oh, no,” replied the girl, with a strange smile.

“Look ye, lass. Who be ye? What be your name, an ye have no objection to
tell it?” gravely inquired Mrs. Birney.

“I have no objection to tell my name; it has never been sullied by
dishonor; it is Anna Lyon,” replied the girl, with her hand upon the
door-latch.

“ANNA LYON! Sign us, and save us! that is the name of the bride that is
to be married to-night!” cried Jenny Birney, aghast.

“I know it is,” quietly replied the girl.

“And ye hae the same name?”

“The very same,” said the stranger.

“Gude save us! then ye’ll be kin to the family?”

“No, no kin,” answered the girl, calmly. Then to herself she murmured,
“_I_—‘a little more than kin,’ _he_ ‘a little less than kind.’”

“What are ye muttering to yoursel’? Ye say ye’re no kin to the family,
and if ye are no, what will be taking you to the old Hall the night?”

“Something more than a matter of life and death! And oh, I must be
gone!” said the girl, with the same look of terror that she had shown
once before, now smiting all the remaining color from her pale face, and
leaving it white as marble.

“Good-bye—good-bye, and a thousand heart-felt thanks for all your
kindness,” she added.

While she spoke she deftly slid the bolts of the door, and as she ceased
she quickly slipped through it, and ran away like one who feared to be
hindered or pursued.

“Stop! stop!” screamed Jenny, rushing after her, and looking out into
the night.

But her strange visitor had vanished in the darkness.

“Hech! she’s clean daft, and she’ll perish in the storm!” cried Jenny in
consternation, as she drew in her head.

“Come away, gudewife, and shut the door!” bawled old Andy, provoked past
his patience.

“Eh, gude man, rin—rin after her. Ye may catch her an ye start now,”
prayed Jenny, pulling down her husband’s shawl from its peg, and
throwing it over his shoulders—“rin, rin for your life, Andy!”

“De’il be in my legs, then, if I budge a foot from the fire! I’m in a
condition to rin, am I no? wi’ both my shoes off and mysel’ soaking wi’
sweat! I’ll no rin for ony daft lass or lad in Christendom!” grumbled
the old man.

“But for the Lord’s sake, Andy!” pleaded the woman.

“I would do onything in reason for the Lord’s sake, an’ He distinctly
called me, but I’m no conscious of any special call to pit myself
forward in this work. Sae just shut up the house, Jenny, woman, and come
away to bed. And I’ll no open again this night to man or woman, saint or
devil, so there, now!” growled old Andy.

“I’se shut the door, but I’se nae shut the window. And I’se no gaun to
bed this night, I’se sit up and show a light, if the poor wandering
lassie behooves to come back,” said Mrs. Birney, firmly, as she fastened
the door, and sat the lantern on the little stand under the window, with
the light turned towards the road.

“The more fool you,” observed Mr. Birney, as he began to draw off his
stockings, and prepare himself for his bed, that stood conveniently
near, in a recess curtained off from the other portion of the room.

Mrs. Birney drew her spinning wheel to the chimney corner nearest the
window, where she had placed the light, and she sat down and began to
spin.

“Ye’ll no be whirling that machine and keeping me awake, Jenny, woman!”
expostulated the old man as he got into bed.

“But if I maun sit up, I maun na lose my time.”

“Then knit or sew.”

She good-humoredly put aside her wheel and took from the top of the
corner cupboard her work-basket half filled with woolen socks, which she
sat down to darn.

Old Andy was soon snoring under his blankets.

Jenny sat darning and sighing, and occasionally peering through the
window into the darkness without. The violence of the storm seemed to be
subsiding, though still it rained heavily.

“It’s like murder,” she murmured. “And, if she be found cold and dead in
the morn I shall never forgi’e mysel’. I shall never be able to sleep
again. Eh! but I wish I had rin out after her mysel.’ But then the
gudeman would na hae let me. Hech! but they get hard and selfish wi’ age
and infirmities, these men. Eh! how he sleeps and snores, as if there
was no misery in the world,” she added, glancing at the bed.

But the old curmudgeon’s rest was destined to be broken.

There came the sound of horse’s hoofs dashing along the flooded road.
The toll-gate bar was cleared at a bound. Jenny heard the spring and
splash, and she started to her feet, dropping her work-basket.

The next moment there came a loud rapping at the door. It aroused the
old man from his sleep.

“What the de’il is that?” he exclaimed, angrily.

“There’s ane without,” whispered Jenny, in a scared tone, trembling in
spite of herself.

“Worse luck! Is it a Witch’s Sabbath and are all the warlocks and
witches riding to it by this road the night?” he growled.

The knocking grew louder.

“Who is it, Jenny?” he cried.

“I dinna know,” whispered the woman.

“Canna ye gae and see?”

The knocking became vociferous, the horseman seemed to be hammering at
the door with the loaded end of his riding-whip.

“Haud your noise out there, will you then!” bawled the old man, bouncing
out of bed, throwing a blanket around him and seizing his blunderbus,
while Jenny crept to the door and cautiously opened it, keeping herself
behind it.

The rain had nearly ceased and the sky was clearing.

A tall, stout, dark man, in a dark riding-coat, stood outside. With one
hand he held the bridle of his horse, and with the other the handle of
his riding-whip, with which he had just rapped.

So much Jenny, cautiously peeping around the edge of the door, could
make out.

The old toll-taker came forward, wrapped in his blanket like a North
American Indian, and carrying his musket in his hand, and growling:

“Am I no to have ony peace or quiet the night? I’d as weel be keeper o’
one o’ these new-fangled railway stations where the trains are aye
coming and going day and night, instead o’ this once quiet toll-gate.
Who be ye, sir, and what’s your will?” he growled at this second
stranger.

“I am a traveller going to Old Lyon Hall; and I wish to know the nearest
road,” answered the horseman. But a sudden parting blast of wind drowned
half his words.

“And by the way, how came ye on this side of the road, when the great
bar is up for the night?” angrily demanded the toll-taker.

“Oh, my horse took it at a bound.”

“An he had broken your neck it might hae been a gude job and saved the
hangman trouble,” growled old Andy.

“Thanks,” laughed the stranger, “but there was not a chance of it; my
horse is a famous hunter. Will you direct me on my road?”

“_Where_ did you say you were going?”

“To Old Lyon Hall.”

“To Old Lyon Hall!—Jenny, woman, here is anither one! It’s _there_ they
are holding the witches’ dance and no wedding, for the warlocks and
witches that flit by this way are no wedding guests,” said the old man,
turning to his wife.

“Will you be so good as to direct me to the Hall?” courteously persisted
the traveller.

“Oh, ay, I’ll direct ye fast enough; but be ye’ one o’ the wedding
guests?”

“No, not exactly,” laughed the man.

“Hark to him Jenny! how much he talks like the ither one! Then what’s
your business at the Hall the night? It’s unco late to make a visit, and
varry oncivil to go oninvited where they’re handing a bridal. Wouldna
the morn serve your turn just as weel?” mockingly inquired Andy.

“No; the morning would be too late for my purpose. It is of the utmost
importance that I should reach the Hall to-night!” said the horseman,
beginning to grow restive under the influence of some hidden anxiety
that he could not entirely conceal.

“Is it an affair of ‘life and death?’” inquired Andy, with a touch of
sarcasm in his tone, as he repeated the words that had been used by the
unhappy girl who had preceded this stranger on this road.

“More—much more than life and death is involved,” muttered the
traveller, in a voice vibrating with the agitation that he could no
longer control.

“Hark to him again, Jenny!” grinned the old man. “Just the way the ither
one talked. The de’il maun be holding a levee at the Hall!”

“I beg you will not detain me; pray put me on my road,” impatiently
urged the stranger.

“Oh, ay! ye see the road before ye. Ye’ll just face it and follow your
nose, and it will lead to the old Hall. Ye canna miss it. It stands off
about a quarter mile from the road, on the right. There’s woods before
it, and the Porcupine Mountains behind it. It will be the first grand
like mansion ye’ll come to, and the only one, an’ ye were to ride a
hunder miles in that direction.”

“Thanks,” said the stranger, lifting his cap and remounting his horse.

“And oh, kind gentleman,” said Jenny, coming forward, “an’ ye should
meet wi’ a poor daft lassie who gaed before on the same road, ye’ll no
let her perish for the want of a helping hand. For the love of the Lord,
ye’ll get her under shelter or bring her back here.”

“‘A poor daft lassie,’” repeated the stranger, bewildered by the woman’s
words and manner.

“Ay, sir; a poor bit child wha canna guide hersel’ to ony gude end.”

“A young tramp, sir,” explained the old man. “A young tramp who passed
this way an hour ago; and ye should get her pit into a House of
Correction, ye might be doing her good service.”

“I have no time to stop, but if I should see the young woman I will do
what I can for her. Good night,” said the traveller, putting spurs to
his horse, and galloping away as if determined not to be detained
another moment.

“I’ll tell you what, Jenny, there’s something unco wrong up at the old
Hall! And now shut up the house and come away to bed,” said old Andy,
turning from the door, and dragging his blanket behind him like a court
train.

“I couldna sleep a wink wi’out hearing what becomes o’ that poor
houseless child. I’ll sit up and sew, and show a light i’ the window, in
case she behooves to come back again,” replied Mrs. Birney, replacing
the lantern on the stand before the window, resuming her seat on her low
chair in the chimney corner, and taking up her work, while the old man,
for the last time that night, shut up the house and went to bed.




                              CHAPTER II.
                            AT THE OLD HALL.

              Yes, there thou art below the hill,
              By evergreens encircled still,
              Old hall that time hath deigned to spare,
              Mid rugged rocks and forests fair,
              And nightshade o’er the casement creeping,
              And owlet in the crevice sleeping,
              And antique chairs and broidered bed,
              By housewife’s patient needle spread.—ANON.


Old Lyon Hall lay at the foot of the Porcupine, an offshoot of the
Alleghanies, in one of the wildest and most picturesque counties in
Virginia.

It was built in the Tudor style of domestic architecture, very
irregularly, with many gable ends, gothic windows and twisted chimneys.
Its walls of old red sandstone contrasted gloomily with the dark hue of
the evergreen trees that bristled up above it, and gave the mountain its
descriptive name.

Heavy woods, bare, gray crags, and tumbling torrents surrounded it, and
gave a savage and sombre aspect to the scene. Below the Hall a turbulent
little river, spanned by a rustic bridge, rushed and roared along its
rocky bed.

The Hall was very old. It had been built nearly two hundred years ago by
a Scotchman named Saul Sauvage Lyon, who had received a grant of the
land from James the First. It had remained ever since in the family of
the founder, whose descendants had frequently distinguished themselves,
as soldiers, or statesmen, in every epoch of the country’s history,
either as a colony or a commonwealth.

Some few years since, being the date of this story, the master of the
Old Lyon Hall and Manor was General Leonard Lyon, a retired army
officer, and a veteran of the war of eighteen hundred and twelve.

General Lyon had married very early in his youth, and had enjoyed many
years of calm domestic happiness. But now his wife and children were all
dead, and his only living descendant was his grandchild, the beautiful
Anna Lyon, “sole daughter of ‘his’ house.”

Added to the great sorrow of bereavement was vexation, that, for the
want of male heirs, his old family estate must at last “fall to the
distaff.”

But there might be found a remedy to this lesser evil.

General Lyon had a younger brother, Chief Justice Lyon, of Richmond. And
the chief justice had an only son.

Young Alexander Lyon was a bright, handsome, attractive lad, a few years
older than his cousin Anna.

Under all the circumstances, if it was not perfectly proper, it was at
least natural and pardonable that old General Lyon should wish his
grand-daughter to become the wife of his nephew, so that while she
inherited his estate, she might perpetuate his name.

Quite early in the childhood of the boy and girl, the general proposed
their betrothal to the chief justice, who eagerly acceded to the plan.
And so the affair was settled—by the parents. It was not considered
necessary to consult the children.

Alexander was sent to Yale College, where, for a few years, he led
rather a fast life for a student.

And Anna was placed at a fashionable boarding school in New York, where
she had a great deal more liberty than was good for her.

Twice a year the young persons were permitted to meet—when they spent
the midsummer vacation at old Lyon Hall, where the chief justice and his
wife also came on a visit to the general, and when they kept the
Christmas holidays at the splendid town house of the chief justice at
Richmond, where the general also went to pay back his brother’s visit.
This arrangement was of course very agreeable to all parties.

But as the boy and girl grew towards manhood and womanhood, it was
thought well to change this routine. And so, sometimes in the midsummer
vacation, the whole party, consisting of both families, would go for a
tour through the most attractive places of summer resort. And at
Christmas they would keep the holidays in Washington.

On all these occasions the young lady and gentleman, under the auspices
of their elders, entered very freely into the fashionable amusements of
the season, with the understanding, however, that they were not to fall
in love, or even to flirt with any one but each other.

Miss Lyon and Mr. Alexander seemed at first to have no particular
objection to this arrangement. They had always been fond of each other,
much fonder than of any one else. But ah! theirs was not the love that
would excuse, much less justify marriage.

It has been said that when two persons of like complexion and
temperament intermarry, wise nature and sacred love have had nothing to
do with the union. And the truth spoken to-day is as old as the creation
of man.

Anna and Alexander were of the same complexion and the same temperament;
both were plump, fair, blue-eyed and yellow-haired, both lively and fond
of pleasure, and both, on the surface, and in matters of little moment,
were amiable and yielding, but below the surface, and in affairs of
importance, resolute and determined as destiny and death. In person and
in character they were as much alike as twin brother and sister.

This similarity, while it made their association as relatives very
agreeable, utterly precluded the possibility of their becoming lovers,
in the common sense of the word. They did not know this, when their
hearts were entirely free from any other attachment that might have
awakened their consciousness.

There was no immediate hurry about the projected marriage. It was
certain to take place, the parents concluded, and so they neither
worried themselves nor their children prematurely.

Alexander had to finish his college course, to graduate and to make the
“grand tour,” as was usual with young gentlemen of his position.

When he should have accomplished all this, he would be about
twenty-three years of age and his bride elect would be about
eighteen—both quite young enough to marry, the old folks argued.

The plan was partly carried out.

Alexander Lyon graduated with honors and embarked for Europe. He
travelled over quite a considerable portion of the Eastern Continent. He
was gone two years, at the end of which he returned to claim his
promised bride.

Active preparations were made for the marriage. But fate seemed to be
against it. A few days before the one set apart for the ceremony, while
the whole of both families were assembled at Old Lyon Hall to do honor
to the occasion, Chief Justice Lyon was suddenly struck dead by
apoplexy. Instead of a wedding there was a funeral, and the family went
into mourning for a year.

At the end of that time preparations were again made for the marriage,
which was again arrested by the hand of death.

A malignant fever was prevailing, and Mrs. Lyon, the widow of the chief
justice, was one of its first victims.

At length, at the close of this second term of mourning and seclusion,
the household awoke as from a nightmare dream and busied itself with
blithe bridal affairs.

The splendid city mansion and the fine old country house of the late
chief justice were both renovated and refurnished in costly style for
the reception of the new mistress.

It was settled that the marriage should take place early in November. In
accordance with the old-time prejudices of General Lyon, it was to be
solemnized, in the evening, in the great drawing-room of Old Lyon Hall,
in the presence of a large party of friends, who were afterwards to be
entertained with a ball and supper. The bride and groom were to leave
the next morning for a short tour, after which they were to go to
Richmond and settle down for the winter in their town house, where they
were to be joined by the general.

Such was the arrangement. But “man proposes and”—you know the rest.

The autumn weather that had been glorious with the “excess of glory” in
a genial, refulgent and prolonged Indian Summer, suddenly changed. The
wedding-day dawned threateningly. No sun shone on it. Heavy black clouds
darkened the sky; wild, mournful winds wailed through the woods; violent
gusts of rain dashed suddenly down at intervals and as suddenly ceased.

The inmates of the old Hall watched the weather in hope and fear. Would
it clear up? Or would it grow worse? they asked themselves and each
other. Certainly there was no sign of its clearing; quite the contrary,
for as the day declined the storm thickened.

Fires were kindled in every room of the old house.

In the great drawing-room the two broad fire-places, one at each end,
were piled high with huge hickory logs, that were burning and blazing
and filling the long room with glowing light and genial warmth, all the
more comfortable and delightful in contrast to the tempestuous weather
without—shining on the tall brass andirons and fender; shining on the
polished oak floor, with its rich Turkey rugs laid before each
fire-place and sofa; shining on the wainscotted walls with their
time-honored family portraits; shining on the bright black walnut
furniture; and on every surface and point that could reflect a ray of
light.

This fine old-fashioned drawing-room was as yet vacant, waiting for the
evening crowd of wedding guests, if indeed the state of the weather and
the roads should permit them to assemble.

Fires were kindled in the long dining-room, where a sumptuous supper was
laid out for the expected company; and in all the bed-chambers which had
been opened and aired, cleaned and decorated for such of the guests as
should come from a distance, and need to change their dress and perhaps
to lie down and rest.

In one of the most spacious and comfortable of these upper-chambers,
late in the afternoon of this day, sat the bride elect.

She reclined in an easy chair, with her feet upon the fender and her
eyes fixed moodily, dreamily upon the glowing fire before her, and
listened to the beating storm without.

Here in this room, also, the ruddy blaze shone on dark wainscotted
walls, relieved by crimson damask window curtains, and on a polished
oaken floor, bare of carpets, except for the rugs that lay upon the
hearth before the dressing-table and beside the bed.

This was indeed a lonely, silent, sombre scene in which to find a maiden
on her bridal evening. The tempest raged without, and the wind and rain
beat against the walls and windows as if they would batter them down. In
the pauses of the storm she could hear the rushing of the swollen
torrents and the roaring of the rising river. She knew that the roads
must be almost impassable and the streams unfordable. In truth, no one
had bargained for such weather on the wedding-day.

Of the hundred and fifty guests who had been invited, not one had yet
appeared; not one of her bridesmaids; not the minister who was to
perform the marriage ceremony; not even her bridegroom! And yet all
these had been expected at an early hour of the afternoon.

Everything was ready for their reception and for the rites and festivals
of the evening. Every nook and corner of the genial old home smiled its
welcome in anticipation of the arrival of these expected guests; and yet
not one of them came.

Nor, when she listened to the howling of the tempest without, could the
young bride elect wonder at their absence.

Her rich and varied wardrobe and her rare and costly jewels were all
packed in half a dozen large travelling-trunks that stood ready for
removal outside her chamber door in the upper hall.

Her wedding-dress of rich white velvet, her large veil of fine lace, her
wreath of orange-flowers, and all the accessories of her bridal costume
lay out upon the bed. Yet she doubted that she should be called to wear
them that night: and she sat still gazing into the fire, listening to
the storm, and making no motion towards her toilet.

She looked a beautiful young creature as she sat there, with her
graceful form, her perfect features, her pure complexion, her soft blue
eyes and pale yellow hair.

Of what was she dreaming as she sat gazing into the fire, and heaving
deep, heavy sighs? Surely not only of the storm and the trifling delay
of her marriage, for she must have known that it could only be a
question of a few hours, and that whoever might stay away, her
bridegroom would certainly keep his appointment. What serious subject of
thought had she? what _possible_ subject of grief? Idlest with youth,
health and beauty, with high birth, great wealth and many
accomplishments, about to form the most brilliant marriage of the year,
with a gentleman who seemed her equal in all respects, if not her
superior in some, about to preside over the most splendid establishment
in the city and the grandest old house in the country, and to reign
everywhere a queen in society, what imaginable cause of discontent could
she have?

Ah, friends! did ever any of these things, in themselves alone, satisfy
the hunger of any human heart—make any living creature happy?

The darling daughter, the rich heiress, the beautiful bride elect, sat
and sighed and gazed, and gazed and sighed as if her heart would break.

There were secrets in the life of this motherless girl unknown to her
nearest relatives, unsuspected by her appointed bridegroom. Of that more
hereafter.

She sat there without moving until dark afternoon deepened into black
night, and the raging of the storm became terrific. How long she would
have sat thus I do not know, for just as the little toy of a clock upon
her mantle-piece chimed nine her door opened, and her own maid, Matty,
entered the room.

“I told you not to bring lights until I should ring for them,” said Miss
Lyon, impatiently turning her head.

“I know, Miss Anna; I didn’t bring no lights. I come to tell you how
Marse Alesander has jus’ arroved.”

“He has come—and through all this storm?” exclaimed Anna in a startled
voice.

“Yes, Miss, which Old Marse as’ed if you was ready, and sent me up to
’quire.”

“I can be ready soon, Matty. But—has any one else come?”

“No, Miss.”

“Not the minister?”

“The which, Miss?”

“The Reverend Doctor Barbar.”

“No, Miss.”

“Then I don’t see the use of my disturbing myself yet awhile. There can
be no marriage without a minister,” said the bride elect, with something
very much like a sigh of relief.

“You may go, Matilda,” she added to the girl, who still lingered at the
door.

Matty vanished, and Miss Lyon resigned herself to her reverie.

A few minutes passed, and Matty reappeared.

“What now?” demanded the young lady.

“Please, Miss, ole Marse have sent Jacob, with the close carriage, to
fetch the min’s’er, and say he will be here in half an hour if you will
get ready.”

“Matty, where is your master?”

“In his study, Miss.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Where is Mr. Alexander?”

“He’s gone up to his own room, Miss, to fix hisself.”

“Very well,” said the young lady, as she arose and left her chamber.

She passed up the broad upper hall that was now ruddy and cheerful with
the light of many fires, that shone through the open doors of the
waiting bedrooms, and she went straight to the little room with the bay
window, at the front end, over the main entrance.

She opened the door and found her grandfather seated in his big
arm-chair by his writing table, on which lay books, papers, pens, and so
forth.

But the old gentleman was neither reading nor writing. He was simply
sitting and waiting.

He was a very fine-looking old man, tall and stout, with a full face,
noble features, fair complexion, and snow white hair and beard. He wore
an evening dress of black broadcloth, with a white vest and white
cravat. His white gloves lay beside him, ready for use.

“All alone, gran’pa?” inquired Anna, smiling.

“Yes, my pet—yes, my darling,” said the old gentleman, rising and
handing his grand-daughter to a seat with as much courtesy as if she
were a princess. “But why are you not dressed, Anna? It is late, very
late.”

“Oh, gran’pa, what an awful night for a wedding! And there is no one
here, and no one likely to come.”

“Yes, my dear, but it is the night appointed, and your bridegroom is in
the house, and the minister will soon be here.”

“Gran’pa,” pleaded Anna, leaving her seat and coming and sitting on his
knee, and putting her arm caressingly around his neck—“dear gran’pa, I
cannot bear to be married under these evil auspices, without witnesses,
without bridesmaids, and on a dark night and in a heavy storm. Why
cannot the marriage be deferred until to-morrow morning? What difference
can a few hours make? At least, what difference that is not very
desirable? By to-morrow the storm will be over. The ceremony can be
performed early in the morning. I can be married in my travelling dress.
The supper will do for a breakfast. And we can start immediately upon
our wedding tour. Say, gran’pa, may not the marriage be deferred until
the morning? It is awful to be married in solitude, on a dark, stormy
night. Say, dear gran’pa! _May_ not the marriage be put off until the
morning?”

“My dear, no; it cannot be.”

“But—why not?”

“For many reasons. For one—Anna, I confess, old soldier as I am, to a
little superstition on some subjects. This marriage has been already put
off _twice_. If it should be put off a third time, it will never take
place. A marriage thrice deferred never comes to pass. There, my child,
go and dress. It is nine o’clock. You are two hours behind time.
Alexander is nearly ready, and the minister will be here in a few
minutes,” said the old gentleman, rising and gently leading his favorite
out of the room.

“‘A marriage thrice deferred never comes to pass.’ I wish _I_ was sure
of that, and could defer mine just _once_ more,” mused Anna, as she went
back to her room. “And yet,” she added, compunctiously, “that is unjust
and ungrateful to Alexander. Poor Alick! I dare say, in all these years,
he has never even dreamed of any other girl but me, while I—while I—Ah,
Heaven have pity on us! Well, well, I will bury the past deep in
forgetfulness, and I will try to make him a good wife.”

When she reached her room she found Matty and Matty’s mother, Marcy, who
was her own old nurse, in attendance. The fire was mended, the hearth
swept and the lamps lighted. The two on her dressing-table shone down
upon an open casket of jewels that blazed with blinding radiance.

Anna went wearily up to look at them.

“Mars’ Alic sent them in by his man, honey,” said Aunt Jenny in
explanation.

It was a splendid set of diamonds, consisting of ear-rings, breastpin,
necklace and bracelets.

“You will wear them, honey, dough dere ain’t anybody to see them?”

“Except the giver! Yes, auntie, I will wear them. Poor Alick!” sighed
Anna, sitting down on her dressing-stool, and resigning herself into the
hands of her attendants.

They went willingly to work. The task of arranging their mistress for
her bridal was with them a labor of love.

Old Marcy standing behind the chair brushed and braided the beautiful
hair. Young Matty on the floor, encased the dainty feet in silken hose
and satin slippers. And then the beauty stood up and let them remove her
wrapper and put on her robes and her wreath, and her veil. But with her
own hands she clasped the diamond necklace around her throat and the
diamond bracelets on her wrists, and put ear-rings in her ears, and the
brooch upon her bosom.

And when her toilet was completed she looked, if looks were all, a very
royal bride, fit to share a young monarch’s throne.

She sat down again and said:

“Matty, you may go and tell your master that I am ready.”

The girl left the room to take the message, but in the hall she ran
against some one who seemed on his way to speak to the bride. And so she
turned back to say.

“Miss Anna, here’s Jake asking if he can have a word with you.”

“Certainly. Tell the boy to come in,” said the young lady.

The son of the coachman, one of the younger grooms, entered, hat in
hand, bowing low.

“Well, my boy, what is it?” inquired his mistress.

“If you please, Miss, I telled her as she couldn’t, and she said as she
_must_, and I telled her as she shouldn’t, and she said she _would_,”
replied Jake, rather incoherently.

“‘Would?’ what?—who? I don’t understand you, boy.”

“Her, Miss. I telled her she couldn’t, nohow, but she ’lowed she _must_,
anyhow. And I telled her she shouldn’t then, there! and she ’lowed she
_would_, so there!”

“Would what, Jake?”

“See you immediate, Miss.”

“_Who_ would see me?”

“Her, Miss.”

“Who is she?”

“The young woman, which I think she is crazy, Miss, and not safe to be
seed.”

“Oh, dear! dear me, Jake, what young woman are you talking of?” said
Miss Lyon, impatiently.

“Her as runned in out’n the storm, Miss, and said how she must see you;
and I telled her she wasn’t fit to be seed herself, being drippen’ wet,
nor safe to be seed, being sort o’ cracked, and—oh my laws! there she is
now, a followed of me!” exclaimed the boy, breaking off in dismay, to
stare with wide mouth and eyes at the opening door.

Miss Lyon turned her head in that direction, and saw standing there a
slight, pale young creature, enveloped in a long gray cloak, with its
hood drawn over her head and shading her face.




                              CHAPTER III.
              THE HOUSELESS WANDERER AND THE BRIDE ELECT.

                  They whispered—sin a shade had cast,
                      Upon her youthful frame,
                  And scornful murmurs as she past
                      Were mingled with her name.

                  “She is not beautiful,” they said,
                      I saw that she was more;
                  One of those women, women dread,
                      Men fatally adore.—ANON.


And the homeless wanderer through the wild winter-night, she who had
called herself Anna Lyon, stood in the presence of the bride elect.

“Drusilla! Drusilla Sterling! Is it you? Is it really you! Oh, my poor
child, how happy I am to see you!” exclaimed Miss Lyon, in the utmost
surprise and delight, as she advanced with extended hands to welcome her
unexpected guest.

Drusilla suffered her cold fingers to be clasped, and she raised her
soft, appealing eyes to the young lady’s face; but she spoke no word in
reply.

“Oh, my dear child, how sorrowful we have been for you! Why did you
leave your home? Where have you been? What have you been doing? Where
did you come from last? And how came you out on such an awful night? And
oh, poor girl! in what a state you have come back? Don’t try to answer
any of my questions yet! You must be warmed and fed first,” said Miss
Lyon, who in her excitement had hurried question upon question to the
exhausted girl, and seeing that she could not answer, repented her own
thoughtless vehemence, and turning to her servants, said:

“Marcy, take off her cloak and hang it up, and sit her down in that
arm-chair before the fire, and remove her wet shoes. And, Jacob, go down
stairs and ask Mrs. Dill to send up a glass of hot port wine negus, and
some warm, dry toast. And be quick about it!”

Jake hurried away to do his errand.

And the young wanderer permitted the old nurse to remove her cloak, and
seat her in the chair before the fire, and take off her wet boots.

Marcy had not failed to see the fact that had also been apparent to the
old woman at the toll-gate. And as she was passing out of the room with
the wet cloak over her arm, and the wet shoes in her hand, she stopped
and whispered to her young mistress:

“Lord pity her, poor thing, I’m right down sorry for her; but she is not
fit to be in your presence, Miss Anna.”

For an instant the pure and high-born maiden recoiled with a look of
pain and horror; but then quickly recovering herself, she murmured:

“Hush, no more of that. Take those damp things from the room and hang
them before one of the spare fires, Marcy.”

And when the woman had gone, Miss Lyon walked up to the poor wanderer
and laid her hand tenderly on her shoulder.

The little pale face turned itself around to hers. The soft pleading
eyes were raised:

“Yes, Miss Lyon, that is well. Send all your women from the room, for I
must speak with you alone,” she murmured, in a voice vibrating with
suppressed anguish.

“Speak to me, then, my child; and speak freely. No mother could listen
to your story with more sympathy than I shall,” said the heiress,
drawing a chair to the fire and sitting down near the girl.

“You are not yet married? the ceremony has not yet been performed?” the
wanderer inquired, looking wistfully at the bride.

“No, certainly not, or I should not be here; we are waiting for the
minister. Did you want to see the pageantry, my child? If so, you can do
so,” said the bride elect, smiling, as if to encourage her desponding
protegée.

“_I_ want to see it! No, Miss Lyon, I came here to-night to put a stop
to it,” exclaimed the girl.

“To put a stop to it! Drusilla, are you mad, my dear?” said Miss Lyon,
in amazement.

“I wish I was! I should have no duties to do then! Oh, Miss Lyon!”

“Explain yourself, my dear Drusilla; for indeed I fear some great grief
has distracted your mind.”

“No, no; but oh, Miss Lyon, I am about to give you great pain! as great
almost as I suffer myself. Would I could suffer alone! Would I could
suffer for both!” moaned Drusilla, in a voice full of woe, as she bowed
her head upon her hands.

“Speak out; speak freely,” said Miss Lyon, gravely.

“If I alone were concerned, I could be silent. If it were not to save
one from crime and another from misery I could be silent.”

“Nay now, nay now, you do alarm me, Drusilla! To the point, dear child!
to the point!” urged Miss Lyon.

“You are thinking ill of me?” asked the girl, raising those meek
prayerful eyes to the face of the young lady.

“No, Drusilla! No one can judge you with more leniency than I shall, my
poor, dear child. Do not fear to open your heart to me,” said Miss Lyon.

“I have no cause to fear on my own account, lady. You said that you
would judge me with leniency. You meant that you would judge me with
charity. But I am not a subject of charity, Miss Lyon, I am a subject
for justice,” answered the girl, with gentle dignity.

“I am waiting to hear your communication, Drusilla, whenever you please
to tell it to me,” said Miss Lyon.

But at that moment the door was opened, and Matilda entered with a tray
in her hand.

“If you please, Miss, ole Marse say how the carriage hasn’t come back
long o’ the min’ser yet, and when he comes he will send and let you
know,” the maid announced.

“Very well, Matilda; what have you got covered up on that tray?”
inquired Miss Lyon.

“Please, I overtook Jake, awkward fellow, tumbling up stairs with this
in his hands, which he said he was ordered to fetch it up for some one
as was with you, and took it away from him to fetch it myself, because
if I hadn’t, he’d have fallen down and broken all the glass and spilt
all the wine,” answered the girl, turning a wistful glance upon the
stranger.

“Quite right! Put the tray on that little table, and set the table here
by the fire, and leave the room,” said Miss Lyon.

The maid obeyed orders.

When she was gone Miss Lyon uncovered the tray, and pressed the
refreshments upon her visitor.

Drusilla eagerly drank the warm wine and water, but declined the dry
toast.

“I have so much thirst all the time, but I cannot swallow a morsel of
food, for it always chokes me!” she said, in explanation.

When the girl had emptied the glass, she seemed somewhat revived in
strength, and Miss Lyon again suggested that she should make the
communication she promised.

With a deep sigh, with her head bowed upon her bosom and her hands
clasped upon her knees, the girl began the story of her short life and
long sorrow.

But perhaps we had better tell it for her, because, for one reason, she
suppressed much that would have vindicated herself; since to have
related it would have criminated another. We will, with even-handed
justice deal fairly by both.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                            A CHILD’S LOVE.

           It is an olden story,
             Yet, yet ’tis ever new,
           And whensoe’er it happens,
             It breaks the heart in two.
                                   —FROM THE GERMAN OF UNGER.


The late Mrs. Chief Justice Lyon had been a notable manager. She had
looked well to her household, utterly scorning the idea of entrusting
her domestic affairs to the hands of any hired housekeeper, until the
infirmities of age came upon her, and she could no longer rise early and
sit up late, or go up and down stairs a dozen times a day, as she had
been accustomed to do.

Then she advertised for a housekeeper, who was required to be the
nonpareil of matrons and managers, and to furnish the most
unquestionable of references.

She received, in reply, just thirty-three letters from applicants for
the place. Thirty-two were read, and cast into the waste paper basket,
without even the honor of an answer.

The thirty-third was read and considered.

It came from a highly respectable woman, the widow of a poor Baptist
minister. Her age, her character, her competency and her references were
all unexceptionable—so much so that old Mrs. Lyon seemed to think that
the Lord had created the Baptist minister’s widow for the especial
purpose of providing her with a housekeeper.

But there was a drawback.

The widow, Mrs. Sterling, had an “encumbrance,” as a child is cruelly
called—a little girl, aged six years, from whom she was unwilling to
part. In mentioning this “item,” Mrs. Sterling had said that, if allowed
to bring her child, she would consent to come at half the salary offered
by Mrs. Lyon.

The old lady pondered over the letter. She was very anxious to have the
housekeeper, but she did not want the “encumbrance.”

Finally, as she could not come to any decision unaided, she took up the
letter and waddled off to the old judge’s “study,” where he kept his law
books and documents, and where he read the newspapers, and smoked or
dozed the greater part of the day, but where he never “studied” for an
hour.

She sat down and read the letter to him, and then said:

“You see she is just exactly the sort of woman that I want—and a
clergyman’s widow, too—so respectable. If I were to advertise, and keep
on advertising for a year, I might not meet with another so suitable.”

“Well, then, engage her at once,” said the Chief Justice with more
promptness of decision than he had often brought to bear upon his law
cases.

“Yes, but there’s a difficulty.”

“In what? Doesn’t she like the terms?—Give her her own; you can afford
it, if she suits you.”

“She likes the terms well enough. Don’t you see she offers to come at
half what I give, if permitted to bring her child.”

“Then where on earth is the difficulty? _I_ don’t see it.”

“Why, about the child, Judge.”

“Oh, the little girl. Well, let the woman bring her child; what possible
objection can there be to that?”

“Yes, but she would be an encumbrance.”

“On whom, I would like to know? Not on you, not on me, and certainly not
on her mother. Nonsense, my dear, let the child come; never make a
difficulty about that.”

“But children are so troublesome—”

“Especially when they are not our own. Tut, tut, if you don’t want the
woman, don’t take her; but if you do want her, take her, and let her
bring her little one. Bless my soul alive, haven’t we got five or six
dogs, and seven or eight cats, and half a score of birds? and if one
child can make a hundredth part of the noise that they do, I’m greatly
mistaken.”

“Yes, but children are not like them; children are always eating cake,
or sucking toffy, and toddling about with nasty, sticky hands, laying
hold of your skirts—”

“My dear, don’t say mine; I don’t wear any. Nonsense, Sukey, take the
woman and risk the child. Or stay—I see light at last. Take her on trial
with the child, and then, if it should prove a nuisance, get rid of it,
or of both.”

“That’s just what I _can_ do. Thank you, Judge, you were always a wise
counsellor,” said Mrs. Lyon, turning to leave the room.

“Don’t know. But hark ye, Sukey, my dear. No cutting down of the poor
woman’s salary on account of her ‘encumbrance.’ That is a reason for
raising it, not for reducing it,” called the judge after his retreating
wife.

“Oh, I never intended to give her less than full pay,” replied Mrs.
Lyon, as she went to her room to answer her letter.

The result was the engagement of Mrs. Sterling, with her “encumbrance.”

The widow and her child arrived one cold day in December, soon after the
family were settled in their town house for the winter. She was the
least in the world like the “poor widow” of poetry and fiction.

She was a little, wiry, muscular looking body, with no encumbrance of
flesh, whatever she might have of family, for she was rather thin in
form and face. She had a high color, black hair and black eyes. She was
cheerful, active and enterprising. She wore no widow’s weeds, because,
she explained, it had been three years since she had lost her husband,
and black was a bore, always catching dirt and showing all it caught,
and making everybody gloomy. She wore serviceable browns and grays, or
dark crimsons.

She entered upon her duties with great energy, and soon had the house in
perfect order, and the domestic machinery moving like magic. It is
needless to say that she gave great satisfaction to her employers.

“I do not know how I ever got along without her. I know I could not
now,” said Mrs. Lyon, adding, “I would rather have her, even with two
children instead of one, than any body else without any. And indeed the
child is _not_ a nuisance, after all.”

No, the child was not a nuisance. And neither did she bear the slightest
resemblance to her mother. She was a delicate little creature, with a
pure, pale face; large, soft, gray eyes, and bright, silky, brown hair.
She was very quiet, thoughtful and industrious for such a mere infant.
Her mother ruled her with the same rigid discipline with which she
governed all the servants of the household committed to her charge.

The little one was never allowed to go out of doors except on Sunday,
when she was taken by her mother to church, or sent by herself to Sunday
school. On all other days she was confined strictly to the housekeeper’s
room, where, after learning one lesson, doing one sum, and writing one
copy, she was kept stitching patch-work quilts from morning till night.

The Chief Justice, who was an awful myth to the little girl, had never
once set eyes on her.

But old Mrs. Lyon, coming occasionally to the housekeeper’s room to give
some orders, would see the demure little creature sitting on her low
stool in the corner of the hearth, and stitching soberly at her
patch-work, and she would say to the mother:

“Mrs. Sterling, why don’t you let that child run out into the garden and
play in this fine, clear, frosty weather? The air would do her good.”

“Well, I don’t know, madam. You see how delicate she is; she might take
cold.”

“Delicate, and no wonder, Mrs. Sterling; kept mewed up in this close
room at needle-work all the time, as if she was sewing for her living—a
babe of six years old! If you are afraid to let her go into the garden,
let her run about the house; don’t keep her here always.”

“Thank you, madam; but I cannot let her do so. She might grow
troublesome; and, besides, she _will_ have to sew for a living some day
or other if she doesn’t do it now. She can’t have me always to look to;
she will have to take care of herself, and so she must learn to be
patient and industrious by times.”

“Poor little thing,” murmured the old lady.

“Don’t pity her, if you please, madam, or put into her head that she is
ill-used, for she isn’t. I do everything for her good, and it’s not
likely that I would do any thing else, for I am her own mother,” said
the housekeeper, respectfully but firmly.

“I don’t believe you know what is for her good, and if you are her own
mother you treat her worse than any stepmother would,” the old lady
thought and would have said, only that she was a little afraid of Mrs.
Sterling.

“She isn’t the least like you. Who is she like?” inquired Miss Lyon.

“Her father. See, here is his miniature,” said the widow, drawing from
her pocket a morocco case, and handing it to the old lady.

“Yes, she is like her father. What a very interesting face he has. Has
he been dead long?”

“Three years last March; he died of consumption. I suppose she will go
the same way,” said the widow, indicating her child.

“You should not let her hear you say so; if she gets the impression that
she is to die of consumption because her father did she will probably do
so,” whispered Mrs. Lyon. Then aloud she spoke this truth: “Nobody need
die of consumption or of anything else except old age, unless they have
a mind to. Plenty of good food and proper clothing, and out-door
exercise will prevent consumption.”

And with a parting glance of pity at the pale child, the old lady left
the room.

“You mustn’t mind what Mrs. Lyon says; she is not like us. She is a
great lady, and thinks of nothing but taking her ease and indulging
herself, and she fancies that _we_ can do the same; but you know we
can’t,” said the widow, applying the antidote to what she considered the
poison that had been dropped into the child’s mind. “We must deny
ourselves, and bear our burden, and after all it is easy enough to do.”

“Yes,” said the mite in the corner, repeating her Sunday school
Scripture text, for our Saviour said, ‘Whosoever will come after me let
him deny himself, take up his cross and follow me.’

“Yes, and if you don’t do it you know you will be eternally lost,” said
the clergyman’s widow.

“Oh, but our Saviour will never let me be lost, no never; I know that
much.”

“How do you know that? If you disobey him you will be lost.”

“Oh, no! He will not let me be—no, never, not even if I was to steal
away from my work and go and play in the garden. He would forgive me
like he did Peter; and then I should feel sorry, and cry, and then he
would make it all right again,” said the quaint little infant Theologian
with an air of positive conviction.

“Child! where did you learn such bad doctrines? Not at Sunday school, I
know,” said the widow, in dismay.

“Yes, I did, in the Sunday school, in the Bible texts, and they are
good. Our Saviour was good and all that he did was good. Don’t he say
that he was sent to seek and to save them that were _lost_? And I know
he will never let me be lost, no nor the old lady neither, even if she
does take her ease, because she is so good-hearted.”

“Miss! don’t you know it is wrong to contradict your mother? And you
have contradicted me several times.”

“Yes, I know—but—I must say what is true about Our Saviour when we talk
of him.”

“Well, you shall sew one hour longer this evening, as a punishment for
your disrespect to me.”

“Well, mamma, I will sew all day and all night, if that will do you any
good, so you will let me say what is true about Our Saviour. Sewing is
easy enough, the dear knows—easier than being scourged and stoned, and
all that, like some of his poor friends were for his sake,” said the
child, as she carefully fitted the little squares of her patch-work
together.

“Only six years old and to talk like that! She is one of the children
who are doomed to die early,” thought Mrs. Sterling.

And indeed any one looking at that child, with her delicate frame, large
brain and active intellect, must have come to the same conclusion. But
they would every one have been mistaken. There was a wonderful vitality
and power of endurance in that little slight nervous frame. No one is
faultless. And if this little atom had a fault, it was that of being
just a “wee bit” self-opinionated. She was a very promising pupil in a
very orthodox Sunday school; yet from the very texts they had taught her
she had received impressions that the teachers certainly never had
intended to give her, and these impressions had become convictions in
defence of which she was willing at six years to suffer the baby
martyrdom of—“sewing all day and all night.”

Meanwhile the Christmas Holidays were approaching, and the young son of
the house was coming home to spend them. And his uncle and cousin were
invited to meet him. Great preparations were made to entertain the
party. Old Mrs. Lyon’s visits to the housekeeper’s room became more and
more frequent as the time for the arrival of the visitors drew near.

And whenever the old lady came, she inevitably found the quiet child
sitting on her stool in the corner of the hearth sewing for dear life.

But old Mrs. Lyon took no farther notice of the infant. Partly because
she was too full of her own affairs and partly because she was
displeased by the housekeeper’s disregard of her advice.

But the demure child, listening to every word that passed, with the
interest only a recluse could feel, heard a great deal about “Mr.
Alexander.” Whoever else might be coming, it was for this darling only
son that his mother planned. It was of his comfort and pleasure only
that she thought and talked.

And the little listening child grew to look upon “Mr. Alexander” as some
young king of Israel—some splendid and magnificent Saul, or Solomon, who
was to be the glory of the house. And because hero-worshipping was a
necessity of her deep, earnest, reverent soul, she began to worship him.

At length, two or three days before Christmas, the expected visitors
began to arrive.

First came General Lyon, the fine, martial-looking old man with his
commanding form and snow white hair and beard; and his grand-daughter,
the beautiful Anna Lyon, then a fair, blooming, blue-eyed and
golden-haired hoyden of twelve years of age; both attended by their
servants. And next came Mr. Alexander, then a rollicking young man of
eighteen.

The whole party was assembled in the drawing-room, and Mrs. Sterling
happened to be with them when Mr. Alexander was announced and entered,
in a great noisy bustle of joy.

He shook hands heartily with his father and then with his uncle; and he
embraced his mother and his cousin, and then, before he knew what he was
about, he threw his arms around the housekeeper and hugged and kissed
her.

“Oh, see here! you know I didn’t mean it, I didn’t indeed, ma’am; I beg
ten thousand pardons! but I am so much in the habit of kissing everybody
I meet here that—that—I kissed you by mistake. But if you don’t mind it,
_I_ don’t; or if you feel aggrieved, why, you may kiss and hug _me_, and
that will make it all square between us,” laughed the boy, when he
discovered his error.

The clergyman’s widow curtsied very stiffly without moving a muscle of
her face.

“This is Mrs. Sterling, who manages our house, Alick,” said his mother,
gravely.

“Mrs. Sterling, I am very happy to have the honor of knowing you, and I
am persuaded that the house is managed to perfection,” said the young
man, bowing.

The widow curtsied more stiffly than before, and then withdrew from the
room.

“I say, Anna, I wouldn’t kiss her again for the best hunter in your
father’s stables; my lips got frost-bitten by that first encounter,”
whispered the young man, with a smile, to his cousin.

“Served you right, Alick. You should look before you leap,” laughed
Anna.

“That mightn’t always prevent my leaping, especially if the feat seemed
a dangerous one, though it would have done so in this case, I admit.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of another guest—an uninvited and
unexpected, if not an unwelcome one.

The door was opened by a servant, who grimly announced:

“Mr. Richard Hammond.”

And “Poor Dick,” the black sheep of the flock, entered the room, looking
rather sheepish, it must be confessed.

And yet he was a very handsome and gentlemanly youth, tall, slender,
with a fine Grecian profile, with a clear brown complexion, black
curling hair and dark changing eyes—with a frank countenance and an
engaging smile that few, or none, could resist.

But well he might look sheepish, poor outlawed fellow, for his entrance
cast an instantaneous chill over the family circle.

General Lyon drew himself up haughtily. The chief justice looked grave,
his wife sad, and their son angry. Only Anna seemed pleased. And not
only pleased, but delighted. For the instant she saw him she bounced up,
overturning two or three chairs in her hurry and rushed to meet him,
exclaiming:

“Cousin Dick! Oh, dear Cousin Dick, I am so glad you’ve come! It would
have been such a dull Christmas, indeed no Christmas at all, without
you!”

And she gave him both her hands and pressed and shook his, and drew him
towards the group, and first instinctively presented him to the
kind-hearted old lady:

“Aunt Lyon, here is Cousin Dick. Are you not very glad to see him?”

“How do you do, Richard?” said the old lady, offering her hand.

And the black sheep stooped and kissed her.

“Uncle, here’s Dick. Isn’t it a pleasant surprise?” asked Anna.

And uncle had to come and shake the scape-grace by the hand.

“Grandpa, look here; you don’t see Dick. Here’s Dick waiting to speak to
you!” she persisted.

And General Lyon had to turn and meet the engaging smile of the handsome
boy.

“Alick,” said Anna, in a low whisper, giving her betrothed a sharp dig
in the ribs with her elbow, and a very vicious look from her angry blue
eyes, “if you don’t stop glowering, and come and speak to Dick, I’ll
never speak to _you_ again.”

“Anything to keep peace in the family,” laughed Mr. Alexander, as he
cleared up his brow, and went and welcomed the new comer.

And in two minutes more Dick was seated in the circle around the fire,
the life of the little company talking and laughing, telling jokes and
singing songs, and keeping everybody pleased and amused, so that they
forgot they did not want him, and almost fancied that they could not do
without him.

There was nothing very wrong about Dick Hammond. It is true that he was
a very unpromising law student, being rather idle and extravagant—fonder
of play than of work, and loving his “friends” better than himself. You
know the sort of man—one of that sort of whom it is always said that he
is “nobody’s enemy but his own.”

Dick had a neat little patrimony, but his relations said that he was in
a fair way of making “ducks and drakes” of it, and they discountenanced
and disapproved of him accordingly.

His one fast friend was his cousin Anna, and every year she was growing
to be a stronger and more important one.

At ten o’clock that night, Mr. Richard Hammond made a motion to go, but
the chief justice said:

“Stay all night, Dick.” And old Mrs. Lyon added:

“Stay and spend the Christmas holidays with us, Dick.”

So Mr. Richard stayed, and sent for his portmanteau from the hotel where
he had stopped on his first coming to the city.

And having the freedom of the house, he took more liberties in it than
any one else would dare to do—going into any part of it, and at any hour
he pleased; popping in and out of the chief justice’s secluded study,
and breaking up his naps; popping in and out of the old lady’s sacred
dressing-room, and startling her in the midst of the mysterious rites of
the toilet; and bouncing in and out of the housekeeper’s room, the
pantry or the kitchen, to the serious discomfiture of the manager, the
butler and the cook.

Yet everybody loved Dick, so long as the influence of his frank manners,
sunny smile, and sweet voice was upon them. But when that was withdrawn,
and they were left to their sober reason, they strongly disapproved of
him.

“Little pitchers have long ears and wide mouths,” says the proverb. And
the little pitcher in Mrs. Sterling’s private apartment was no exception
to the general rule. Sitting stitching at her patch-work, she often
heard Mr. Richard’s shortcomings discussed, and she pitied him, for she
thought that he had wandered away very far from the fold, and was in a
very bad way indeed.

One day when poor Dick popped into the housekeeper’s room, to ask for
some brandy and salt to dip the wick of his candles in, to make “corpse
lights” for ghosts to carry, and scare the maids with, he found no one
there but the child, sitting in the corner and stitching patch-work as
usual.

She looked up at him solemnly, and nearly annihilated him with the
following appalling question:

“Young man, are you one of the lost sheep of the House of Israel?”

“EH?” exclaimed Dick, starting.

“I ask you, are you a lost sheep? They say you are a black sheep, and I
believe it is the black sheep that go astray,” she said, gravely, and
folding her hands and contemplating him.

Dick burst out laughing, but when he recovered himself he answered very
gravely:

“Indeed, I fear I am a lost sheep, little girl.”

“Well, that is bad, but don’t be frightened. Our Saviour knows where you
are, and He will be sure to find you, and fetch you into the fold.
Because, you know, He came to seek and to save those that are lost. And
what he came to do He _will_ do, and nothing in this world can prevent
him.”

“I’ll be shot if that isn’t an encouraging doctrine if it is a true one,
little girl. I sometimes wish somebody _would_ find me and fetch me into
a place of safety; but I fear I shouldn’t be worth keeping when found,
for I am a sad, foolish, naughty sheep, child,” said the young man, with
a self-mocking laugh.

“Never mind, don’t make game of yourself. If our Saviour thinks you
worth looking for you are too good to be laughed at; and when He does
find you and fetch you into the fold, He will make as good a sheep of
you as—as—as—” The child seemed at a loss for a comparison, until her
face suddenly lighted up, and she said: “As Mr. Alexander himself!”

“As Mr. Alexander himself! Oh, my eye! catch me, somebody! Only there’s
nobody to do it!” said Dick, rolling up against the wall and holding his
sides.

“What’s the matter? Have you got the stomach-ache? There’s some rum and
molasses in the cupboard,” said the child.

“No, oh no!” cried Dick, bursting into vociferous laughter. “You are the
solemnest little quiz! To hold up Mr. Alexander as a model for me! Well!
I’m bad enough, goodness knows, but—! Why, little one, Mr. Alexander
isn’t a sheep at all, either good or bad! He’s a goat, a rank black
goat, and never has been in the fold, and never would be let into it!”

“Sir, it is very wrong in you to speak ill of a gentleman so in his
absence,” gravely asserted the little monitor.

“So it is; you are right there, little girl,” admitted the scape-grace.

And the timely entrance of Mrs. Sterling put an end to this strange
interview, and possibly saved the young man a serious lecture from the
little child.

Dick got his candles, brandy and salt, and whatever else he wanted of
the housekeeper; for that strong-minded woman, no more than her weaker
sisters and brethren, could resist Dick’s irresistible smile.




                               CHAPTER V
                       THE CHILD MEETS HER FATE.

                “The sun himself is coming up this way.”


That night “a most horrid spectre,” wrapped in a long winding sheet, and
bearing a corpse candle that cast a cadaverous color over his
countenance, stalked through the lower regions of the house, frightening
the maids, and the men too, for that matter, from their propriety, and
raising such a row in the dignified residence of the chief justice as
might have brought the police down upon any house of a less assured
standing.

And upon an investigation of the matter next morning, Mr. Richard was
discovered to be at the bottom of the business.

And the quiet little girl in the housekeeper’s room heard again of his
delinquencies and pitied him and wished that he was more like Mr.
Alexander, that splendid paragon of youth whom his mother was always
praising. The child, closely confined to her mother’s chamber, had never
seen the hero of her admiration. But the hour was near at hand when she
was to meet him in an interview destined to determine the whole course
of her future life.

It was on Christmas Eve. All the preparations for the Christmas festival
were made. The turkeys were already killed and dressed for the roaster;
the hams were in soak; the plum pudding was mixed; the pies and cakes
baked; and all the materials for the egg-nogg and apple-toddy laid out
on the pantry table; and the notable housekeeper might have taken her
ease but for one thing.

There was to be a pantomime at the city theatres that evening. And the
three young people were to go. And as there were no reserved seats, they
were to go very early in order to secure good places, for it was
foreseen that the house would be very much crowded. And thus dinner was
ordered two hours earlier than usual, so that they might get off in
time.

Mrs. Sterling, having finished her morning’s work, was putting off her
working gown of brown alpacca to put on a nice dress of black silk in
honor of Christmas Eve, when old Mrs. Lyon came in to give the
instructions about the dinner, and having given them, immediately left
the room.

The housekeeper was in no plight to go all the way down to the kitchen,
so she sent the child to tell the cook to come up to her for orders.

The little one went and delivered her message faithfully; and was
returning to her mother’s room, when, in passing through the back hall,
she suddenly met the god of her infant idolatry face to face. She knew
him at once, either by instinct or because there was no other young man
beside Mr. Richard (whom she knew by sight) in the house. She backed up
into a corner to let him pass.

“Heyday! Who have we here? A child in the house? I haven’t seen such a
thing here for years! Or are you a fairy changling?” inquired Mr.
Alexander, in surprise.

The child did not reply, but—I am sorry to say—put her finger in her
mouth, dropped her chin and rolled up her eyes in a shy glance at the
splendid youth.

“Ah bah! that’s very nasty! Don’t stick your finger in your mouth and
stare, but hold up your head and answer when you are spoken to. Tell me
who you are, little girl!” said Mr. Alexander.

Prince Solomon had condescended to issue orders and they were
immediately obeyed by his loyal subject. Down went the little finger; up
went the little face, and she answered:

“I am Mrs. Sterling’s little girl.”

“And a very nice little girl, too, to do as you are bid. Always do so,
do you hear?”

“Yes sir.”

“And so you are the housekeeper’s daughter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How is it that I haven’t seen anything of you before?”

“Because mother never lets me go out of her room.”

“Never lets you go out of her room?”

“No, sir.”

“Why?”

“Because she is afraid that the——” Here the child lowered her voice to a
tone of mysterious awe—“_chief justice_ would be angry if he saw me
about.”

“Bosh about his being angry! He is not a King Herod to hate the sight of
a child, or desire the death of the innocents. You don’t mean to tell me
that you are cooped up in the housekeeper’s room all the time?”

“Oh no, sir, I am not cooped up anywhere any of the time; only the
poultry for Christmas was cooped up, and that was in the back yard; I
saw them through the window. But I sit on a nice little stool in
mother’s room and sew pretty quilt pieces.”

“All day long?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And every day?”

“Oh, no, sir, not every day. I go to Sunday school on Sundays.”

“But on all other days you are kept confined to that room all day long?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you look just as if you were, you poor little pale thing, and
that is the truth. It is horrid. I’ll speak to my mother about it. Why,
you ought to be romping all over the house, you know, and going to
pantomimes o’ Christmas, like other children. Say, little a—a—What is
your name?”

“Anna Drusilla Sterling, sir,” said the child, beginning to grow restive
under all this questioning, and to swing her shoulders from side to
side, after the manner of some children when saying their lessons.

“There—don’t do that; it’s ugly,” said Mr. Alexander.

And the swinging instantly ceased.

“‘Anna Drusilla Sterling?’ Well, I have one Anna already, so I shall
call you Drusilla,” said the young man.

“But my mother calls me Anny.”

“Never mind what your mother calls you—I shall call you Drusilla. Well,
little Drusilla, wouldn’t you like to go to the pantomime with us
to-night?”

“I don’t know, sir. Please, what is it?”

“It is something got up to amuse little children like you, though big
children like myself find it equally diverting. Wouldn’t you like to go?
I should like to take you, and to see it through your great staring
eyes, as well as through my own. It would be a ‘new sensation.’ Come,
what do you say?”

“Thank you, sir. Is it pretty?”

“Beautiful!”

“And good!”

“It is heavenly!”

“Then I think I should like to go, sir, if mother will let me.”

“Oh, she will let you fast enough, for I shall make a point of it.”

“What did you call it, sir, please?”

“A pantomime.”

“Oh, I know now,” said the child, with a sudden look of bright
intelligence; “it is something about Moses and the children of Israel,
isn’t it, sir?”

“Eh? ‘Moses and the children of Israel?’ What put that into your little
noddle?” laughed the young man.

“Why, sir, you know the books of Moses are called the
panta—panta—something; it’s a very hard word, sir.”

“Oh, you are talking of the pentateuch?”

“Yes, sir, a very hard word. I always miss it at the class, it is so
very hard.”

“Very,” laughed the young man.

And now, as the voice of the housekeeper was heard calling her child,
the little girl made her Sunday school curtsey, and ran away from her
new friend to join her mother.

Mr. Alexander gazed after her as he might if she had been sixteen
instead of six, for he was fond of children, as well as of kittens and
puppies, and all small creatures. They amused him. He was now determined
that this quaint little child should go to the pantomime with himself
and his friends, for he knew perfectly well that to watch _her_, and
witness _her_ wonder and delight, would be as diverting as to see the
play itself—it would, in that way double his own entertainment.

Mr. Alick was benevolent, but not very scrupulous, I regret to confess.
So, when he went to the housekeeper’s room to ask leave to take the
child to the pantomime, judging that the Baptist preacher’s widow would
set her face against all such exhibitions, he took a hint from the
child’s mistake, and was so unprincipled as to persuade that pious
matron that the spectacle in question was a historical affair,
illustrative of the Israelites, and very instructive and edifying to the
youthful mind. And so, with Mr. Richard to back him he talked the
housekeeper into consenting that her child should accompany them,
especially as Miss Anna was to be one of the party. And Mrs. Sterling
began to dress little Drusilla—we shall call the child by her second
name, for the same reason that Mr. Alexander did, to distinguish her
from the other Anna.

Immediately after dinner the young party set out, and reached the
theatre in time to get good front seats.

The pantomime was “Jack the Giant Killer.” But as Mr. Alexander kept
little Drusilla beside himself, and kept the play bill in his own hands,
he found it easy to persuade the simple child that the exhibition was of
“David and Goliath,” Jack was David, and Jack’s first giant was Goliath.

And the child was exceedingly edified, as well as highly entertained.

Mr. Alexander found it “as good as a play,” and much better than a
pantomime, to watch her. Her credulity was equal to her delight, and
both were unbounded. But she thought it was not exactly like the
Scripture story, after all.

Mr. Alexander explained to her that they could not make it exactly like,
because things were so different now to what they were then.

Little Drusilla accepted the explanation in full faith, saying in her
solemn way, that she supposed they did the best they could, and that we
must “take the will for the deed.”

The pantomime was over a little after ten o’clock, and the youthful
party returned home.

Little Drusilla, restored to her mother’s charge, would have rehearsed
for her benefit all the great spectacle of “David and Goliath,” but that
the good lady told her that it was time for her to be asleep, and made
her go immediately to bed.

Notwithstanding the late hour at which the young people had retired on
Christmas Eve, they were all up by times on Christmas day. All was
lively bustle throughout the house. Everybody had Christmas gifts, at
which each pretended to be as much surprised as he or she was expected
to be.

Miss Anna had a little set of diamonds, consisting of ear-rings and
brooch, presented by her grandfather; an ermine tippet and muff from her
uncle; a set of antique lace from her aunt; a diamond bracelet from her
betrothed; and from scape-grace Dick a real King Charles lap-dog, which
she openly preferred to all her other presents, because she said it was
alive, and could give love for love.

The old lady had a new patent easy chair, a new pair of gold spectacles,
and a set of sables.

And the gentlemen of the party were overwhelmed with embroidered
slippers, smoking-caps, dressing-gowns, penwipers, and so forth.

The housekeeper was presented with a new brown silk dress. And there was
not a servant in the house but received a present.

“And who has got anything for little Drusilla?” inquired Mr. Alexander.

But nobody answered him.

“Well, I’m dashed! Only one bit of a baby in the house, and nobody has
thought of her. And this especially a child’s festival, because it
celebrates the birth of the Divine Child, who also loved little
children! Say, mother, the shops are open in the city this morning, are
they not?” inquired Mr. Alexander.

“Until ten o’clock, Alick; not after,” replied the old lady.

“All right, it is only eight now—plenty of time. I’m off; but I’ll be
back to breakfast,” said Mr. Alexander, darting out of the drawing-room,
seizing his hat in the hall, and rushing from the house.

“Ah, what a kind heart has this child of our old age, John!” said the
old lady, turning proudly and fondly to her husband.

“Yes—yes; a good boy—a good boy,” answered the Chief Justice.

“Ah, Anna, my dear, you will be a happy woman if you live long enough,
for you will have a good husband,” she continued, turning to her
intended daughter-in-law.

Anna shrugged her shoulders.

“You don’t seem to agree with me, Anna.”

“Oh yes I do, Aunt Lyon, to some extent. I think Alick is really very
kind when it amuses him; but I don’t think he would be kind to any
living creature when it would bore him to be so. For instance, he would
bring me home a present, and be really delighted with my delight in it;
but he wouldn’t give up a skating party to take me to a wax-work show if
I were to cry myself ill from disappointment.”

“Oh, I suppose you have had a tiff with him; that’s of no consequence at
all. ‘The quarrel of lovers is the renewal of love,’” said the old lady,
laughing to herself.

But Anna had had no tiff with her betrothed, and her judgment of him was
a righteous one.

Mr. Alick soon came rushing in with his arms full of packages, and
looking like a railway porter. He set down three large ones on the
floor, threw himself into a chair, and exclaimed:

“Now then, mother, send for little Drusilla. It will be fun to watch her
eyes when she sees these things.”

Mrs. Lyon rang the bell, and sent a servant to fetch the little girl to
the drawing-room.

The child’s mother being in a particularly good humor since receiving
the new brown silk dress, made no objection, but sent her along in
charge of the servant.

Little Drusilla entered the drawing-room, looking very pretty in her new
red merino frock, which suited well with her dark hair and dark eyes,
and clear, pale face.

She made her little curtsy at the door, and then as Mr. Alexander held
out his arms she ran straight up to him.

“Now, then,” said the young gentleman, taking her on his knee, while the
mysterious packages lay all around his feet, “if you could have your
wish, what would you wish for?”

“Mother says it is foolish and wicked to wish for anything, because if
it is for our good, the Lord will give it to us whether or not.”

“Well but suppose you were so foolish and wicked as to wish for
anything, what would it be?” persisted the young man, while all the
other members of the Christmas party looked on, smilingly.

The child pondered gravely.

“Come—what would it be?”

“I think a work-box,” answered the child, looking up at length.

“What! not a doll-baby?”

“Oh, I would rather have a doll-baby, but I thought it would be _too_
wicked to wish for that, because it is useless,” said the little one.

“Well, look here, now! First, here’s the doll-baby,” said Mr. Alick,
unwrapping one of the parcels, and taking from a mass of tissue paper a
splendid wax doll, with rosy cheeks, blue eyes and golden hair, all
dressed in blue satin and white lace.

“Oh-h-h! m-y-y!” exclaimed the child, in breathless delight, as she took
the doll and held it up before her, and gazed at it with ever-widening
eyes.

Mr. Alexander laughed and squeezed her, he so much enjoyed her
enjoyment, and the whole party looked on, amused and interested.

“Isn’t it a beauty?” asked the youth, giving the child another squeeze.

“It is a love! it is a darling! it is as pretty as—as—as Miss Anna!” she
exclaimed, turning her eyes from the golden-haired doll to the
golden-haired girl.

“Thank you, little one! That compliment is sincere, however flattering,”
laughed the heiress.

“And now look here!” said Mr. Alexander, taking up another parcel; “she
is wearing her ball dress, you know, which is very proper for Christmas,
but would never do for every day. And a thrifty little woman like you
would never let her doll wear her best clothes for common; so you must
fit her out with a wardrobe, and here are the goods to do it with.”

And he unrolled a second parcel, and displayed a yard each of pink, blue
and buff cambric, and several yards of white muslin, and some remnants
of ribbon and lace.

“And now,” he said, as the child was contemplating these additional
treasures with increased delight, “now you will require something to
make them up with, won’t you?”

“Oh, no; I mustn’t wish for anything more. This is too much!” said the
little one, with eyes dancing for joy.

“Except what you wished for first of all, which I think was something
like this,” said Mr. Alexander opening a third parcel, and producing a
pretty little work-box fitted out with scissors, thimble, needles,
thread, and every requisite for sewing.

“Oh, how much I do thank you, sir. Once before I dreamt I had pretty
things like these all to myself, and I was sorry I ever woke up. Do you
think I’ll wake up this time, sir?” inquired the little girl, evidently
perplexed between delight and dismay.

Mr. Alexander laughed, and intensely enjoyed the pastime that he had
purchased at so small an outlay, but the old lady said, very gravely:

“You have bewildered the child, Alick. She is not used to presents, and
you should have treated her upon the same principle as that upon which
the doctors treat their patients, who have been suffering from a long
starvation, and given her but a little at a time. And now put her off
your knee and come to breakfast; or if you can’t part with her, bring
her along.”

Mr. Alexander immediately put the little creature down, and told her to
take up her treasures and run away with them to her mother as fast as
she could.

Mr. Alexander could give the child presents and divert himself with her
delight in them, but he could not consent to be bothered with her at the
breakfast table, where he wished to give “his whole mind” to the
business there to be on hand.

His mother, more considerate, touched the bell, and told the servant who
answered it to help the child to carry her presents to the housekeeper’s
room.

The man gathered the parcels up and took Drusilla by the hand; but as he
led her from the room she suddenly looked back, impulsively broke away
from her guard, and ran up to her benefactor and took his hand and
kissed it.

“Why, what a grateful little imp you are, to be sure! It is worth while
trying to please _you_; one succeeds so well and one’s efforts are
appreciated and thanked,” said the young man, raising the child in his
arms and kissing her, and then darting a half-merry, half-reproachful
glance at his cousin Anna.

“If you meant that for _me_, Mr. Alick, I don’t see the point of it. You
never do anything to please _me_, unless it still better pleases
yourself. You are one of the sort of folk who would carelessly fling a
dollar to a strange beggar, but would not lose an hour’s rest by the
bedside of a sick friend,” said plain-spoken Anna.

“Well, there’s somebody that will do both,” said Mr. Alexander, jerking
his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Dick. “He sat up with
old Jerry Brown, who had the smallpox. I wonder if you would have liked
him so well, Anna, if he had taken it; as he might have done; and lost
his hair and eyebrows and been otherwise badly marked?”

“Yes I would, Alick! But, thank goodness, Dick, darling, you didn’t get
it, and you are not marked; but just as good-looking as ever,” said
Anna, defiantly.

“Come, come, this is pretty quarrelling among cousins on Christmas
morning, too! Put a stop to it,” said Mrs. Lyon.

The young people laughed and obeyed. They were only “sparring.” And they
all sat down to the breakfast table in high, good humor.

And little Drusilla went back to her mother, as happy as it was possible
for a child to be. And her happiness was all associated with the idea of
Mr. Alexander, that splendid being who had been the central object of
all her wonder, curiosity and admiration, long before she had set eyes
on him. She had never dreamed of such bliss as she now enjoyed, and all
through him!

Up to this time her little life had been dreary enough, more dreary than
even she knew since she had known nothing better with which to compare
it. Her very earliest recollections were of her father’s sick room, and
his long and painful illness; and then came his death, and her mother’s
sorrow and their poverty; and finally, this situation in the family of
the Chief Justice, where the child had been led to believe that her
presence could be only tolerated for the sake of her mother’s valuable
services, and upon condition of herself being kept out of the sight and
hearing of the family.

All these were very miserable and gloomy antecedents; but now they had
passed away like the shadows of the night; for now came this bright,
young Mr. Alexander, to bring daylight and sunshine into her infant
life.

His kindness to the pale orphan did not cease with Christmas Day. So
long as the Christmas and New-Year’s holidays lasted, Mr. Alick insisted
on little Drusilla sharing all the young people’s amusements; because,
in point of fact, it greatly enhanced his enjoyment to have her with
them.

When the holidays were over, General Lyon took his grand-daughter back
to school; Mr. Alexander returned to college; and the house was emptied
of its visitors.

In taking leave of his pet, Mr. Alick had said:

“And now, Drusilla, when I am gone you must be my mother’s little girl,
do you hear?”

“Oh, how I wish I might! Oh, how I _do_ wish I might!” said the child,
weeping and clinging to her friend.

“Mother, when I am gone, you’ll be good to the poor little thing, if
only for my sake, won’t you?” he inquired, as a feeling of real pity
moved his heart.

“Indeed I will, Alick,” earnestly replied the old lady.

“And you will not let old Bishop Sterling keep her mewed up in that
horrid room all the time?”

“Not if I can prevent it, Alick.”

With this promise Mr. Alick departed.

And little Drusilla clung to the old lady’s skirts, and wept as if her
heart would break.

For her the day had departed with the sun that had made its light, and
the darkness of the night had come again.

You may depend upon it that the old lady sincerely sympathized with the
child who wept for _her_ son’s departure, and so she petted little
Drusilla, and took her out that day, when she went in the carriage to
purchase some articles that were needed in the housekeeping.




                              CHAPTER VI.
                          THE NEXT FEW YEARS.

          When she commenced to love she could not say,
          Ere she began to tire of childish play.—WORDSWORTH.


The little girl grew to be a great favorite with the old lady; first,
for her beloved and only son’s sake.

“Poor Alick was so fond of the child,” she said; though why she called
the gay and prosperous young collegian “poor,” only aged mothers can
tell.

Afterwards she loved the little one for its own sake.

“The child is such a quiet little creature,” she said, “and so
intelligent and obliging.”

Little Drusilla had the freedom of the house. When her tasks were over
in the housekeeper’s room she might wander where she would, and was
tolerated like a pet kitten.

She would creep into the old lady’s sitting-room, and nestle down at her
feet, ready to hold a skein of silk for her to wind; to pick up her
scissors when she should drop them; to ring the bell for a servant, or
to do anything else that her little hands and willing mind could
accomplish.

And so it came to pass that she became useful and even necessary to her
benefactress.

“You have no idea how many steps about my room the little creature saves
me,” said Mrs. Lyon to the child’s mother.

“I am very glad to hear it, madam; it is her duty to make herself
useful,” replied the housekeeper.

“And then she is so much company.”

“I hope she knows her place, madam, and is not pert.”

“She is a little dear, and I would not be without her for anything; so
don’t be troubled.”

“I trust in you, madam, to send her away whenever she becomes annoying
to you.”

“Quite right; when she becomes annoying I shall do so,” laughed the old
lady.

Whenever Mrs. Lyon got letters from Mr. Alexander she read them to
little Drusilla; and in no one could she have found a more attentive,
intelligent and sympathizing listener. In almost every letter the young
gentleman wrote:

“Give my love to my little pet, and kiss her for me,” or words to that
effect.

Whenever Mrs. Lyon wrote to Mr. Alexander she would smilingly ask the
child what message she had to send; and little Drusilla would answer:

“Please say I sent him a love and a kiss; and I ask our Father to bless
him whenever I say my prayers.”

And the message would be faithfully transmitted.

Sometimes when Mrs. Lyon chanced to be out of her room the little girl
would creep to the door of Judge Lyon’s study, and peep shyly in.

And whether the old lady happened to be there or not the old gentleman
would call the child in, and pat her head, and talk to her, and feel in
all his pockets for stray pennies to give her.

Little Drusilla had but one use for pennies—“to drop in the purse” that
was carried around on Sundays in the Sunday school.

Mrs. Sterling, seeing how really welcome her child was, “in hall and
bower,” no longer tried to keep her confined to the housekeeper’s room.

So the winter passed away, and the spring opened.

Early in the season the family, with their whole establishment of
servants, migrated to Crowood, the fine old country-seat of the chief
justice, situated in the dense forest-land of the valley. Of course Mrs.
Sterling and her child went along with them.

Among woods, fields, and streams, birds, shrubs and flowers, little
Drusilla seemed in her native element, and with her fellow-creatures.
Her enjoyment of nature was intense and her delight unbounded. Her joy
overflowed and communicated itself to every one in the family. Even the
old justice said:

“The child makes me long to have my grandchildren about my knees; for,
after all, this little one isn’t ours.”

“Well, if she isn’t she’s a pet of poor Alick’s, and that makes _me_
think a deal of her,” answered Mrs. Lyon.

The old lady was a great flora-culturist, and had one of the most
beautiful flower-gardens in the country. It was her pleasure to tend it
herself; and she passed much of her time in dibbling and digging,
weeding and watering, planting and transplanting her favorite specimens.

And on these occasions the child was always at her heels, with little
spade, rake, hoe, watering-pot, or guano basket; and she soon learned to
know the name, and watch the growth of every variety of flower as well
and as carefully as her benefactress could.

Mrs. Lyon was also a poultry fancier, and had some of the finest broods
in the neighborhood. Moreover, she chose to look after her hen-roosts
and nests in person.

And whenever she visited her poultry yard for this purpose little
Drusilla would walk behind her with a basket, which she would carry full
of corn for the chickens, and bring back full of fresh eggs for
breakfast. And the child knew the relative merits of bantam, dominicho,
duck-legged, or Spanish broods, as well as their mistress. Shanghais and
Cochin Chinas were unheard of in that day.

But Mrs. Lyon’s pride of prides was her drove of cows—unexcelled and
even unapproached in all the country around. And to these especially,
the old lady often gave her personal attention.

And whenever she walked down to the cow-pen in the afternoon
milking-time, to see for herself that her cows were in a good condition,
and that her milk-maids did their duty faithfully, little Drusilla
walked behind her, with a little basket in her hand full of small, sweet
apples to treat the pets. And with her own little hand she would hold a
small apple up to the great mouth of some prize cow, and laugh to see
the long red tongue thrust out and folded around the morsel to be
crunched up by the teeth. And the child knew the name and pedigree of
every prodigious prize cow there, and could tell the distinctive points
of the Durham, Alderney, Ayrshire, or other breeds.

In a word she became the old lady’s “shadow,” and she learned all the
old lady could teach her without giving her teacher the least trouble,
but on the contrary a great deal of assistance. She gained much
practical knowledge, if but little book learning.

Strangers who saw them together invariably took the little girl to be
the old lady’s grand-daughter; and Mrs. Lyon was always rather pleased
by the mistake.

And little Drusilla was “as happy as the day was long.”

So passed the spring and half the summer.

But in the middle of July the chief justice and his wife went to the
mountains, to old Lyon Hall, on a visit to the general and his daughter,
where they expected to be joined by Mr. Alexander.

Little Drusilla wept over the departure of her friends; but when they
were gone she occupied herself with the commissions Mrs. Lyon had left
to her—left with the purpose of interesting and amusing the lonely child
during her own absence. These were to weed the flower beds, feed the
chickens, and take small sweet apples to the favorite cows at the
afternoon milking-time.

All these pleasant tasks did the little girl gladly and faithfully
perform.

Nevertheless the days seemed long, now that her dear old friends were
gone.

But days and weeks, however tedious, pass away in time.

At the end of six weeks, on the first of September, the chief justice
and his wife come back to Crowood.

Mrs. Lyon could not enough praise the fidelity of her little handmaiden.
There was not a weed to be found in all the flower beds; the chickens
were fat, and the cows in a good condition (though this last item was of
course due more to the fine grazing than to the little treats of sweet
apples tendered to them by the little Drusilla.)

The old lady and the child became better friends than ever. Mrs. Lyon
had a great deal to tell about Mr. Alexander, and little Drusilla was
never tired of listening.

And so three more pleasant months were passed at Crowood, and then the
family went back to the city. They were comfortably settled in their
town house by the first of December.

Mrs. Lyon went out in the carriage to shop, and took Drusilla, and
purchased for her pretty, bright colored merino dresses, suitable for
childhood.

Christmas came, and brought General Lyon, Miss Anna and Mr. Alexander,
on their annual visit. And Mr. Richard Hammond came, an uninvited but
not an unwelcome guest.

Little Drusilla was now always with Mrs. Lyon. The housekeeper had
fairly given the child up to the old lady.

And Mr. Alexander, who, on this occasion was the first of the Christmas
party to arrive, found Drusilla in the drawing-room, neatly dressed in a
crimson merino frock, with a ruffled white apron, and with her pretty
hair curled and tied back with crimson ribbons.

After affectionately greeting his mother and father, he turned to the
child.

“Why—is this? No, it isn’t. Yes, it is actually my little Drusilla. Why,
what a bright little bird you have grown, to be sure!” he exclaimed,
snatching her up in his arms and kissing her boisterously, as she clung
around his neck, smiling in delight, and timidly hiding her face.

“Well, I will say, mother, she does you credit. You have quite
transfigured her. What have you been doing to her to improve her so
much?”

“Giving her a little more sunshine, that is all, Alick,” smiled the old
lady, greatly pleased because the son of her old age was so.

“I declare I never saw such a change in any creature. I left her a year
ago, a dingy little chimney swallow. I come back, and find her a
brilliant oriole. Indeed, I didn’t know her at first, and I shouldn’t
have known her at all, but for her eyes and forehead; _they_ will never
change. I say, father, by the way, talking of her forehead, look at it.
If there be any truth in phrenology _she_ must have intellect.”

“I don’t think it requires an appeal to phrenology to prove that the
child has rare intelligence,” said the chief justice.

“Intellect is a snare as well as beauty; goodness is the quality most to
be desired,” remarked Mrs. Lyon, gravely. Then, speaking to the child,
she added:

“Now run away into the garden and play for half an hour or so. This
clear, frosty air outside is good for little girls.”

Mr. Alexander put his pet down, and then the little creature ran out of
the room.

“I must beg you both, my husband and son, not to say such things as you
have been saying in the child’s presence again. I have too real a regard
for her to wish to have her spoiled.”

“All right, mother; I wouldn’t do anything to spoil her for the world,”
said Mr. Alexander.

And the chief justice also acquiesced, for the old lady was
queen-regnant in her own family kingdom.

An hour later General Lyon and Miss Anna arrived. And at night Mr.
Richard made his appearance. And with the coming of Dick the holidays
really commenced.

On Christmas morning a great many presents were interchanged. And while
rich jewelry, furs, shawls, dresses, laces, slippers, caps, gowns and
gloves were given and received, little Drusilla ran from one group to
another, deeply interested and sincerely sympathizing in the pleasure
and satisfaction of her friends.

“I have not forgotten you this time, little one; see here, what a lot of
pretty stories to read these long winter evenings,” said Mr. Alick,
unwrapping a parcel from which he took a large volume of “Fairy Tales,”
profusely illustrated with splendidly colored engravings.

What child’s heart does not dote on Fairy Tales and on colored pictures?

Little Drusilla’s eyes fairly leaped with joy, and she caught the young
man’s hand and kissed it eagerly, and pressed it to her heart, and put
it on her head. Apparently she could not do enough to express how much
she was obliged to him.

“Oh, nonsense; I’m not the Emperor of Morocco or Khan of Tartary, to be
worshipped after that fashion,” laughed the young man, “and my knuckles
must be knobby sort of kissing. Up here, crimson lips, and kiss me on
the mouth, if nothing but kissing will relieve your mind. Come, Miss
Anna won’t be jealous, not now, at least, though I don’t know what she
might be if you were seventeen instead of seven.” And he took her up in
his arms, and kissed her very fondly.

“And now see here,” he said, as he put her down again, “here is
something else I have got for you—a pretty little _papier mâché_ writing
desk, furnished completely. See, here is an inkstand and a sand box,
here are pens of several sizes, and pencils of all qualities, and here
are envelopes and note-paper of every color and shade. Now I know you
can write a little, as well as read a great deal. So, when I go away
again, I want you, instead of sending me messages, to write me nice
little notes, and give them to my mother, and she will put them inside
of hers, and send them to me. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” said the child, gravely, as the tears stole down her cheeks.

“Now, then, what are you crying for?”

“Because you are so good to me, and—and you are going away again, and I
shall not see you for—for—for a year,” sobbed the little Drusilla.

“Whe-ew! here’s borrowing trouble! Why, I shall not go for six weeks
yet, and who knows but the world may come to an end before that time,
and we may all go to Heaven together? Come, stop crying. What! you
can’t? Hey day! Do you love me as much as all that comes to?”

“Yes, sir,” sobbed the child.

“Well, then, if you do love me, mind what I say, and stop crying. It
blubbers your face all up, and makes you ugly, and I couldn’t possibly
love an ugly little girl.”

Drusilla wiped her eyes by rubbing her fists into them, and then, little
woman-like, turned her head aside, and stole a furtive glance at the
mirror opposite, to see if she had made herself as ugly as Mr. Alexander
said, and finding that she _had_, she began to compose herself.

And in a few minutes afterwards she seemed deeply interested in sorting
the contents of her writing desk.

This was one of the merriest Christmas seasons that the young people of
the Lyon family ever passed. The weather was very fine. Everybody was in
good health and high spirits. Amusements were many and various. And
where-ever the young party went they took little Drusilla with them. She
was the family pet.

Bright seasons must terminate, as well as dark ones, and the merry
Christmas holidays came to an end, and the happy Christmas party
separated.

Again little Drusilla was inconsolable, until time reconciled her to the
absence of her friend.

But she obeyed his order, given half in jest and half in earnest. She
wrote a little letter to him to be put in every one that his mother
sent. And real love-letters they were too, though scratched in the most
awkward of infantile hands.

“I love you so; I do love you so much; I do love you more than anybody
in the world; every time I say my prayers I thank Our Father for making
you, and I pray to Him to bless you and to keep you good. And I do all
you tell me to do, and it makes me feel glad. And I don’t do what you
tell me not to do. And when anybody wants me to do anything well that is
hard, they speak your name and then it seems easy for me. I let mother
cut off all my long curls and did not cry, for she said that my hair
would grow out so much nicer by the time you come back. But oh, how long
it will be before you come back. But I won’t cry after you, for you say
it makes me ugly and you couldn’t love an ugly little girl. Mother says
I must not wish to be pretty; but oh, I do, because you like pretty
people. But if I am good you will always like me, won’t you? Is there
any little girl at college that you like as well as me? You’ve got the
little dog, I know. You took him with you. To think you could take the
little dog and couldn’t take me. It does seem hard, because I love you,
oh so much more than the little dog could. I’m not jealous of the poor
little dog; don’t think that, only it seems so hard, when I love you so
much.”

Such was the sort of ardent nonsense the little child wrote to her big
hero; but after all, it was no worse nonsense than many of her grown-up
sisters write to the heroes of _their_ imaginations.

Old Mrs. Lyon never looked into little Drusilla’s scrawls—or, if she
did, she never took the trouble to decipher them.

Mr. Alick would smile over them; because they pleased him. He liked to
be loved. The preference of any dumb brute was pleasing to him; how much
more so then the worship—for it was little less—of this fervent,
earnest, enthusiastic little girl?

“How devoted to me the little quiz is, to be sure. Christopher Columbus!
if this sort of thing should grow with her growth and strengthen with
her strength, what will become of me? Bosh! by the time she is seventeen
or eighteen some young prig of a parson will cut me out and there an
end.”

And Mr. Alick laughed at the conceit, and thought of the black-eyed girl
he had danced with at the last party.

But for all that he could not do without the child’s love or the child’s
letters; and he cherished both.

This first year of Drusilla’s life with the Lyon family was a sample of
several that followed.

Every Spring the family went to Crowood, taking the housekeeper and her
child and all the servants with them; and Drusilla renewed her
acquaintance with woods and fields and streams; and increased her
knowledge of plants, poultry, cows, and animate and inanimate nature
generally, from personal observation.

Every midsummer she was left princess regent of the poultry yard, etc.,
while her benefactors went to visit their relatives in Old Lyon Hall in
the mountains.

Every autumn the family returned to Richmond to spend the winter.

And every Christmas came the grand family re-union, in which, to the
child’s worshipping eyes, Mr. Alexander was the central figure. This
Christmas gathering became to her the crowning glory of the year, for
then she saw him. He became thus associated with all that was best and
brightest in her life. He brought her the books and pictures for which
already her intellect and imagination had begun to hunger. He always
examined into the progress of her education; though that was scarcely
necessary, for the constantly improving style of her letters to him
revealed her steady advance. I believe that with her bright
intelligence, she would have studied well from the pure love of
knowledge, even if Mr. Alexander had never patronized her; but now all
cooler motives were lost in the ardent desire to please her friend. And
indeed she did please him; he was proud of her, vain of her, not as if
he had been her father, but as if he had been her creator. He seemed to
think, as she grew in beauty and bright intelligence, that he had made
her what she was. To his apprehension, he was the sun and she the
sun-flower, ever turning towards him for light and life.

Every one, who is not blindly selfish, likes to patronize where to do so
costs little or nothing. Mr. Alexander’s patronage of this child amused
and interested him; cost him nothing; but won for him a vast return of
love and gratitude.




                              CHAPTER VII.
                        THE GIRL’S FIRST GRIEF.

             One hurried kiss, one last, one long embrace,
             One yearning look upon her tearful face,
             And he was gone—C. H. W. ESLING.


At ten years of age little Drusilla met her first great grief; and very
heavy it was, for it nearly crushed out her life.

Mr. Alexander being twenty-two years of age, and having completed his
college course, graduated with some honors, and returned home to spend a
week or two of the beautiful spring weather with his parents previous to
starting on his travels.

The family had not yet left the town house in Richmond, where General
Lyon and Miss Anna, now a blooming young lady of sixteen, came to visit
them.

During this visit it was arranged that Mr. Alexander should travel for
two years and then return and marry Miss Anna, and that the young couple
should take up their permanent abode at Old Lyon Hall.

But in all the interest and excitement of arranging his own and his
promised bride’s affairs, Alexander did not neglect Drusilla. He had
come into a little property of his own, left him by a bachelor brother
of his mother; and so before he went away he said to the old lady:

“Mother, little Drusilla is going on eleven years old and ought to be
sent to school. And I wish you, if you please, to look out a good one
for her, the best that can be found, and send her. I wish you to do this
for me at my expense. My money is in the City Bank, and I will leave you
a number of blank checks, to fill up as you may require them. Will you
attend to this for me, mother?”

Mrs. Lyon hesitated and pondered, and then answered:

“Yes, Alick. I can’t refuse you anything on the eve of a voyage. And I
don’t see any harm in this—a good common school education——”

“Oh, mother, not that only; but the best—the very best—that can be got
for her. See what a bright, intelligent, industrious little creature she
is,” hastily interrupted Alexander.

“What! do you mean that she shall learn languages and music, and——”

—“Everything that a young lady is taught, mother. Everything that Anna
knows. Why not? Think how small the cost, after all, to me; how great
the good to her.”

“That is true, Alick. You are really a very noble-minded young man. I
must say it, if you are my son.”

“Bosh, mother, begging your pardon, I’m nothing of the sort. But I like
to do a good thing now and then.”

“And this will be a good thing for her. It will enable her to get her
living as a governess.”

“Not a bit of it, mother; Heaven forbid that my child should ever become
a governess, to be teased by stupid children and snubbed by insolent
mammas.”

“Then I am afraid you and Anna will have to adopt her,” said the old
lady drily.

“And what’s to hinder us? Think what a charming companion my child will
be for Anna, and how much more charming if she should be well educated.”

“Why, you talk as if you were her father.”

“Well, I feel as if I was!” said the young man, as a real tenderness
softened the expression of his face.

The next day Mr. Alexander left home for his distant travels.

No one took the parting hard but his mother and his “child.”

His father and his uncle shook hands with him heartily, wishing him a
good voyage. His mother held him to her heart and prayed and wept over
him. Miss Anna kissed him with a cordial, cousinly smack, and told him
not to forget her in foreign parts.

But when he lifted Drusilla up, as he had been accustomed to do, and
kissed her on the mouth once, twice, thrice, and said feelingly:

“I cannot do this when I come back again, my child!”

She clung to his bosom and gasped, but could make no reply, she was so
suffocated with grief.

He set her down very gently and went away.

The general and the judge looked for the morning papers.

Miss Anna sat down to cut the leaves of a new novel.

But old Miss Lyon took the hand of the pale, tearless, motionless child,
and led her away.

Little Drusilla, sensitive, impressible and inexperienced, dropped under
the heavy blow that had fallen on her with all the force of a first
great sorrow. She fell ill, nearly unto death, moaning, in her
semi-delirium, snatches of her grief:

“Oh, don’t go! don’t go! Two years—two long, long years! Oh! so far
away! His man could go with him, and not I—not I who will die about it!
Oh, come back! come back, or I will die—indeed I will die!”

Mrs. Lyon soothed this distress as well as she was able, and when, after
weeks of illness, the little girl grew better, the old lady told her of
all Mr. Alexander’s plans for her welfare—that he had decided she must
be sent to school and educated like a young lady; that afterwards she
was to be taken to live as a companion to Miss Anna.

Drusilla listened very humbly and gratefully to this communication; but
much as she loved knowledge, and anxious as she was to acquire it, she
felt too bereaved and sorrowful to take delight in that or in anything
else, as yet.

As soon as the child recovered her health, she was fitted out and put to
one of the best boarding schools in the city.

Her mother made no objection, only mumbled to herself this piece of
philosophy:

“If we don’t know much of the future, of this we may be certain—when we
expect anything to turn out _this_ way, it will be sure to turn out
_that_. I thought the child was going to be a nuisance and a bore, and
behold! she is a treasure and a pet! And so it is with everything!”

And meanwhile, with one great bond of sympathy between them, the old
lady and the little girl grew faster friends than ever.

But her devotion to Alexander—it grew with her growth and strengthened
with her strength. It was her one faith, hope, love—her inspiration, her
religion, her soul; it was a part of herself—no, her _very_ self—this
all-absorbing, all-concentrating, all-devoting love to him.

His bosom was her home, though he might never let her into it; what the
nest is to the bird his bosom was to her—the bourne of all her thoughts,
the safe and happy resting-place of her heart, though as yet she was an
exile from it.

The sphere of study was around her; it did not govern her, but served
her, for all that she could get from it was drawn in to help the one
great moving power of her being. She loved learning so much for his
sake, that she did not know whether she loved it for its own. Her
expanding intellect seemed only her enlarging love. Her advancement in
knowledge seemed only to be progress towards him.

She seemed to herself to belong to him—to have been made _for_ him, made
_of_ him, almost _by_ him. She was as the rib taken from her Adam’s
side, conscious of her dislocation, and longing to be put back again,
and made one with the life of her life. If Alexander had died at this
time, I think that Drusilla would have ceased to live.

One other such case as hers I have seen in common life, and that must be
nameless, and one I have met in history, the love of the child-queen,
Isabella, for her grown-up consort, Richard II. And that there are many
other instances of such devotion, I have no doubt.

Drusilla remained at the “Irving Institute” for nearly three years. With
her love of knowledge and desire for improvement, her quick perception
and retentive memory, her progress in education was both easy and rapid.

As yet she had not seen enough of the world to know herself by
comparison with others, so there were some things in her school life
that gently moved her wonder; first, in the study hours, to see that the
pursuits which were pastime and delight to her, were labor and vexation
to most of her classmates; and second, at the school parties, to which
the younger brothers of the pupils were invited, to see girls of her own
age actually engaged in flirtations with boys who were no older than
themselves, and who seemed to her, to be children.

With the great religion, idolatry—call the passion what you will—that
inspired her soul, she could not understand such silliness in her
companions, and therefore, pretty and intelligent as she was, her
reserve made her somewhat unpopular.

She wrote to Mr. Alexander every week, because he had requested her to
do so and she had promised, and also because writing to him was the
greatest pleasure she had in this world except receiving his letters.

She wrote to him regularly every week, as I said; and about once in two
months, on an average, she got a letter from him; but she could not
complain for his mother got one no oftener, and both made excuses for
him; he had “so much to engage his attention,” they said.

At length, when he had been gone more than two years, the letters
ceased, or seemed to cease, altogether. Several months passed, and
nothing was heard of Mr. Alexander. His father opined that he had passed
over into Africa, where post-offices were few, and mails doubtful, and
hoped that he would soon return into a more civilized section of the
world, from which he would write to his relations.

Old Mrs. Lyon grieved and complained. She was sure that he had been
killed by the Arabs of the Desert, or sold into slavery by the Algerine
pirates.

Drusilla pined in silence, or if she opened her mouth to speak upon the
subject, it was to try to encourage her old friend, and herself also.
She told Mrs. Lyon that Bedouin outrages and Barbary piracies were
horrors belonging to the past. She showed her the modern map of Africa,
and pointed out how few and far apart were the points from which letters
could be sent home, and she sought to demonstrate that the absence of
post-offices and mail routes was the all-sufficient cause of the silence
of the traveller in Africa. Thus she succeeded in cheering the old lady;
and whenever Mrs. Lyon felt more discouraged than usual, she always
sought Drusilla to be comforted by her.

General Lyon thought as the judge thought, that Alexander being in
Africa could not write home; and he wished as the judge did, that the
wanderer might soon return to Europe, civilization, and post-offices.

Miss Anna never troubled her head about the matter. She was his promised
wife, and so his mother hoped that he might write to her, if to no one
else. And Mrs. Lyon often wrote to Anna, to ask if she had heard from
Alick yet. And Anna always answered—“I have not had a letter from him
for ages. _He has forgotten me._” And Anna’s “wish was father to this
thought.” And furthermore, she advised her correspondent not to be
uneasy. Alick, she thought, would come back safe in time, no doubt.

People who are not anxious can be so rational!

But at length suspense was ended.

It was early in December. The judge and Mrs. Lyon were in their town
house, looking forward to the annual Christmas visit of the general and
Miss Lyon, when the old lady received a letter from her son. It was
dated from Paris, and contained the joyful news that he had returned
from Africa in perfect health and spirits, and was going over to
Southampton to take the first steamer bound for New York; and that soon
after they should get his letter they might expect him in person.

Mrs. Lyon, after reading this letter to her husband, and receiving his
comment:

“Well, I told you so. I shall be glad when he is safe at home, though;”
hurried off to the Irving Institute, to tell the joyful news to the only
one from whom she would be sure of perfect sympathy, in this her great
happiness.

She sent for Drusilla into the reception parlor, and told her all the
news, and then read the letter to her.

The girl clung to her old friend and wept with delight.

“This letter came by the steamer that got into New York harbor on
Wednesday. This is Friday, and there is another due this week! He may be
in it!” said Mrs. Lyon.

“There is another due now, and he will be sure to be in it. Think,
madam, the steamer that brought this letter should have been in last
Saturday. The steamer that should have followed it in order must be at
her pier now. We may expect Mr. Alexander by every train,” said
Drusilla, as soon as she had recovered her composure.

“That is true! So we may! And, my dear child, you always say something
to comfort or delight me! And you shall go home with me directly, so as
to be there to welcome him when he arrives. There is nobody in the world
he will be gladder to see. And this is Friday afternoon, and of course
there are to be no lessons Saturday or Sunday, and so you can just as
well as not go home with me and stay over until Monday. I will speak to
the principal about it.”

And she rung the bell, and desired the parlor-maid who answered it to
take her respects to Mrs. Irving, and say that she should be pleased to
see her in the parlor.

“I told the judge to write to the general, and let him and Anna know
that Alick was expected every day, so they might hasten their coming.
But la! you know, my dear, these cross-country mails are so slow, it
will be impossible for them to receive the letter in time to get here to
welcome him on his first arrival. However, I know they will come as soon
as ever they can. And I suppose we may prepare for a gay wedding soon.
And no doubt you will be one of the bridesmaids. You are quite old
enough—nearly thirteen, and I like the bridesmaids to be much younger
than the brides.”

And so the delighted old lady twaddled on until the door opened, and
Mrs. Irving entered the room.

Old Mrs. Lyon soon told her news and made her boon.

And the accomplished principal warmly congratulated her visitor, and
graciously granted the request.

And Drusilla left the parlor to prepare for her ride, and in ten minutes
returned, ready to accompany Mrs. Lyon home.

They reached the house in time for the old lady to hustle into the
housekeeper’s room, and order sundry dishes of oysters, poultry, game,
pastry, cakes and jellies added to the bill of fare for supper.

“For you know he may arrive by the nine o’clock train—that is the first
one in,” said the old lady.

“Who may arrive, Madam?” inquired the housekeeper, who had not heard one
word of the good news.

“My son, to be sure, you stupid woman—who else?” exclaimed Mrs. Lyon,
delightedly. And then she poured forth the news of the letter she had
received from him.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Sterling. And she turned and kissed her daughter,
inquiring:

“How came you out of school?”

“Madame brought me home with her to welcome—my benefactor,” answered
Drusilla, returning her mother’s kiss.

“Oh,” said the housekeeper a second time. “Well, I’m going to be very
busy to get up all these dishes in time for supper, so don’t interrupt
me.”

“Can I not help you?” asked Drusilla.

“No, you would only hinder me. I have no time to direct new hands now,”
answered her mother.

“Come with me, Drusilla, my dear, and we will go and see that his rooms
are opened and aired,” said the old lady, beckoning to her favorite.

They went up stairs together, attended by Mary, the colored housemaid.
This girl herself could have done the duty well enough alone; or at most
with the instruction of either Mrs. Lyon or Drusilla; but both chose to
see to the work and make it a labor of love.

The handsome bed-chamber, with dressing-room and bath attached, was
opened and aired. A fine fire of sea coal was lighted in the polished
steel grate. His rich dressing gown was taken out from the sandal-wood
chest into which it had been packed with sundry other garments he had
left at home: and it was shaken well and hung over the resting chair
beside the fire. His slippers were laid upon the rug. A complete and
well-dried change of clothing was spread out upon the bed.

“For you see, my dear, his luggage may not be here for hours after he
arrives; and he will want to change his dusty travelling suit for clean
clothes as soon as possible, so as to be sweet and nice and comfortable
for the evening,” said Mrs. Lyon, as she laid a couple of fresh, scented
pocket-handkerchiefs beside his other personal equipments.

Then fine soap and fresh towels were laid upon his wash-stand. And the
Bohemian glass bottles on his dressing-table were filled—one with
Cologne water and the other with Macassar oil. Finally the wax candles
each side the glass were lighted. And then, after a glance around to see
that all was right, Mrs. Lyon called Drusilla and the housemaid to come
after her, and left the apartment.

She passed to her own chamber and put on her best black moire antique
dress, and her finest point lace cap and collar.

And then she went down into the drawing-room to wait for her son.

“And after all, we have no assurance that he will come to-night. We do
not even know that the steamer is in, or if it is, that he is aboard,”
sighed the aged mother impatiently.

“He will come to-night, Madam. In one hour he will be here. I feel sure
that he will,” said Drusilla, cheerfully.




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                              FATAL LOVE.

                           Childhood’s lip and cheek
           Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought;
           And in the flute-like voice murmuring low,
           Is woman’s tenderness, how soon her woe!
           Her lot is on thee, silent tears to weep,
           And patient smiles to wear through painful hours,
           And sumless riches from affection’s deep,
           To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!
           And to raise idols and to find them clay,
           And to bewail that worship—therefore pray.—HEMANS.


He came, even before be was expected. By some happy chance the train was
in half an hour earlier than usual.

Old Mrs. Lyon had gone into the “study,” to have a chat with the judge.

Drusilla was alone in the drawing-room, when a cab dashed swiftly up to
the street-door, the bell rang sharply, and was answered quickly; and
there was a pleasant bustle of arrival in the hall, and Mr. Alexander
burst into the drawing-room.

He looked not fatigued or travel-stained, but flushed and excited with
exercise and anticipation.

With an irrepressible cry of joy, Drusilla sprung to meet him, and then
suddenly recoiled, blushed and trembled between delight, timidity and
embarrassment.

Alexander caught her hand, gazed in her face, and exclaimed:

“Why—Who are you? I ought to know. Your face seems familiar, and
yet—DRUSILLA!” he suddenly cried, as he recognized and caught her up in
his arms, and covered her face with kisses.

“Welcome! Oh, welcome!—I am so glad you have come at last!—I never was
so happy in my life!” she tried to say, as she dropped her head upon his
shoulder and wept with delight.

“And my child is the first one to welcome me!” said Alexander, sitting
down on a sofa and drawing her upon his knee, where she sat, painfully
embarrassed yet unwilling to move, lest she should wound his affection
on this, the first day of his return.

“All are well?” he inquired.

“Quite well,” she answered.

“Ay, so the servant told me at the door. Where is my mother?”

“Just stepped from the room. I expect her back every instant.”

“Why, what a beautiful girl you are growing to be!” he said, looking
down with earnest admiration at the long, black eye-lashes that, being
cast down, shaded and softened the crimson cheeks.

“Come! look up at me; I wish to see if your eyes are changed. I never
could decide whether they were gray or hazel. Let me see!” he said,
putting his hand under her chin to lift her face.

She looked up with a quick and quickly withdrawn glance, and her cheeks
deepened in their hue. She hated to sit on his knee, where years ago she
had sat a hundred times, and she hated to hurt his feelings by leaving
him; and she doubted whether she loved him now as well as she did then,
and whether her love was not turning into something very much like
distrust and dread; and she wondered why this should be so, and secretly
blamed and disbelieved in herself.

“Am I so altered by travel that you don’t like to look at me?” he asked,
smilingly.

“Oh no, sir, you are not altered, except to be—improved,” she forced
herself to say, with courtesy.

They were interrupted.

“She is too great a girl for that sort of thing now, Mr. Alexander, if
you please. Be so good as to put her down, sir.”

It was the voice of the housekeeper that spoke, as she entered the room.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sterling,” said Alexander, laughing, and
releasing his favorite; “but it is hard to realize that my little pet is
growing up.”

“She is thirteen, sir,” curtly answered the housekeeper.

“Dear me! Is she so? Why I dandled her when she was a baby! What an old
man I am growing to be, to be sure!”

“Not quite old enough to be her father, Mr. Alexander, and therefore too
young to make a pet of her.”

“Come, now, this is a pretty way to welcome me home with a rebuke the
first thing.”

“I am very glad to see you home, sir, however; and—Here is Mrs. Lyon!”

The housekeeper cut her speech short, as the old lady entered the room.

“Oh, my son! my son!” she cried, and fell sobbing for joy in his arms.

The housekeeper withdrew, taking her daughter with her, and leaving the
mother and son alone together.

Arrived in her own room, Mrs. Sterling sat her daughter down before her,
and began to lecture her.

Drusilla—she preached—must not allow Mr. Alexander to pet her and caress
her _now_, as he had done before he went away. Drusilla was too great a
girl now, for that sort of thing. Truly, she was not a woman yet; but
she was growing into one, and so the familiarities that were quite
innocent when she was a child, would be extremely improper now that she
was almost a young woman. Such was the purport of the sermon.

Drusilla trembled excessively, and wept a little over this exordium. In
her heart she agreed with it, but grieved over it.

It was just such a lecture as any prudent mother might have given her
growing daughter under the circumstances. But Drusilla, while
acquiescing in its propriety, was shocked by its plainness.

Their interview was interrupted by the voice of Mrs. Lyon, who came
herself in search of her favorite.

“Where are you, Drusilla, my dear? Come and thank your benefactor for
all that he has done for you, and show him how much you have profited by
his kindness,” said the old lady, as she came in.

Blushing and embarrassed, the girl followed the lady to the
drawing-room.

Mr. Alexander had changed his travelling suit for an evening dress, and
was sitting talking to Judge Lyon about the voyage home.

Drusilla, at a sign from Mrs. Lyon, seated herself near the talkers.

“I want you to see how much your protegée has improved, Alick,” said
Alick’s mother.

“Oh, I _have_ seen, Madam,” answered Alexander with a smile.

“After supper I want her to sing and play for you. She has a wonderful
proficiency in music,” said Mrs. Lyon.

“I shall be glad to have a specimen of her skill, mother,” said the
young man, turning to his father, and taking up the thread of the broken
conversation, in order to relieve Drusilla, who was embarrassed by all
this notice.

What between her own half-consciousness and her mother’s severe lecture,
Drusilla was perplexed and distressed. The great pleasure she had
anticipated from the arrival of Alexander was mixed with strange pain—a
pain not the less poignant because she could not understand it. To
become the cold and formal stranger to him that her mother wished her to
be, seemed impossible; while to continue the familiar child-pet that she
had hitherto been to him was not to be thought of. If he had only been
her brother, so that she might have had a right to his caresses, how
happy she could have been, she dared to think.

But as it was, she could scarcely venture to glance at him, because each
glance thrilled her soul with such strange, wild emotion, half delight,
half dread. Ah, friends, she was a child of the sun, fervent, earnest,
devoted in all her ardent soul. She was already, all unknown to herself,
deeply and passionately attached to Alexander Lyon. The budding love of
years had this evening burst into full bloom. And yet it was even more
religion than love, and more worship than passion.

Supper was announced and every one arose.

“Come, Drusilla, you are the only young lady present,” said Alexander,
taking her hand to lead her in to supper.

He felt that small hand flutter and throb within his own like the heart
of a captured bird. He turned suddenly and looked at her. Her eyes were
cast down, and her cheeks were crimson. He gazed on her for a moment in
grave silence, and then slightly frowning, led her on into the dining
room, and placed her in a chair at the table. He paid her all due
attention at the supper, but with a certain reserve that he had never
used with her before.

The evening meal was, notwithstanding this, a very happy one.

The judge chatted gaily with his restored son, encouraging him to talk
of his wanderings in the old world.

The old lady listened with pleased attention, and only once in a while
broke her silence to ask whether he had been presented to all the queens
in Europe, and which was the most beautiful woman among them, or some
such question as that.

Her son answered that he saw no woman in Europe prettier than some he
found at home; and he glanced at Drusilla with a smile.

The girl beaming in the light of his countenance, and drinking in the
music of his voice was intensely happy and—vaguely wretched.

When supper was over they went back into the drawing-room, and Mrs. Lyon
made Drusilla sit down to the pianoforte and play and sing for
Alexander.

He shrugged his shoulders at the proposition, but politely acquiesced
and prepared to be bored. Alexander was a connoisseur in music, and he
had heard the very best singers of the day. Consequently he had little
patience with the crude efforts of young misses.

She, Drusilla, began with a very simple song—chosen in compliment to the
newly-arrived son:

    “Home again! home again! from a foreign shore,
    And oh, it fills my soul with joy to meet my friends once more.”

At first her voice trembled slightly; but the tremor only added to its
pathos; and as she went on it gained strength and volume. She sang with
much feeling and expression. And Alexander was surprised, and pleased
and profoundly affected.

“My child, you sing well; I tell you so, who have heard the best singers
in the world. Your voice has reached the depths of my heart, Drusilla,
and awakened it to a deeper consciousness of its joy in home-coming,” he
whispered as she finished her song.

She bowed her head, partly in meek acknowledgment of this praise, and
partly to conceal the blush that overspread her cheeks.

“Oh, that little song is very pretty and very appropriate, but it is
nothing to what she can do. Sing Casta Diva, my dear,” said Mrs. Lyon.

Drusilla raised an imploring glance to the old lady’s face, but met with
no reprieve there.

“Come, my dear! the Casta Diva!” she repeated.

With a deprecating look at Alexander the girl took down another volume
of music, and turned to the selections from Norma. The piece chosen by
Mrs. Lyon was a great trial to any immature and half-cultivated voice
like Drusilla’s, however excellent the quality of that voice might
naturally be; and Drusilla knew this, and thence her imploring and
deprecating glances.

“You are too exacting, mother. She cannot sing that; I do not think any
woman under thirty years old could, unless she had had a very remarkable
and precocious experience,” said Alexander, laughing.

“Ay, you say that because you know nothing of the intuitions of genius.
You must hear your protégée sing, and you will understand better,” said
Mrs. Lyon.

Thus urged on, Drusilla began to sing. Her voice arose tremulously, as
at first, like a young bird fluttering out of its nest, but then it
soared and swelled, gaining power and volume, until it filled all the
air with the music of that wild, impassioned, agonized, terrible
invocation and appeal.

Certainly Drusilla had never known remorse, anguish or despair, yet all
these wailed forth in her soul-thrilling tones.

She ceased, and dropped her head, exhausted, on her book.

Alexander made no comment, but took her hand and led her from the
instrument, and then went and resolutely shut it down.

“There! what do you think of that?” demanded the old lady, triumphantly.

“I will tell you some other time,” said Alexander, and he took and
lighted a bedroom candle, and put it into Drusilla’s hand, and said:

“Good night! go to bed, my child.”

Drusilla took the light and turned to the old lady, and held up her face
for a kiss.

And Mrs. Lyon stooped and touched her lips, saying, with a smile:

“I suppose I may kiss you _now_.”

Alexander held the door open until the girl had passed out, and then he
shut it after her and returned to his seat.

“Do you know, Alick, why I said to Drusilla just now, ‘I suppose I may
kiss you _now_?’”

“No, mother.”

“Then I’ll tell you. You remember how you kissed her when you went
away?”

“I do.”

“Ah, Alick! your departure nearly killed your poor little pet. If you
had been her own father, she could not have grieved after you more than
she did. She had a low fever, and after she got well she would not let
any one kiss her. She said that you had kissed her last, and that no one
else should touch her lips until you should return and kiss her again.”

“Did she now, really,” exclaimed Alexander, with emotion.

“She did indeed, and she kept her word.”

Alexander reflected a moment, and then spoke:

“Mother!”

“Eh!”

“Tell her teachers that I do not wish and will not permit, Drusilla to
learn opera music or love songs. Let her confine herself to sacred music
only.”

“But Alick, my son, how absurd! I am particular enough, the dear knows,
but I don’t see any harm in good opera music. All young ladies learn it,
and you desired that she should learn all that young ladies do.”

“I was hasty; and now I say that she must give up opera music and such
like. Let her learn and practice sacred music to her heart’s content and
her soul’s salvation. Let music be the means, not of drawing her
affections down to earthly follies, but of fixing them more steadfastly
upon heavenly things.”

“Alick, you do astonish me.”

“I astonish myself, sometimes.”

“Pray have you got religion, as the phrase goes?”

“No; I wish to the Lord I had. But I want her to have it. Mother!” he
said, with sudden energy, going towards the old lady, “you don’t know
_how_ I love that child; you can’t feel how I love her—how near and dear
she seems to me—how near and dear she has always seemed since I first
looked into her soft, sweet, patient eyes.”

“I believe you love her as much as if you were her father.”

“Her father! well, I suppose my affection for her has something paternal
in it, but fathers seldom love their daughters as I love her. Instance:
Fathers are willing to give their daughters away in marriage, but I am
very sure that I would rather see Drusilla dead than married.”

The old lady stared at the young man, utterly unable to comprehend him.
He continued:

“Mother, I tremble for that child. I trembled when I heard her sing that
Casta Diva as I never heard a good or happy woman sing it. There could
not have been _memory_—there must have been _prophecy_ in those wild,
despairing wails.”

“There was intuition, and nothing more. But you have been to Germany,
and I suppose you have grown mystical,” said Mrs. Lyon.

“By which you mean mad. Very likely. Perhaps my previsions are
illusions: but mother, I nevertheless must _insist_ that Drusilla shall
drop opera and take up church music. Let her teachers know.”

“Certainly, Alick. And now light my candle and wake up your father; it
is bed time.”

Alexander lighted and handed the wax taper to his mother, and then
gently roused his father, who had been comfortably napping in his easy
chair.

And the trio separated and went to rest.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                             BRIDAL FAVORS.

               Love was to her impassioned soul,
               Not as to others, a mere part
               Of her existence, but the whole,—
               The very life-breath of her heart.—MOORE.

             The world was not for her, nor the world’s art
             For one as passionate as Sappho’s heart.
             Love was born with her, in her, so intense,
             It was her very spirit, not a sense.—BYRON.


On Saturday morning Alexander walked out to renew his acquaintance with
his native city.

Mrs. Lyon said to her pet:

“If you know any very fine sacred music, my dear, I wish you would
select some pieces and practice them this forenoon, so as to be able to
execute them well this evening for Alexander.”

And Drusilla, glad to have her morning’s work laid out, sat down to go
over portions of Handel’s Messiah.

Alexander came home to luncheon, and in the afternoon attended his
mother and Drusilla for a drive.

They dined and tea’d together, and adjourned to the drawing-room, where,
at Mrs. Lyon’s command, Drusilla sat down to the piano and sang to her
own accompaniment on the instrument the all glorious “Te Deum.”

Alexander was enraptured. It is scarcely too much to say that he was
transported—listening to the heavenly notes of her voice and gazing on
the inspired beauty of her face. As for her she seemed all unconscious
of everything around her, as though her soul were winging its way to
Heaven in those strains of divine music.

When the last notes of her voice died away, there was silence in the
room for some moments. It was gently broken by Alexander murmuring in
her ear:

“My child, sacred music is your forte. Consecrate your glorious gift to
the worship of the Most High.”

Drusilla bowed her head; and after a few moments said:

“They want me to sing in the choir of St. John’s church. Would you like
me to do so?”

“My child, that must be as you please. Would you like it?”

“Indeed I do not know until I hear your will,” she murmured.

“Then I will you to sing there,” he smiled.

“And I am sure I shall like it,” she said. “And now shall I sing the
Hallelujah for you, and will you help me? There should be four voices,
though.”

“You shall sing no more to-night, my bird; but come to the centre table,
where I have some gleanings of travel to show you.”

Alexander’s servant had in fact just placed upon the table a large
portfolio containing interesting views of natural scenery and of works
of art, collected in their travels. And in examining these the remainder
of the evening passed.

On Sunday all the family went to St. John’s church together. But as
Drusilla was not yet a member of the choir she sat in the Lyons’ pew.

On Monday morning, Mr. Alexander himself took his protegée back to her
school. He was known there as a “patron,” and his request that his young
ward, Miss Sterling, should confine her musical studies to the sacred
branch of the art, met with a prompt acquiescence.

Leaving Drusilla under the charge of her teachers, he returned to his
home to find it very dreary in the absence of his “child.”

“A letter from your uncle, the general,” said Mrs. Lyon, as she received
him in the drawing-room.

“He says that Anna declines to hasten her visit upon ‘any gentleman’s
account;’ and so they will not be with us before Christmas eve.”

“Humph!” said Mr. Alexander, seating himself with much indifference.

“I do not know that I can blame her. Certainly it is not _her_ place to
run after _you_, Alick, even if she _is_ your promised bride. She must
stand upon her dignity, I suppose.”

“Ah, well, just as she pleases; but I cannot but compare her with one
who consults her heart and not her dignity where I am concerned.”

“Don’t be a coxcomb, Alick, my dear. You mean little Drusa? She’s a
child and has everything to learn yet of proper self-respect in her
association with gentlemen. But we are not talking of her just now. I
hate to send you from me, Alick; but I really do think you are bound to
pay Anna the respect of going to Old Lyon Hall. I would go myself, if I
felt equal to the journey, and take you as an escort; but as I am, I
must let you go alone. There is a coach leaves to-morrow at seven in the
morning. What do you think of taking a place in it?”

“I would as lief as not.”

“Upon my word! If Anna is as indifferent in this matter as you are, I
think it is a pity you two were ever betrothed,” said the old lady,
looking over the tops of her spectacles.

Alexander laughed.

“Our betrothal is such an old story, mother, and we are used to it.
Besides it rests upon such a solid foundation—having one foot upon
Crowood and the other on Old Lyon Manor—that we feel secure in it. And
wherever there is security there must be indifference.”

“Where did you learn to sneer, Alick?”

“I am not sneering. Heaven forbid. My Cousin Anna is a beautiful and
accomplished young lady, for whom I have great respect and esteem. When
I see her I shall press her to name an early day for the nuptials. And
no doubt we shall get along as well as most people.”

“Humph! when _I_ was young lovers were in love. I suppose you have
‘changed all that now.’ Pray, Alick, did you see any lady in Europe whom
you very much admired?”

Alexander laughed.

“Why, of course, mother! Scores and scores! But they are last summer’s
leaves and blossoms, dispersed and forgotten. At least I shall bring to
my bride a heart single to her service. For if I am not madly in love
with Anna, I am not in love with any one else, unless you call my
fatherly fondness for little Drusilla—”

“Nonsense!” shortly interrupted the old lady—“that child! Don’t be
profane, Alick. Have some reverence for innocence like hers.”

Mr. Alexander fidgetted and made no answer.

“But I didn’t mean to scold you, dear; only I would have you respect
holy childhood, and let a girl be a child as long as possible. I hope
and believe that you and Anna will make a happy couple. When you see
her, of course you will say everything that is kind to her from me; and
be sure you cannot say too much. You will either prevail on them to come
immediately to us, or you will stay with them until they are ready to do
so,” said Mrs. Lyon.

Alexander agreed to everything she proposed.

And then their interview was interrupted by the entrance of some
visitors.

The next morning Alexander went up the country to old Lyon Hall, where
he used his powers of persuasion to such good purpose as to prevail on
Miss Anna, and of course on her grandfather, to return with him
immediately to Richmond.

“If he will not go back with us, we must go with him, I suppose,
grandpa. It would be a pity to deprive Aunt Lyon of her son’s society by
keeping him here, so soon after his arrival from foreign parts,” said
Miss Anna, expressing a sentiment with which the old gentleman sincerely
sympathized.

So the whole party reached the city by the following Saturday.

The Christmas holidays were spent as merrily as ever before. Drusilla
was brought from school to join in the festivities of the season, and
she was loaded with presents and caresses.

Mr. Richard Hammond also came, and was quite as much up to every species
of fun and frolic as ever he had been in his earlier boyhood.

He was very much with Anna, but neither her lover nor her relations
seemed to take any exception to his attendance. She was so nearly
married now that there could be no danger of his supplanting her
betrothed, and besides, he was her near cousin, poor fellow, they
argued, and so Mr. Dick was allowed to dance attendance upon Miss Anna,
while Mr. Alexander amused and interested himself in his “child.”

The wedding of the affianced pair was fixed to take place early in the
new year, at Old Lyon Hall, whither the whole of both families would
meet to do honor to the nuptials.

“Anna, you have not invited me to the wedding,” said Dick one day, as
they stood together in the recess of the bay window.

“Well, I invite you now, Dick! Come and be Alick’s best man.”

“I’d see him drowned first, dash him! I’d sooner be his headsman!” said
the young man, grinding his teeth.

“Then why do you wish to come to his wedding?” asked Anna, elevating her
eyebrows.

“Did I say I ‘wished’ it? Don’t jump to conclusions, Anna. I don’t wish
it. I merely reminded you that I was not invited. You remember the fairy
that was not invited to the princess’s christening? She came all the
same, but her christening gift proved no blessing. I shall go to your
wedding, Anna, but the wedding present that I shall lay upon your table
will be no peace-offering,” he whispered between his white lips.

She turned pale, and then red, and then she laughed to conceal her
agitation, as she answered:

“Don’t be melo-dramatic, whatever you are. None but stage-struck
apprentices ever are so. All that sort of thing is obsolete. If a young
man is crossed in love, he had better marry for money. Alick and I must
marry and settle like other sensible people. He will devote himself to
improving the race of oxen and the growth of corn, and amuse his leisure
with politics; I shall draw prizes for poultry, butter, and perhaps
flowers. Life is prose, not poetry, Dick.”

“Look at that child. _She_ does not think as you do,” said Richard,
bitterly.

Anna raised her eyes and saw, at the opposite end of the room, in a
recess filled with row above row of blooming flowers, this group:

Alexander was reclining in an easy chair, holding in his right hand a
small volume, from which he was reading in a subdued voice, and
encircling with his left arm the shoulders of his “child,” who was
sitting on a low seat beside him. His eyes were on his book, but hers
were on him. Forgetting her timidity, forgetting herself, her inspired
face was raised to his, with glowing crimson lips apart, and slender
black eyebrows arched, and large, starry eyes fixed on him, as she
listened breathlessly to his words. He finished a sentence, and then
turned to speak to her. And instantly her eyes fell, and her color rose
even to her brows.

“Yes, I see; if she were a little older, or I a little more in love, I
should be jealous,” thought Anna within herself. But she said nothing.

At the end of Christmas holidays Drusilla was sent back to school.

Anna, under the charge of old Mrs. Lyon, did a vast deal of shopping in
the city, besides sending to New York for articles that could not be
procured in Richmond.

When all this was done, she returned with her grandfather to Old Lyon
Hall, where they were soon to be joined by the judge and Mrs. Lyon, and
Mr. Alexander, for the wedding.

The day after the general and his grand-daughter left, Mrs. Lyon said to
Mr. Alexander:

“Alick, Anna wishes little Drusilla to be her sixth bridesmaid.”

“I object to that. The girl is too young to have marrying and giving in
marriage running in her head.”

“Nonsense, Alick, you can’t keep this affair out; of course she knows
you and Anna are about to be married.”

“Of course she does, for she has heard nothing else talked of for a
month past,” said Alexander, in a tone of vexation.

“Then let her be Anna’s sixth bridesmaid.”

“No, mother, if you please. It would take her from her studies.”

“But, Alexander, you forget. She must be at the wedding any way, for it
would never do to slight the child by omitting to take her to it.”

“I do not see that. Let her know that it is by _my_ will that she is to
be left at school, and she will easily submit to the disappointment.”

“Well, Alick, I think that would be cruel.”

“But I know it to be necessary for her own sake, mother.”

The next morning the father, mother and son, attended by their men and
maid servants, set out in their travelling carriage for Old Lyon Hall.

Travelling by easy stages, and stopping at all the most comfortable inns
on the road, to eat or sleep, they at length arrived safely on the
evening of the third day at the old mansion.

The house was full of company, and all alight from attic to basement. So
many young friends of the bride were staying with her for the wedding.

Our city party was very cordially received. Anna herself took the old
lady to her room, and waited on her in person. But—

“Where is Drusilla?” was one of the first questions she asked of
Alexander.

“At school. Where is Dick?” he answered and retorted.

“At his office in the city, I suppose. But—Drusilla! why is she not
here?”

“I would not let her come. But—Dick! why is _he_ not here?”

“I would not let him come. And—Drusilla was to have been my bridesmaid!”

“And—Dick was to have been my groomsman!”

And here the young cousins looked in each other’s faces and laughed.

It was a merry party that gathered in the drawing-room that evening.
Young ladies and gentlemen were grouped in small circles around various
tables, engaged in diverting parlor games of one sort or another.

The general and the old lady were playing chess together.

The chief justice, only, complaining of cold and fatigue, excused
himself from joining in any game, though he declined to go to bed, and
sat in the most comfortable arm-chair in the warmest corner of the
fire-place, sipping hot punch from a glass on a stand at his elbow.

When his moderate glass was empty he spread his white handkerchief over
his face, and lay back in his chair and dozed, undisturbed by all the
musical chatter and silvery laughter around him.

At ten o’clock there was a tray of refreshments brought in, and handed
first to the old lady, who was served by the general.

Next the tray was handed to the judge. The servant who carried it stood
in silence for a moment, and then said:

“If you please, sir, his honor is asleep.”

Mrs. Lyon immediately turned and playfully whisked the handkerchief from
her husband’s head and asked him what he meant by being so rude as to
fall asleep.

There was no response by word or motion.

She bent forward and looked in his face, and then screamed.

Her scream brought all the company in alarm around her. Her hand was on
the old man’s pulse, and her face was pale and wild with fright.

General Lyon gently replaced her in her seat, and went back to the
judge.

And in one moment more it was ascertained beyond a doubt that Chief
Justice Lyon was dead.

You may imagine what a terrible shock this sudden death gave. How the
wedding-party broke up in confusion and dispersed in sadness; how the
unavailing skill of the family physician was called in, to do no more
than pronounce upon the cause of death—apoplexy; how the funeral was
solemnized in his own old ancestral halls; and how his body was laid at
last in the family vault at old Lyon Hall.

Drusilla, who had not been permitted to attend the wedding, had been
sent for to come to the funeral. She came, sorrowing bitterly over the
sudden death of one who had been the kindest old friend to her.

She did not go back again to school. Mrs. Lyon, overwhelmed by the loss
of the life-partner with whom she had lived so long, needed constant and
affectionate attention, and entreated that her favorite should be left
with her.

Under the circumstances of her bereavement Alexander could refuse his
mother nothing. So Drusilla remained in attendance upon her
benefactress.

The widow, exhausted by grief and unable to travel, staid with the
general and his grand-daughter all the winter.

Alexander, engaged in setting his late father’s family affairs in order,
preparatory to administering on his estate, went backwards and forwards
between Richmond and Old Lyon Hall.

Late in the following spring Mrs. Lyon went to Crowood, taking Drusilla
with her.

The first few days at the old country-seat, where she had passed so many
tranquil, happy seasons with her lost husband, renewed all her grief.

But Drusilla, guided by a happy instinct, drew her out among her
flowers, and fowls, and cows and other pets and hobbies.

Most fortunately, I say, all these had been grossly neglected during her
absence, as though under the circumstances of her bereavement, her
annual visit was not expected. And the old lady, the mourning widow,
seeing the condition of her favorites, ceased to weep like Niobe, and
began to scold like Xantippe.

And of course she got better directly.

It took her and her handmaid Drusilla, assisted by a staff of men and
maids, the whole summer to bring flowers, poultry and cows up to the old
lady’s standard of perfection. And by the time this was done her health
and cheerfulness returned.

There was nothing, now that the chief justice was off the bench forever,
to call her to the city. So she determined to make Crowood her permanent
residence. With this view she wrote to the housekeeper, who had remained
in charge of the city house, to pack up her personal effects and forward
them to Crowood, and then to come down herself, as the house was to be
put into the hands of architects, decorators, and upholsterers, to be
thoroughly renovated for the use of the young pair, whose wedding-day
was again fixed.

Mrs. Lyon was the more urgent for her housekeeper to hasten to Crowood,
because there was a contagious fever of a very malignant type raging in
Richmond.

In answer to her letters, Mrs. Sterling sent down, by a wagon express,
about seventy trunks, boxes and bundles, and within a week followed
them.

“I am very glad you have arrived, Sterling. I had not an easy hour while
you remained in the city, exposed to that terrible fever. And Drusilla
would have been as anxious as I was if she had known the danger; but I
kept it concealed from her. It was of no use to trouble the child,” Mrs.
Lyon said, in welcoming her housekeeper.

But the poor old lady of Crowood congratulated herself before the danger
was over.

Apparently, Mrs. Sterling had brought down the seeds of fever in her
system, for the day after her arrival she was taken with a shivering
fit, followed by a glow of heat, head-ache, nausea and prostration, and
in twenty-four hours she was in a raging fever and delirium.

The old lady was not a coward; she was a conscientious Christian. Now
that the fever had come, she faced it. She sent for the country doctor,
and instead of trusting the sick woman to the care of servants, she,
with Drusilla’s assistance, nursed the patient in person. This course of
conduct was more magnanimous than prudent.

Mrs. Sterling, “tough as a pine knot, and with no more nerves than it,”
as the country doctor said, survived the fever and got up, though with a
broken constitution, for all those whom that dreadful pestilence spared
to life it ruined in health.

But Mrs. Lyon contracted the disease, and it made but short work with
the feeble old lady.

In the beginning of her illness her son was summoned in haste from
Richmond; but though he used his utmost speed in hurrying to her
bedside, he only arrived in time to hear her last wishes and receive her
dying blessing.

“You must not grieve after me, Alick, my dear. Think what a long and
happy life I have had up to this time. But think, now that your father
is gone, how lonely I must be. I want to be with him, Alick.”

These were almost her last words. She fell into stupor and revived only
once more, long enough to lay her hand on her son’s head and bless him.

By her expressed wish her body was carried to Old Lyon Hall, and placed
in the vault beside that of her husband.

And the wedding was put off for another year.

“There is a fatality in it. We shall never be united, or if we should be
the union will bring nothing but woe,” said Anna to her grandfather.

“Wait until it is put off a third time, my dear, before you make such a
fatal prediction,” answered the general.

After the burial, Mr. Lyon went down to Crowood, where his presence was
necessary to the settlement of some local business.

There more melancholy news met him. Mrs. Sterling, whose brain had been
seriously affected by the fever, was now certainly losing her reason,
and Drusilla was almost broken-hearted between the death of her dear
friend and the infirmity of her dear mother.

It is said that madness often reverses the whole moral character. Mrs.
Sterling who, in her proper senses, had been one of the most active,
energetic and domineering of women, was now one of the meekest,
gentlest, and most harmless of lunatics. Her illusions were all
innocent, and some of them amusing. Sometimes she fancied herself the
mistress of Crowood. At other times she imagined that Alexander and
Drusilla were married, and making a visit to her there.

Her pleasing illusions did not prevent her from performing all her
household duties, only she discharged them in the capacity of mistress,
not manager.

Mr. Lyon consulted the country doctor, who told him that in Mrs.
Sterling’s case there was a gradual softening of the brain that must
prove fatal.

A part of Alexander’s business at Crowood was to take Drusilla back to
school. But it was now certain that she must not be separated from her
mother.

For Drusilla’s sake, he wished that Mrs. Sterling might have the best
medical advice. So he decided to take her to Richmond, to be examined by
the faculty there. But as she persisted in imagining herself mistress of
Crowood, instead of the hired housekeeper of the master, to be directed
by his will, she refused to leave the place.

Then Alexander, taking advantage of the hallucination in regard to the
supposed marriage of Drusilla and himself, let a day or two pass, to
enable her to forget the first proposal, and then invited her to pay
himself and her daughter a visit at their new house in the city.

This the harmless lunatic readily consented to do. And she immediately
began to prepare for the journey with a regularity and dispatch not to
be excelled by the sanest mind. It was evident that her mental infirmity
did not incapacitate her for the functions of her office.

They went to Richmond and took up their abode in the town house, that
had been thoroughly renovated and refurnished in honor of that expected
marriage which had never yet come off.

Mrs. Sterling was delighted with all she saw, and complimented her
imagined son-in-law on his taste and liberality, and congratulated her
daughter on her excellent husband and comfortable home.

Poor Drusilla could only throw an appealing glance at the master, which
seemed to pray forgiveness.

But Alexander laughed and pressed her hand, as he whispered:

“Never mind, my dear! Perhaps her imaginings are not _all_ lunacy. They
may be _second-sight_. Who knows?”

He spoke half in jest and half in earnest, and drew her to his bosom,
and held her there for a moment. But when he felt the wild beating of
her heart against his own, and when he saw the deadly paleness of her
cheek as it rested against his breast, he suddenly released her, half
repenting his act.

Mrs. Sterling seemed to think such billing and cooing very foolish,
though quite natural, between bride and bridegroom, for as she looked at
them she murmured:

“Ah, poor souls, they think it is always going to be just so. La! look
at any middle-aged married couple you know, and see the difference.”

Meanwhile Mr. Lyon, holding his “child’s” hand, stooped and whispered to
her.

“Drusilla, my little darling, I hope I have not hurt your feelings, have
I?”

She shook her head and tried to speak, but only gasped instead, and hid
her face in her hands.

“You are growing out of all this now, I know. Almost a young woman, you
are, turned fourteen, but it is hard to think you so; you seem still to
be my own precious child,” he whispered gently.

Still she did not answer, but wept softly behind her hands.

“Drusa, my daughter, you are not displeased with me, are you? I would no
more willingly displease you than I would the highest lady in the land,”
he continued.

“Oh, no, no, no! You could not do so. Don’t mind me. I do not know why I
weep. I don’t indeed. I am a fool, I think.”

“That’s certain,” said Mrs. Sterling, dryly, “and so is he. Young people
are apt to be fools in their honeymoon, but time cures them.”

There was a very dry method in the madness of Mrs. Sterling.

The housekeeper took possession of her old rooms, but as they too had
been re-papered, painted and furnished, she scarcely recognized them
again.

Drusilla had the little chamber that had been given her by Mrs. Lyon,
and was now renovated, as a spare room.

Alexander had his own superb suit of apartments.

Mr. Lyon called in the best medical science and skill to the aid of Mrs.
Sterling. But the unanimous opinion of the faculty endorsed that of the
country doctor, and there was little hope of the patient’s recovery.

When the month of December opened, Mr. Lyon wrote to his uncle and to
his betrothed, inviting them to come as usual, and spend the Christmas
holidays at his house in Richmond, and reminding them that the meeting
would be one of a quiet family party, excluding all other visitors, and
abstaining from all gayety, in respect to the memory of the departed.

Anna wrote back on behalf of her grandfather and herself, saying that
she could not make a visit to a house where there was no lady to receive
her, and she begged that Alexander would come for once and pass his
Christmas at Old Lyon Hall.

Of course Mr. Lyon could do nothing but accept this invitation.

And he dutifully went to pass the season with his promised bride.

And these were the most dismal Christmas holidays he had ever known. He
missed his genial father, his loving mother, and yes, it must be
confessed, he missed his “child,” and he could not help contrasting the
warm devotion of his little “daughter” with the cool indifference of his
promised wife.

His visit to Old Lyon Hall came to a sudden end. He received a letter
from one of the servants of the city house.

Mrs. Sterling had died suddenly, if he pleased, and what was to be done
with Miss Drusilla?

Mr. Lyon showed that letter to Anna, made his excuses to the general,
and set off at once for Richmond.




                               CHAPTER X.
                      WHAT WAS DONE WITH DRUSILLA.

          Master, go on, and I will follow thee
          To the last gasp with truth and loyalty—SHAKSPEARE.


Alexander arrived at his town house early in the afternoon. He was met
by his confidential servant, Dorset, an old man who had been in the
service of the family for nearly thirty years.

“Well, Dorset, so the poor woman is gone?” sighed the young gentleman,
as he entered the house.

“Yes, sir; and not too soon, with reverence be it spoken. She had grown
very foolish and helpless within the last few days. She died without
illness or suffering, sir. She went to bed as usual one night and was
found dead next morning. Miss Drusilla, sleeping by her side, heard no
sound and felt no movement, and knew nothing of what had occurred until
she arose for the day.”

“How shocking! The second sudden death in the family within twelve
months. And the third in all. Where is the poor girl?”

“Miss Drusilla? She has not left the corpse, sir, since the death. She
is watching by it now.”

“That is very wrong. It should not have been permitted.”

“Dear sir, who was to hinder her? There is no one, or I should say,
there _was_ no one in authority here to prevent her.”

“That is very true. But go now and tell the poor child that I am here,
waiting to see her.”

“Will you go to your room first, sir?”

“No, I came up by the boat and made my toilet just before landing. I
will wait here for Drusilla.”

Dorset went away with the message.

And in about ten minutes, Drusilla, pale, drooping and woe-worn, entered
the room.

Alexander arose and took her in his arms and silently folded her to his
bosom. And she bowed her head upon his shoulder and wept softly.

“My poor child! My poor, dear child, you don’t know how sorry I am for
you,” said Alexander, tenderly caressing her, and repeating the same
words over and over again, until at length through her sobs and tears
she answered them.

“Yes I do; oh, yes indeed I do know how good you are and how much you
pity us both—poor mother, dying as she did, and—me too.”

“My dear Drusilla, you shall never want a friend while I live, or a home
while I have one,” he murmured, smoothing her disordered hair with his
hand.

“I know that too. It is not that. I am not afraid. But oh! if I had not
slept that night, perhaps she would not have died,” cried the girl,
breaking into fresh and passionate sobs and tears.

“Drusilla, my dearest, you talk wildly,” he said, trying to soothe her.

“Oh, no, no, no, I know what I am saying. If I had only sat up and
watched her that night, I might have seen the change and saved her
life.”

“But, Drusilla, I learn that your poor mother was in her usual health of
body when she went to bed.”

“Oh, yes, sir, so she was; else I certainly would have sat up with her.
Oh, I wish I had! I wish I had! I would give my life now to have done
it. Oh, my poor mother! my poor dear mother. I slept on by your side and
let you die—die alone, without help, without even a word of love. Oh, my
mother!” cried the girl, utterly losing her self-command, and weeping
and sobbing and raving as if her heart would break or her brain madden.

Alexander let the wild gust of sorrow spend its strength, and then he
said:

“Drusilla, if you had been sitting by your mother’s bed, gazing on her
sleeping face, you would never have suspected that she was dying and
never known the moment of her death. My child, she had a fatal malady of
the brain that was certain to end just as it did. She passed away
peacefully in her sleep. Hers was an easy death. Drusilla, do not add
causeless regrets to natural grief with these _ifs_. Nearly all persons
do so, however. I never knew any one to die whose mourning friends did
not add irrational remorse to rational sorrow by the means of these
_ifs_. _If_ we had done this; _if_ we had not done that; _if_ such a
doctor had been called, or such a remedy administered. These
retrospective _ifs_ are illusions. Do not let them deceive you.”

These words he spoke, while with a gentle mesmeric touch he smoothed her
hair and her brow, and held her head close to his bosom.

She had neither the power nor the will to leave her resting-place; but
her wild weeping softened into low sobs, that became fewer and farther
between, until at last they ceased entirely.

Alexander looked down and saw that she was fast asleep.

Like a baby she had cried herself to sleep on his sheltering bosom. She
was no longer pale; her long-curved eye-lashes, gemmed with tears, lay
on her flushed cheeks, and her slightly crimson lips showed the little
pearly teeth within; her dark brown disordered hair fell around a
forehead and down a neck as white as ivory.

Even in that solemn hour, Alexander, looking down upon her, loved her
for her wondrous beauty, seen in its new phase of sleep.

But he had grace to know that such feelings were sacrilege against this
pure maiden and sacred orphan; and so he gently arose and crossed the
room to a large sofa and laid her on it. And then he touched the bell.

Dorset answered it.

“Send one of the women servants here,” said Alexander.

The man bowed and went away, and was succeeded by a fat, motherly,
middle-aged person who answered to the name of Molly.

Alexander silently pointed to the form on the sofa.

“Ah! Lors-a-messy! poor gall! So she’s gone to sleep at last. Well, sir,
that will be the first sleep she’s had since Sunday night, and this is
Wednesday. Night and day has she watched by the corpse and nobody to
hinder her,” said the fat woman, holding her sides and panting, as she
gazed on the sleeping orphan.

“_You_ should have hindered her,” said Alexander.

“Me! Lors-a-messy! I couldn’t ha’ done it except by main force, which I
had no right to use.”

“Well; let that pass. What I wish to know now is, whether she can be
undressed and put to bed comfortably without being waked up.”

“Lors-a-messy, yes, sir! When they’s been watching and weeping three
days and nights and then draps down and falls asleep, they might’s well
be in a trance, far’s waking up goes. Bless you, sir, you could hardly
wake her up if you was to fire off a pistol over her head.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, but I have no wish to try the experiment.
I will carry her up stairs myself. Do you go before and open the doors,”
said Alexander, tenderly raising the sleeping girl in his arms and
carrying her, preceded by Molly, up two flights of stairs, to Drusilla’s
own little room. Here he laid her on the bed, and leaving her to the
care of the woman, retired.

He went to the dinner that had been hastily prepared for him. And when
he had got through with it he went into the late justice’s study and
called up Dorset to a consultation about the funeral.

In answer to his master’s question, Dorset said that the late
housekeeper was laid out in her own room; that orders had already been
given for a plain, respectable funeral, which was fixed for the next
day. And Dorset hoped that Mr. Lyon approved of what he had done.

“Quite so. You have saved me so much trouble, that I almost think my
presence here might have been dispensed with,” said Alexander.

“If you please, sir, I only wrote to you to ask what should be done with
Miss Drusilla, seeing that this would no longer be a proper home for
her,” said the old man.

“True; I must think about that after the funeral. Of course she can’t
leave the house while her mother’s corpse remains in it,” said
Alexander, musingly.

And he mused so long that he forgot the presence of Dorset, until he
happened to look up and see the old man still standing respectfully
waiting orders.

“Oh!—you may go now,” he then said.

And the old servant bowed and retired.

The next day at noon the funeral took place. The clergyman’s widow was
carried to her grave in the cemetery attached to the church to which she
belonged.

Drusilla, the sole mourner, rode in a coach with Alexander. Her head,
heavy with sorrow, rested on his shoulder, and his arm encircled her
waist. She never thought whether this was right or wrong. She was borne
down with grief, and she leaned upon him who was her only earthly
support and comfort.

She had never even thought of putting herself into “decent mourning” for
her lost mother. She was still wearing black for old Mrs. Lyon, and so
she really needed no new outfit, except the black crape bonnet and heavy
crape veil; and these the forethought of the women servants had provided
her with.

Alexander sustained his “child” through all the last trying scene by the
open grave. And when it was closed he took her home.

On entering the house he gave her into the charge of the motherly Molly,
with orders that she, Drusilla, should take a cup of tea, and go to her
room and lie down for the rest of the day. This was Thursday.

On Friday Alexander wrote to his cousin, giving an account of the
housekeeper’s death and burial, and saying that henceforth he intended
to adopt Drusilla, and that he should take her back to school on the
following Monday.

Could Alexander have foreseen the bitter mortification he was destined
to meet there he would as soon have plunged into a fire as entered that
school-house.

Drusilla, grieving incessantly, kept her room until Sunday, when she
came down to breakfast for the first time since the funeral.

Alexander received her as if she had indeed been his daughter or his
beloved younger sister. He kissed her and placed her in her seat. In the
course of the meal he told her that on the next day he should take her
back to the Irving Institute to resume and continue her studies until
she should graduate.

Drusilla tried to express her acquiescence in the plan, and her thanks
for his kindness, but her voice faltered, and her eyes filled with
tears.

He looked wistfully in her face and read her thoughts, and answered
them.

“You weep at the idea of being sent away from——” He hesitated, and then
continued: “from all you have left to love at a time when you want so
much consolation. My dear child it is necessary for more reasons than
one. But I shall spend the winter here as usual, Drusilla, and I will go
to see you at the school at least twice a week.”

“I know that you are very good and all that you do is perfectly right. I
do not question these. But I must weep a little, and I feel you will
have patience with your child,” she murmured.

“My child never tries my patience,” said Alexander, tenderly.

They arose from the table.

Alexander was rather a negligent Christian, but on this day he attended
Drusilla to church.

On Monday morning he ordered the carriage, and took her to school.

When they arrived they were shown as usual into the visitors’ parlor,
where they waited while the parlor-maid took Mr. Lyon’s card up to the
principal.

A longer interval than usual on such occasions passed before the door
swung open, and the stately Mrs. Irving entered. She bowed to Mr. Lyon,
and started slightly on seeing Drusilla, and betrayed as much surprise
and annoyance as it was possible for so cultivated and self-possessed a
lady to exhibit. She sat down, however, and waited for her visitor to
open his business.

“I have brought your pupil back to you, Madam,” said Mr. Lyon, bowing
and waving his hand towards Drusilla, who immediately arose and curtsied
to her former schoolmistress, and then resumed her seat.

“Ah!” said the lady, very coldly, “I regret to say that it is not
convenient for us to receive Miss Sterling.”

Alexander looked surprised, not so much at the words as at the coldness
with which they were uttered.

“I am sorry to hear you say so, Madam. Your house is full then, I
presume.”

The lady hesitated for a moment, and then seeing that Mr. Lyon was
looking at her and waiting for an answer, she said:

“No, it is not full.”

Alexander was more surprised than ever.

“Then, Madam, may I ask why—but I beg your pardon; you have certainly
the right under any circumstances to decline a pupil. I would be glad to
know, however, whether Miss Sterling’s tuition fees were in arrears at
the time she was temporarily withdrawn, or if they are so now?”

“No, sir; Mrs. Lyon settled the account.”

“Then why—Again I beg pardon; I have no right, perhaps, to ask your
reason for declining to receive my ward. But I will venture to say that
if there was any misunderstanding as to the cause of her withdrawal
twelve months ago, I am happy to assure you that it was from no
dissatisfaction with the school or its teachers, or its discipline; and,
in short, that no offence was meant, and I hope none was taken.”

“None, I assure you sir; for we all quite understood that Miss Sterling
was taken from school to attend upon her guardian, Mrs. Lyon.”

Alexander’s surprise grew into amazement. If the school was not full, if
the school-bills were punctually paid, if no offence had been given or
taken, why in the name of wonder should the school mistress decline to
receive back into her charge a profitable pupil.

“Madam,” he said, rising to go, “I cannot demand an explanation of your
refusal to receive my ward—”

“And I would rather not give one, sir,” interrupted the lady, forgetting
in her haste that it was not courteous to cut short a gentleman’s words,
and that she herself would have rebuked any pupil of her school for
doing such a thing.

“I was about to say, Madam, that I could not demand such an explanation
as a right, but that I would ask it as a favor. I will take Miss
Sterling back to the carriage and return here immediately if you will be
so kind as to await me.”

“But, sir—” commenced the lady.

Alexander only bowed low in response, took the hand of Drusilla and drew
it under his arm and led her from the room and the house, and placed her
in the carriage.

He told the coachman to stop there, and then he went back to the parlor,
where he found the principal of the school still waiting.

“Madam,” he commenced, gravely but courteously standing before her,
“there is something more in your refusal to receive my ward than
appears. I respectfully ask you to tell me what it is.”

“And I entreat you, sir, as you are a gentleman, not to press the
question,” said Miss Irving very coldly.

“Believe me, Madam, if I only were concerned I would press no unwelcome
question upon any lady; but this is the case of an orphan girl who, for
no fault of hers, has received a mortifying repulse. Forgive me if I
still must press for an explanation.”

“Sit down, sir, and if you must have it, I do not think Drusilla
Sterling a fit or proper associate for the young ladies who are under my
care.”

“Madam! Is it possible that in a democratic country like this, the mere
fact that a young girl happens to be the daughter of a respectable
housekeeper should exclude her from the school where young ladies are
educated? Consider; her mother, though in some sort a domestic servant,
was still a most respectable person, the widow of a Baptist preacher,”
said Alexander, with ill suppressed vexation.

“Sir, it is not the girl’s position, but her character, that is so
objectionable.”

“MADAM!” exclaimed Alexander, firing up.

“You have, by forcing me to an explanation, sir, brought all this
unpleasantness upon yourself. I would willingly have spared my own
feelings and yours by keeping silent,” said the lady, very gravely.

“Madam, you have now said too much not to say more. Who is it that dares
to question the blameless character of my young ward?”

“Common rumor, sir!”

“Common rumor!” exclaimed the young man, starting up. Then controlling
his excited passion, and re-seating himself, he inquired grimly—“What is
the nature of this injurious rumor?”

“Her name is associated with yours in a manner that must be fatal to the
reputation of any young girl.”

Alexander stared blankly at the lady for a moment, and then exclaimed:

“Heaven and earth, Madam, what is it that you mean?”

“Sir, it is not courteous to cross-question me in this manner,” said
Mrs. Irving, blushing between embarrassment and anger.

“Not courteous! Am I to be on courteous terms with one who is
stabbing.—Madam, if you were not a woman—But let that pass. I now
_insist_ upon knowing what you mean by saying that Drusilla Sterling’s
spotless name is associated with mine in a manner that must be fatal to
her,” indignantly exclaimed Alexander.

“It is said, then, that you are her favored lover, with no intention of
becoming her husband,” coldly and curtly answered the lady.

“Heaven of Heavens!” exclaimed the young man, starting up and striding
across the room in his excitement, “was ever such an infamous
calumny!—Your author, Madam! I demand to know your author!” he at length
said, standing before her, pale with fury.

“I said common rumor,” quietly replied Mrs. Irving.

“No, but that will not do! Common rumor is an irresponsible thing. I
must have your author—one who can be called to account, and made to
swallow the calumny, though it should choke the calumniator.”

“Then, sir, I fear you will have to call my whole school, with its
patrons behind it, to account. For this rumor came in with the pupils
who returned to the school after the Christmas holidays. They heard it
at their homes, or in the social circles of the city where it was spoken
of. Of course, when this report came to the knowledge of the teachers,
they severely rebuked their pupils for such sort of conversation. I know
nothing of the truth or falsehood of this report; it is quite enough
that such exists to banish its subject, guilty or innocent, from young
ladies’ society.”

Alexander resumed his hurried walk to and fro in the room in much
distress of mind. Then, pausing once more before the lady, he said:

“Madam, I am wounded to the quick by these cruel and fatal slanders. But
would it not have been more womanly, more Christian in you to have
defended the good name of that innocent girl and friendless
orphan?—Friendless, but for my friendship, which seems to have been her
bane.”

“Sir, you must please to remember that my position as the principal of a
young ladies’ academy is a peculiar one. Had I even known your ward to
be blameless, I could not, in the face of such reports, have received
her without breaking up my school. Every pupil would have been removed
by her friends, nor could I have blamed them. I regret to have pained
you; but please also to remember that you brought this pain upon
yourself by insisting on an explanation.”

“And I was right! And I will drag the foul slander farther into the
light. _Some_ one originated it, and I will make it my first business to
discover and punish the originator. Good morning, Madam.”

And with a very ceremonious bow Alexander Lyon left the room.

When he entered the carriage, and seated himself by Drusilla’s side, she
turned to him with a sweet, bright confiding look, that smote him to the
heart.

“Oh, do not smile on me so, my child! I have been too thoughtless of
your good. But you shall have justice—full justice—grand justice! By the
heavens above, you shall, cost it what it may!” he exclaimed.

She looked at him now in much distress, and faltered forth the question:

“Will you tell me what has so disturbed you?”

He reflected for a moment, and then answered firmly, though kindly:

“_No_, Drusilla—not for the world. To tell you would be to wrong you.
Trust in me, my child.”

“Oh, I do, I do, as I trust in heaven!” she answered, fervently.

“And I will never betray that innocent trust, and may the Lord deal with
me as I shall deal with you, my child!” he said, reverently lifting his
hat.

In the meantime the carriage, bowling along at a rapid rate, brought
them back to the house.

“You have forborne to ask me what passed in my interview with the school
mistress, (Satan fly away with her!” he muttered between his teeth,)
“and you have done well. If the conversation had been proper for you to
hear, I should have repeated it to you,” said Alexander, as they entered
the house.

“But I trust in you,” Drusilla replied, as she bowed her head, and then
went up stairs to take off her bonnet.

Alexander Lyon went into the morning sitting-room and rang the bell, and
then dropped, half dead with trouble, into his leathern arm-chair.

Old Dorset answered the summons.

“Come here—close to me,” said the young man.

And Dorset; perplexed and disturbed by the looks and manners of his
master, approached.

“Dorset, you are an old, faithful and very discreet servant,” commenced
Mr. Alexander.

Dorset bowed humbly and silently.

“I wish to speak to you upon a very delicate subject, which I would not
name to any other person in the house, or even to you, except under the
most urgent necessity. Dorset——” He paused, as if he found the greatest
difficulty in proceeding. And Dorset bowed again, and waited in
respectful attention. “Dorset,” he resumed, “while Miss Sterling has
been in this house, have you heard any rumor prejudicial to her good
name?”

The old servant bowed his head upon his breast, and remained in a deep
silence of grief and mortification.

“That is enough!” said the young man, grimly; “your silence is more
eloquent than words. But now open your mouth and speak, to tell me who
started these reports, for, by the father of lies, I swear to visit them
heavily upon the head of the slanderer!”

The old servant shook his gray locks slowly and sadly, and then
answered:

“Ah, my dear master! in that case, I fear, you would have to punish the
dead, and I scarcely believe that you would do that if you could, or
could do it if you would.”

“What do you mean, old man?”

“Ah, sir, you might almost guess. The report started with that poor, mad
woman’s fancies about you having married her daughter.”

Alexander sprang from his chair, struck his forehead, and then sinking
into his seat again, murmured:

“I might have foreseen this; I ought to have foreseen it when I humored
and almost encouraged the poor creature in her illusions. But how did
this get out?”

“Well, sir, it was in this way: her church friends came to see her, and
she babbled to them about your fancied marriage with her daughter,
which, of course, none of them believed. If you remember, sir, in
speaking of the poor woman’s death, I told you she died easy and not too
soon, for that she had grown more and more foolish every day. It seemed
heartless to say so, sir, but indeed it was true; for from babbling of
your marriage with her daughter, she got to babbling about your wronging
of her daughter, in the very worst way a gentleman could wrong a young
woman.”

“Good heavens! was ever such a fatal calamity?” cried Alexander,
starting up and pacing the room in great excitement. “Oh, my child! my
child! my lamb! my dove! my dear, dear Drusilla! Go on, old man! go on!
what next?”

“Sir, they to whom she babbled believed this last lie, and took it into
their addled heads that the mother’s madness was caused by the
daughter’s ruin, and went and reported as they believed.”

“_Who_ were they?”

“Women, sir, more the pity! women of the church—old women who came to
take tea and talk scandal with the housekeeper.”

“And did Drusilla—did my poor child hear all this?”

“I think not, sir. Mad as the mother was, she had sense enough left to
send her daughter out of the room whenever she was about to babble. No,
sir; I feel sure Miss Drusilla knows nothing about it.”

“Thank heaven for that! She shall never know.”

“These reports, sir, caused me, in writing to you of the housekeeper’s
death, to ask you what should be done with Miss Drusilla; for I knew
that this house was no longer a proper home for her, as I took the
liberty of hinting to you, sir; for though Molly and myself and indeed
all the servants, did all we could to put a stop to these rumors, we
could not succeed in doing it. And so, sir,” repeated the old man, “I
made so bold as to ask you what should be done with Miss Drusilla.”

“I know NOW what shall be done with her. SHE SHALL BE MARRIED!” said
Alexander Lyon, grimly. “And now, Dorset, you may go; and remember, not
one word of this interview to any living creature!” he added.

“Surely not, sir,” said the old man, bowing himself out of the room, and
much wondering, if Miss Drusilla was to be married, where Mr. Lyon meant
to find her a husband.




                              CHAPTER XI.
                           JOY FOR DRUSILLA.

           Joy trickled in her tears, joy filled the sob
           That rocked her heart till almost heard to throb;
           And paradise was breathing in the sigh
           Of nature’s child, in nature’s ecstacy.—BYRON.


While Alexander Lyon paced the floor of his study, trembling with shame
and anger, Drusilla sat in her little chamber, smiling with delight. The
same event that thrilled his soul with a sense of wrong and
mortification, filled her heart with joy. She was not to go back to
school. She was to stay home with him; and this was all sufficient to
her happiness. She neither knew, nor guessed, nor cared why she had been
declined, as a pupil by Mrs. Irving. She had a vague impression that the
school was full, or the staff of teachers incomplete; but she was too
entirely absorbed in the happy thought of being at home for good with
him, to speculate about the reason why she was so.

During the last twelve months, while in attendance upon her late
benefactress, and also while with her lost mother, Drusilla had had the
entire charge of Alexander’s wardrobe. To keep it in perfect order was
with her a labor of love. So, on this morning, when she was so
unexpectedly and joyfully reprieved from banishment, she sat down with
her little work-basket beside her, and occupied the hours in darning
small holes in silk and lambs-wool socks; and so neatly she darned, that
it would have required sharp eyes to have found out where the recent
rents had been. She worked and sang at her work, for her heart was
overflowing with happiness.

Ah! even her mother was for the moment forgotten.

Late in the afternoon she was sent for to join Mr. Lyon at dinner.

She merely smoothed her hair and put on a fresh collar and pair of
cuffs, and then went down into the dining-room.

There had always been kindness and gentleness in his manner to her. But
now, as he arose to meet her, there was a tenderness in his expression
that she had never seen before.

“My poor child! You are smiling; I really believe you are glad to be
back at home,” he said, as he placed her in her chair.

“Indeed I am, very glad,” answered Drusilla, truthfully.

“Well, then—so am I,” said Alexander, smiling on her; and then adding,
in a lower tone—“It is fate; who can resist it?”

He helped her to the most delicate morsels, from each dish. And to
please him she tried to eat a little; but, in truth, joy as surely takes
appetite away as grief does; and added to her joy in being at home was a
strange, vague presentiment of something about to happen, something
imminent and momentous. All the spiritual atmosphere around her seemed
as full of this, as the air before a storm is full of electricity.

Alexander ate no more than she did. And neither spoke often or much.

At length, when they had lingered some time over the dessert, he arose
and said:

“My child, are you too shy to withdraw, and are you waiting for me to
dismiss you? Go, then, into the drawing-room, and presently I will come
to you there, and you shall give me a cup of tea,” and so saying he
opened the door, and held it open for her to pass out.

“Mr. Alexander—you _are_ glad I am not going back to school, are you
not?” she inquired, doubtfully and anxiously, as she paused in the
doorway and raised her beautiful beseeching eyes to his face.

“Yes! by all my hopes of happiness, I am glad!” he suddenly exclaimed;
and then he added—(“I am always glad to have my fate decided for me,”)
and then again laughing lightly, he said—“There, go away, little love! I
will join you presently.”

Drusilla went to the drawing-room; but she did not sit down; she walked
slowly up and down the room, strangely perturbed by that presentiment,
of which she could not yet know whether it was to be one of joy or great
woe.

Alexander remained in the dining-room alone; not drinking wine, or
smoking cigars; neither of these small vices affected him. He was simply
trying to commune with himself; a difficult task to one so unused to
self-examination as Mr. Lyon. He had always loved his beautiful pet,
more than he had ever loved any other living creature; and always, as he
supposed, in a fatherly, or elder brotherly sort of fashion. But lately
this pure love had burst forth into a fierce passion. From the hour in
which he had soothed her sorrow, and hushed her to rest on his bosom,
and gazed on her sleeping beauty, he had longed to make that beauty his
own forever. True, from the very first, he had combatted this passion.
From the very moment that he found himself contemplating the beautiful
girl with other feelings than became the brotherly love he professed for
her, he put her from his arms, and tried to put her from his heart, and
made arrangements for placing her entirely out of his sight and out of
his way, in the safe refuge of her school. How and why she was rejected
by the principal of that school, the reader already knows.

The very fact of rejection threw her back upon his hands, while the
cause of it appealed to his manhood in her behalf.

When sinners can find no other excuse for sin, they plead fate.

Alexander, sitting and gazing dreamily into the lights and shadows of
his glowing coal fire, said to himself that fate had set itself against
his union with Anna, and fate had thrown Drusilla into his arms. He
recalled the facts that his wedding with Anna, twice fixed, had been
twice stopped by the hand of death; that Anna did not love him, and did
love Richard Hammond: that he himself did not love Anna, but loved
Drusilla; that Drusilla loved him, and had most innocently suffered
reproach and injury on his account; that he had striven to overcome his
passion for the beautiful orphan, even to the extent of taking her to
school with the full intention of leaving her there, but that she had
been repulsed and thrown back upon his charge.

He had decided that in all this was the irresistible hand of fate. This
and many other arguments he used to persuade himself that it would be
altogether right for him to give up his cousin Anna, and take to his
bosom the beautiful orphan Drusilla.

And this would have been right, if he had only chosen to do it in the
right way. If he had written to his betrothed and told _her_ all that he
told _himself_, there is no doubt that she would have gladly released
him from his engagement; and then if he had asked Drusilla to be his
wife, and had married her in the face of all the world, his course would
have been upright and honorable. But he did none of these things.
Alexander Lyon was proud, and he wished to satisfy his love, without
sacrificing his pride, so he resolved that his marriage with the late
housekeeper’s daughter, should be a strictly secret one.

Having made up his mind, he arose and walked into the drawing-room,
where he found Drusilla still slowly pacing up and down the floor.

“Why, you restless little creature! One would think your thoughts had
been as perturbed as my own. Come, now! tell me truly, what you are
dreaming of,” said Alexander, possessing himself of her hand, and
drawing her down by his side on the sofa.

Something in his look and manner, something that she had never seen
there before, startled and almost terrified her. For the first time, in
all their association, a swift, hot blush swept over her face and neck,
crimsoning both, so that Alexander, already half mad with love, thought
her more beautiful and bewitching than ever.

“Come now! of what were you thinking?” he persisted.

“Indeed, I do not know; I have forgotten;—of nothing, I believe; I was
not thinking; I was—trembling,” faltered the girl.

“Trembling, my darling? Why should you tremble? No evil shall come near
you while I live,” said Alexander, tenderly. “Come, tell me why you were
trembling?”

“It was—but you will laugh at me?”

“No, indeed, my sweet——”

“It was with a sort of presentiment that oppressed me,” said Drusilla,
in a tone deepened with awe.

“A humming-bird is said to tremble before an approaching storm, though
no cloud be in the sky. You are as sensitive as a humming-bird, my pet;
do you tremble at an approaching storm?” smiled Alexander, gently
caressing her.

For the first time in her life, she shrank from him, yet immediately
wondered at and reproached herself for doing so.

“Come, my love, is it a good or evil presentiment that overawes you so?”

“I do not know even _that_ much. I have felt all the evening as if
something was hanging over me—I cannot tell what. Yes, the air is full
of electricity,” she said, and stopped and shuddered.

“My child, superstitious people say that dreams and presentiments go by
contraries. If you dream of a death, it is a sign of a wedding; if you
have a foreboding of evil, it is a sign some good is about to happen to
you.”

“But I do not know whether _my_ foreboding is of good or evil,” she
said, softly smiling.

“I will tell you, then, my darling. It is of _both_, since it
foreshadows love and marriage, Drusilla,” he answered, gravely.

She started slightly, shrank a little, and raised her eyes timidly to
his face, but dropped them instantly, and blushed beneath the ardent
gaze with which he was regarding her.

“Drusilla,” he said, panting and speaking low, “do you know how I love
you?”

Had he asked her this question a week before, speaking in his usual
tone, she would have answered him promptly and sweetly and calmly.

But now she only trembled very much, without being able to utter a word.

“Do you know how I love you, Drusilla?” he panted low, stealing his arm
around her waist.

“Oh, don’t, sir! please don’t!” gasped the girl, frightened at his
caress.

“Don’t what, my darling?” he whispered, drawing her closer to his heart.

“Oh, don’t! let me go, please!” she faltered, gently trying to free
herself.

“‘Don’t let you go, please!’ I don’t intend to, my beautiful darling,”
said Alexander, passionately pressing his lips to hers.

At that moment the door was pushed gently open by Dorset, who entered
with the tea tray, and stood still in astonishment.

“What the—?—What do you want here?” angrily demanded Alexander barely
able to repress an oath, as he saw Dorset and hastily released Drusilla.

“If you please, sir, it is the tea tray,” said the old man, in growing
wonder.

“Hang the tea tray! What do you mean by bringing it here before it is
wanted?”

“Beg pardon, sir, but it is nine o’clock, when I allers brings it.”

“Then why don’t you knock before entering a room? You servants are
perfect vandals in your rudeness.”

“Please, sir, I never was used to knock in the old Madam’s time, so I
did not know as I was expected to do it now; but beg pardon, sir, I will
allers knock for the future.”

“Put the tray down and go.—No, stay and wait,” growled Alexander,
beginning to feel conscious that if his kiss was an indiscretion, his
fuss with the old man’s interruption of it was a still greater one.

Dorset obediently sat the tray down on the table, arranged the tea
service, bowed, and stood waiting.

“Drusilla, my little daughter, you must preside,” said Alexander, trying
to give a paternal aspect to his affection for the orphan.

Drusilla, blushing deeply, took her place at the table and poured out
the tea.

Alexander purposely kept his old servant in waiting until they had
finished. Then he bid Dorset remove the service.

As soon as he found himself alone with Drusilla, he saw that the girl
was trembling excessively.

“Don’t be alarmed, dear love, and don’t distrust me,” he said, drawing
his chair beside her. “I asked you just now if you knew how I loved you.
You did not reply, but I will answer the question for you. No, Drusilla,
you don’t know how I love, for I love you so much that I wish to make
you my own forever and ever. Drusilla, you must be my wife, never to be
parted from me again.”

She looked up in his face, her arched brows, dilated eyes and parted
lips expressing amazement, delight, and even terror.

“You will be my wife, Drusilla?” he whispered, drawing her towards him.

And then her overwrought heart found relief in tears, and she wept
freely on his bosom. When at length she ceased to sob, and grew quiet,
he bent his head down to hers and whispered:

“All this means ‘yes,’ does it not, my own?”

“But—but—Miss Anna!” murmured the girl, scarcely trusting her voice to
speak.

“Oh, Miss Anna——” He nearly uttered an oath consigning his cousin to
perdition, but he caught himself in time, and added: “Miss Anna and
myself are parted (by a hundred miles of space,”) was his mental
reservation the first.

“She has broken with you, then?” said Drusilla, who never dreamed of
such a possibility as _his_ breaking faith with any one.

“Yes, she has, (in effect,”) was his mental reservation the second.

“Oh, how could—how could she do it?” inquired Drusilla, incredulously;
for to her fond, worshipping heart, it seemed that any woman who could
break faith with Alexander must be insane or lost.

“She loves Richard Hammond’s little finger more than she does my
immortal soul! (Come that is wholly true, at all events,”) he added
mentally.

“And you are grieved at this?” murmured the girl, mournfully.

“I! I grieved at it? I never was so glad of anything in my life! My
child, I never loved Anna except as a cousin. She never loved me in any
other than a cousinly way. We were betrothed by our parents—a sure
process to prevent our ever falling in love with each other. Ours was to
be ‘a union of hands and a union of lands,’ but not ‘a union of hearts.’
We really never wished to marry each other. She loved Richard as well as
she can love anybody, and I—I love you as I never loved any other. Come,
my darling, you are to be mine forever.”

“But Mr. Alexander—a poor girl like myself—your late housekeeper’s
child—only half educated, too—I am not fit to be your wife,” she said,
raising her meek eyes to his face, and then suddenly dropping them.

“Not fit to be my wife! If you are not, it is only because you are so
much too good for me!” vehemently exclaimed Drusilla’s lover, and he
spoke the truth.

“Oh no! Oh no! please do not say such things to me. I am but a poor,
ignorant child, of very humble position. You are a gentleman of rank and
wealth. Indeed, sir, it is not suitable——”

“Drusilla! You do not love me!” he exclaimed, as if he had been charging
her with a great sin.

A year before, she would have thrown her arms around his neck, and amid
tears and caresses, she would have assured him that she loved him more
than all others on earth. But she could make no such protestations now,
though her love for him had in this year grown and strengthened, until
it absorbed her whole being. She could only raise a quick and quickly
withdrawn deprecating glance to his face.

“Come, that means that you do love me a little. If so, let me be the
judge of your fitness to be my wife,” he said, looking tenderly down on
her bowed face.

“I know you must be the best judge,” she meekly admitted.

“Then, it is a settled thing. You are to be my own,” he whispered.

“If you think that a poor girl like myself can comfort you for the loss
of Miss Anna—”

“Bosh! I beg your pardon, little love. But I don’t need comfort for the
loss of Miss Anna. I require congratulations rather. Didn’t I tell you
that I never was so glad of anything in my life? And didn’t I give you
half a dozen reasons of being glad of it? I want you to be my love and
joy. Come, darling, will you be my wife? Try to answer—”

She stooped and whispered—

“I will be anything you wish me to. If you should tell me to go and be a
nun, I would go and be one.”

He was not more than half pleased with this answer, which he did not
understand.

“So you only consent to marry me because I ask you to do it; and not
because you love me, or because to do so would make you happy?” he
asked.

Again her shy, soft eyes were lifted to his face with a pleading glance
and then cast down.

“Answer me, Drusa,” he said.

“It would make me happy to do anything you should ask me to do; for I
love to feel that I belong to you, to do your bidding; and that you have
a right to dispose of me as you please,” she murmured, in a very low and
timid tone, hesitating and blushing to utter her own pure thoughts.

“This is devotion, this is submission, but it may not be the love that
makes happiness. Drusilla, apart from all this—your pleasure in pleasing
me. Will it make you in yourself happy to be my wife and spend your
whole life by my side?” he earnestly inquired.

“As happy as an angel in Heaven,” she aspirated, in a low and fervent
tone.

He caught her closer to his bosom and pressed her there; he pressed
kisses on her lips, her cheeks, her brow; he called her by every
endearing name——

There came a gentle, discreet knock at the door.

“Well! Who’s there? Come in!” said Mr. Alexander impatiently, as he
gently put Drusilla off his knee.

The door opened and Dorset appeared.

“What now? I really believe you are wantonly trying my temper!”
exclaimed Alexander.

“If you please, sir, I thought maybe you had retired, and I came to rake
out the fire and turn off the gas, as usual, before going to bed
myself.”

“What! at _this_ hour?”

“Beg pardon, sir, but this is the usual hour.”

Alexander looked up at the clock on the mantle-piece, and saw with
surprise, that it was past eleven.

“My little daughter, I have kept you up too late. You must go to rest
now. Good night,” he said, taking a bedroom candle from the side table,
lighting it, and putting it in the hands of Drusilla, who immediately
withdrew.

She went to her room in a delirium of joy, every nerve thrilling, heart
beating, brain whirling with joy. To be Alexander’s wife! It was a
Heaven of Heavens she had never dreamed of. She dropped on her knees
beside her bed, and fervently thanked God for her great happiness.




                              CHAPTER XII.
                         A REALLY HAPPY BRIDE.

          How beautiful she looked, her conscious heart
          Glowed in her cheek and yet she felt no wrong.
          Oh, love, how perfect thy majestic art,
          Strengthening the weak and trampling on the strong!
          How self-deceitful is the sages’ part
          Of mortals whom thy art hath led along.—BYRON.


I said that joy takes away the appetite as surely as grief does; and joy
as well as grief banishes repose. Drusilla lay awake, in a happy
reverie, until near morning, when she fell into fitful slumbers that
soon deepened into dreamless sleep.

It was late in the forenoon when she awoke.

Ah! how many of us have awakened from such deep insensibility to the
consciousness of some heavy but undefined and half-forgotten woe, that
all too soon takes shape and distinctness to confront and overwhelm us!

Drusilla, on the contrary, awoke in the golden mist of some great but
vague joy, that soon shaped itself into the thought that she was to be
the wife of one she loved more than her own soul, and only less than her
God.

But such exultation of the spirit seldom lasts long.

Before the girl had finished her simple morning toilet, her joy was sunk
in remorseful tenderness that she could rejoice in anything so soon
after her poor mother’s death. And she wept; but though less exultant,
she was scarcely less happy.

She went down into the morning sitting-room. Alexander had waited for
her, because he would not breakfast without her. He met her with a
radiant smile, and he welcomed her with a warm embrace.

After breakfast, he spoke to her of his plans for the future. He told
her that he wished their marriage to take place almost immediately.

She timidly expressed her feelings on this subject; the equal pain she
would feel in opposing his wishes on the one hand, or, in marrying so
soon after her mother’s death on the other.

“But why should you feel pain at the thought of marrying so soon after
your poor mother’s death, my darling?” tenderly inquired her lover.

“It would seem heartless; it would seem disrespectful to her memory?”
said the orphan.

“Not at all, my love. Daughters are sometimes, when expedient, married
even beside the death-beds of their mothers. You have heard or read of
such cases?”

“Yes.”

“Then why should you feel any scruple in marrying, if expedient, within
a few weeks after your dear mother’s decease?”

“But _is_ it expedient?” she inquired.

“It is more. It is absolutely necessary. We must immediately marry,
or——PART.”

This last word struck her like a shot, as he intended that it should.
She started, drew back, and gazed at him in consternation.

“Drusilla, my innocent, ignorant child, does it not occur to you that it
would be wrong for you, a young girl, and I, a young man, to live alone
together, or with only servants in the house, unless we were married?”
he gravely inquired.

She flushed crimson over face and neck, but had no word to reply.

“Drusilla, we must be married immediately,” he said, firmly, striking
“while the iron was hot.”

“But—so soon after my poor mother’s death. To be made so happy, when I
ought to be weeping for her,” faltered the girl.

“My darling, you shall weep for a year if you like, so that you weep in
my arms, and give me a legal right to hold you there. Come, Drusilla! If
our wedding were going to be a gay one, with fine dresses, and fine
company and festivities, you might, indeed, object that it would be
showing disrespect to your mother’s memory. But I propose that our
wedding shall be a very very quiet one, as quiet as if it were
solemnized at a death-bed. Come, what do you say to that?”

“Mr. Alexander, I know you would not lead me into the least departure
from the duty I owe to the memory of my dear, lost mother. Decide for
me, Mr. Alexander,” she said very sweetly.

“Then I will. But leave out the ‘Mr.,’ my darling. I do not like the
formality of that word from your sweet lips. Shall I decide for you in
_all_ things, my pet?”

“In all things, yes. Whom have I in the world but you?” she said,
lifting her dove-like eyes confidingly to his face.

“No one indeed—thank heaven!” exclaimed Alexander, with triumph in the
thought of how entirely this delicate, helpless, dependent child lay in
his power and at his mercy.

The thought should have awakened his magnanimity; but, unhappily, it
only flattered his selfishness.

He did decide all things for her. He decided that their marriage should
be a strictly secret one; and he gave her plausible reasons why it must
be so; but she needed for this, no other reason than his will. He
decided that the house in Richmond was too gloomy in its associations of
insanity, illness, and death, for their habitation, and that they should
go to Washington to spend the winter. And he arranged that he himself
should go in advance to the capital city and secure a home; and that on
the receipt of a certain letter which he should write, she should
secretly leave the house and join him in Washington.

To all this Drusilla readily agreed. In the fulness of her faith she had
placed her fate in his hands and left it there.

This plan was carried out. The same day he told his old servant that
urgent business called him away from home, and that he should leave for
Baltimore the next morning.

Dorset, prompt and punctual, had his master’s portmanteau packed and his
breakfast on the table by eight o’clock.

And Mr. Alexander left Richmond by the nine o’clock train for Baltimore,
intending to take the next day’s train from the latter city to
Washington.

Drusilla knew that she could not hear from him for three or four days,
so she waited three days and then went to the post-office, where, for
greater secrecy, her letters were to be left until called for. Here she
found a letter—the first genuine love letter she had ever received. She
had, from childhood, written many letters to Alexander, and received
many from him—all, his and hers, filled with love, but not such love as
this. Drusilla eagerly read it over in the office, and then, “all on
fire with joy,” she hurried home and locked herself in her own room, to
feast on her letter undisturbed and at leisure.

Every day she went to the post-office, and every day she received one of
these ardent outpourings of love.

Alexander had been absent about ten days, when one morning on inquiry,
she received a letter that summoned her at once to Washington.

That night Drusilla quietly packed her carpet bag with a few
necessaries, and before day the next morning she slipped out of the
house and took the early train for Washington.

The train reached Alexandria early in the afternoon, and Drusilla found
her lover on the platform at the station.

“Come, dear love,” he said, “I have a carriage waiting. We must be
married in this town, and then I will take you to Washington.”

In a flutter of delight and embarrassment she let him take her from the
train and place her in the carriage.

He told the coachman to drive to Duke street, and as soon as the
carriage was in motion, he caught his bride in his arms and pressed her
to his bosom, amid the fondest caresses and tenderest words of
endearment.

He was interrupted at length by the stopping of the coach, and the voice
of the coachman inquiring:

“Where in Duke Street am I to drive, if you please, sir?”

“To the Reverend Mr. Hopper’s—the new Methodist preacher’s,” replied
Alexander.

And a few more turns of the wheels brought the carriage to the house
indicated.

Alexander lifted his trembling companion to the sidewalk, and then led
her up the steps to the door of Mr. Hopper’s residence.

A servant answered his knock, and showed him into a plainly furnished
parlor, where sat the preacher and the family, dressed in their Sunday’s
best, and apparently waiting the bridal pair.

Mr. Hopper arose at once and shook hands with the bridegroom, and
presented him to his—the preacher’s—mother and sisters.

Alexander, in turn, presented his bride to the ladies of the house.

Then, as no time was to be lost, the young pair stood up side by side;
the ladies of the party arranged themselves as attendants and witnesses,
and the ceremony that made Alexander Lyon and Drusilla Sterling man and
wife was performed.

When the blessing had been pronounced, Alexander saluted his
“child-wife” with the almost reverential tenderness due to her sacred
isolation.

The preacher shook hands with both and wished them much joy.

Then the ladies of the family came up with their congratulations.

The old lady kissed the youthful bride with much feeling, saying:

“May the Lord bless you, poor, motherless little thing!—And you, sir,”
she added, turning to the bridegroom—“Remember that her extreme youth
and her recent orphanage claim a double amount of tenderness.”

“I know it, madam; I feel it; and I thank you for the interest you take
in my little wife,” said Alexander.

He then slipped a hundred dollar note in the preacher’s hand, bowed his
adieux to the whole party, and led his bride back to the carriage.

“I am glad the dear old lady gave us her blessing. It seemed to hallow
our union, as much as the ceremony did. But I wonder how she knew I was
an orphan?” said Drusilla, as they crossed the sidewalk to the carriage
door.

“I told them as much of your circumstances as I deemed expedient to
account for your coming unattended by ladies, and in a black dress,”
said Alexander, as they paused while the driver got down and opened the
door.

“In a black dress! So I was married in a black dress—a black bombazine
and crape dress, at that. The very deepest sort of mourning!” exclaimed
Drusilla, in a low tone and with a terrified look.

“Well, my darling, what of that?” smiled Alexander.

“Oh, it is considered a bad omen for any one, though but a guest, to
wear a black dress, even a black silk one, to a wedding. And for a bride
to be married in black, especially in deep mourning, is the worst of all
omens.”

“Omens be—blessed! Are you so superstitious, little one?”

“Ah! who is not? I never met any one in my life who did not believe in
this omen.”

“You’ve lived so long in this world, you have! and you’ve met, so many
people!” laughed the bridegroom, as he put her into the carriage and
seated himself beside her.

“Where am I to drive to, sir, if you please?” inquired the coachman,
touching his hat, as he held the door open.

“Are your horses fresh?” demanded Mr. Lyon.

“Quite so, sir.”

“Can they take us to Washington? The distance by the river-road is nine
miles, I think.”

“Bless you, yes, sir! why they can take you to Washington, which is nine
miles, and afterwards to Bladensburg, which is nine more, with the
greatest of ease.”

“All right—drive to Washington.”

The coachman closed the door, mounted to his box and started.

An hour’s drive along the beautiful wooded road, following the south
bank of the Potomac, brought the travellers to the Long Bridge.

They crossed the river by that bridge and entered the city.

The near view of Washington from that point is not encouraging.

Alexander felt this as he bade his young companion look beyond the flats
of the “island” and behold the distant and majestic hill upon the summit
of which rises our Capitol.

The sun declined towards his setting, shone full upon the building’s
western front, whose walls of white freestone and windows of crystal
glass flashed back the rays, “in lines of dazzling light.”

Drusilla uttered an exclamation of pleasure; but was interrupted by the
stopping of the carriage, and the appearance of the coachman at the
door, inquiring:

“Where now, if you please, sir?”

“To Seventh street north, and out by that road to the suburbs of the
city.”

The coachman re-mounted his box and started his horses once more. They
crossed the canal bridge near the centre-market, and crossed
Pennsylvania Avenue, and as they went on, Alexander pointed out to his
companion, all the objects of interest within the range of their
vision—a nearer view of the Capitol, then the General Post-Office, the
National Patent Office, etc.

A half hour’s drive up Seventh street north, took them beyond the limits
of the city, and into the wild, picturesque and beautiful suburbs.

The wilderness surroundings of our National Capitol have often been
admired by strangers who are lovers of nature, and reproached by others
who can see no beauty in anything but miles of brick walls and busy
shops, or acres of ploughed fields and growing crops. We “to the manor
born,” love the wild woods and rocks and waterfalls so near, as to be
even within the limits of our city. A half hour’s drive from the Capitol
in any direction will take the traveller into solitudes as deep as he
can find anywhere west of the Alleghanies.

A half hour’s drive up Seventh street north took our happy pair quite
into what seemed a country road.

It was bordered on the western side by evergreen woods, through which
the last rays of the setting sun were shining and tipping every
dark-hued leaf and twig with golden fire; and on the north by groves and
fields and streams, with here and there a solitary, but cheerful cottage
from whose windows the “household fires gleamed warm and bright.”

Presently, Alexander pulled the check-string and ordered the driver to
turn into an obscure road or lane, leading into the cedar wood on the
left.

“You have never asked me where I am taking you to, my darling,” said
Alexander, when they had gone about a quarter of a mile into the woods.

“No; because my trust in you is so perfect.”

“Had you no curiosity?”

“Oh yes; but I thought you would tell me when you should see fit; and I
knew that I should find out when we should reach the spot. I am very
much pleased, however, that our home will be in the country.”

“Not the country, darling, though it looks so much like it; only the
suburbs of the city.”

“It is all the same to me, and I am so glad we are to live among the
trees.”

“I knew you would be, love, and so I chose our home in this
neighborhood.”

“But shall you not be lonesome, so far from the city; you, who are so
fond of plays and concerts and operas?”

“No, mine own. I shall be lonesome nowhere, with you by my side.
Besides, thirty minutes’ drive would take us any evening to any place of
amusement we might wish to attend in the city. But here we are at home!”
he said, pulling the check-string and stopping the carriage at a rustic
gate that crossed the lane in the very midst of the wood.

Some one issued from a very small porter’s lodge on the right and opened
the gate. They entered upon a semicircular drive, bordered on each side
by cedar-trees, that led them up to the front of a picturesque cottage
ornée, built in a sort of composite style.

From every pretty latticed window of this little dwelling, the lights of
fires and of lamps gleamed warm welcome.

“Oh, what a lovely little wildwood home!” exclaimed Drusilla in delight,
as Alexander lifted her from the carriage and seated her on a bench of
the little rustic porch.

“‘Business before pleasure,’ my darling,” he said, leaving her there,
and going back to dismiss the carriage.

He was happy and therefore he was extravagant. He never asked the
coachman the price of his services, but put in his hand a twenty dollar
bank note, about twice the amount of his fare; and when the latter
fumbled in his pocket-book, said quickly:

“No, I don’t want any change! It is now about five o’clock; you can
easily get back to Alexandria by seven. Good night.”

The coachman was profuse in his thanks, and hoped to have the pleasure
of driving his honor often. And he mounted his box and drove off, no
doubt wishing that he could have a bridal party for a fare every day of
his life.

And the bridegroom led his bride into the house.




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                        THE CHILD BRIDE AT HOME.

        His house she enters there to be the light,
        Shining within when all without is night;
        A guardian angel o’er his life presiding,
        Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing.—ROGERS.


“Welcome, mine own dear love, welcome to your home,” fervently whispered
Alexander, as he led his bride across the threshold of the door that was
held open by a pretty and neatly-dressed negro girl.

The young wife smiled gratefully upon her husband, and then looked
around with child-like interest.

They stood in a cheerful little hall, illuminated by an antique lamp in
a stained glass shade, that shed myriads of prismatic hues over the
white and gilded wall and richly-carpeted floor. It was a hexagon-shaped
hall, with a staircase opposite the front door, and with four other
doors, two on each side, opening into the drawing-room and dining-room
on the right, and the parlor and library on the left.

“This is your little maid, Pina, my dear, and she will show you to your
room, if you please,” said Alexander.

Drusilla turned and smiled kindly on the bright-eyed negro girl, who
took up a wax candle, and stood curtseying and waiting orders.

“Go on then, Pina, and lead the way; I will follow,” said Drusilla.

And Alexander placed the carpet bag that contained all the bride’s
trousseau in the hands of the girl, who, with another curtsey, turned
and led the way up stairs to an upper hexagon-shaped hall, with a bay
window in the front end, and four doors, two on each side, leading into
bedrooms and dressing-rooms.

Pina opened the front door on the right hand.

“Oh, what a sweet, what a pretty, what a delightful little room!”
exclaimed Drusilla, on passing the threshold.

The room deserved her praise. It had been designed by the hands of love
to please the eyes of beauty. Its colors were white and rose. The walls
were hung with a paper of a white ground, with a running vine of wild
roses over it. The floor was covered with a carpet white with the same
patterns of wild roses running over it. The windows were curtained with
white lace, lined with rose-colored silk. The dressing-table that stood
between the windows was draped to match them, in white lace over rose
silk. The bed was spread with a white crochet counterpane, lined with
rose satin. The chairs and sofas were covered with white damask
embroidered in roses. All the little stands and tables were in white and
rose enamel.

It was a chamber to delight a child or a young girl. To crown all, a
clear, bright wood-fire was burning on the white marble hearth.

“It is—it is a heavenly little room!” exclaimed Drusilla gazing around.

“And here, ma’am, is the dressing place,” continued the maid, opening an
inner door, and showing her mistress into a smaller apartment fitted up
in a plainer style as a bathroom.

The young traveller, who really needed ablutions after her dusty ride in
the train, opened her carpet bag, took out her dressing materials, and
commenced her toilet.

Pina waited on her.

But little change could the poor bride make. Her carpet bag could not
contain much. She had only brought a few clean linen collars, cuffs,
handkerchiefs, and other absolute essentials.

Seeing this, her handmaid said:

“Let me carry your dress down stairs and brush it, ma’am: it won’t take
me ten minutes. I will bring it up quite nice by the time you are ready
to put it on again.”

Drusilla thanked the little maid, and accepted the offer. And Pina ran
away with the dress. And by the time Drusilla had taken her bath and
dressed her hair the girl returned with the renovated garment.

“Supper will be served, ma’am, as soon as you are ready for it,” said
Pina, laying the dress over the back of a chair.

Drusilla carefully but hastily completed her toilet, for she was eager
to see Alexander and thank him for the care and taste he had bestowed
upon the fitting up of her rooms.

As she left her chamber she found Alexander in the hexagon-shaped hall
outside. He smiled, and took her arm, saying:

“While they are placing supper on the table I wish to show you over our
little toy palace—for it is no more.”

“And no less! Oh, how I thank you for the beautiful—”

“Doll’s house!” laughed Alexander, stopping his bride in the outpouring
of her gratitude.

“Oh, but the rooms are so very beautiful!” she exclaimed.

“Why, you have seen but two! Come, let me show you the others,” he said,
taking her across the little hall, and opening an opposite door.

The apartment they now entered corresponded in all respects to her
chamber, except that it was fitted up as a sewing-room, and its wall
paper, window curtains, chair-covers, carpet and enamelled stands and
tables were all in white and green instead of white and rose.

“See here, my love! I remember what a domestic little creature you were,
how you liked to sit up stairs and sew by the hour or the day, and how
the very first thing you ever wished for was a work-box, and so I had
this room fitted up for you on purpose,” said Alexander, looking in her
face to read her satisfaction.

“Oh, how good, how good you are to me! What can I ever do to please you
enough,” she said.

“Love me dearly, and be very happy! That is all I ask you to do,” he
replied. “And now look here, dear, I knew your wardrobe would want
complete refitting, and I knew what a nice little needle-woman you were,
so I have filled these bureau drawers and wardrobes with dress goods of
every description—enough to furnish forth an Indian voyage or a country
shop,” he said, as he went to one of the bureaus and drew out the
drawers, one after another, to display their contents—rich silk, merino,
and cashmere dress patterns, all in black, purple, or gray, or other
mourning or half mourning hues; and whole pieces of fine muslin, linen,
flannel, and other “staple” commodities, and rolls of ribbon, tape,
gimp, and other dress trimmings.

“You know I had no woman’s help in selecting these articles, and a man
in a milliner’s establishment is just about us much out of place as a
‘bull in a china shop,’ but I did the best I could.”

“They are beautiful,” said Drusilla, in grateful delight.

“And see here,” continued Alexander, opening the doors of a wardrobe—and
displaying several shawls, cloaks, circulars, mantillas and so forth—“as
these things fit almost any grown woman, I thought I could not make a
mistake in getting them ready-made. What do _you_ think?”

“Oh, you—you are too good to me; you are extravagant—here are more than
I shall wear in ten years,” said Drusilla, between smiles and tears.

“Not at all! There’s Anna will wear twice as many changes of apparel in
ten days,” he said.

“Ah, but Miss Anna is an heiress.”

“And you are the wife of a—_wealthy_ man, if not a _good_ one,” laughed
Alexander. “But come, I dare say supper is waiting and spoiling. I will
show you the rest of your little house to-morrow, and also your little
carriage and pair of ponies——”

“Oh, _indeed_ you do too much for me.—I think I have not been used to
having such things—of my own,” said Drusilla, meekly and confusedly.

“I _could not_ do too much for you, dear love——”

“But, Mr. Alexander——”

“Leave out the ‘Mr.’ from this time, sweet Drusa. What were you going to
say?”

“I was about to ask you, please, not to make me so many presents.”

“Oh, is that it? Why not?”

“Because—I love you. And—I only want you to give me your love——”

“I know all that, my pet. But let your conscience be at rest. Every
thing I seem to give you, as well as every thing you have of your own is
really not yours, but mine, because you yourself are mine.”

“Is that so?” she smilingly inquired.

“Yes.”

“Then so I would have it!”

While they talked they left the room, he leading the way down the
stairs, to the little drawing-room.

This was a very elegant apartment, fitted up in crimson and gold
curtains, chairs and sofas, rich mirrors and rare paintings, and
recherché articles of _virtu_. At the lower end of the room a heavy
curtain of crimson satin damask, with gold bullion fringe and gold cord
and tassels, hung from the ceiling to floor.

While Drusilla was still gazing with curiosity and delight upon the
various objects of interest in the room, this curtain was drawn aside as
by invisible hands, revealing an elegant little dining-room, where a
luxurious supper was spread.

Alexander, with a laughing assumption of ceremony, led Drusilla to the
head of the table, bowed, and took his place at the foot.

A handsome negro boy, so like Pina as to be recognizable at once for her
brother, waited at table.

“My dear, this is your other servant—footman, coachman, and groom—all in
one. He is named Leander; but for convenience we shall call him ‘Leo.’
Just as we call his sister, who exults in the imperial name of
Agrippina, simply ‘Pina,’” said Alexander, as he placed the breast of a
roast pheasant on Drusilla’s plate.

It was a pleasant supper, as you may judge.

And it was followed by a happy evening.




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                       THE WILD WOOD HOME BY DAY.

      It is a quiet picture of delight,
      The pretty cottage hiding from the sun
      In the thick woods. We see it not till there,
      When at its porch ... quiet’s especial temple.—W. G. SIMMS.


“I have the vaguest idea of the outside of our home—a pretty brown
cottage in evergreen woods—that was all I could make out as we
approached it in the twilight last evening; and that is all I can make
out now, while peering through that crimson curtained window,” said
Drusilla, as she sat at breakfast with her husband the next morning.

“‘A pretty brown cottage, in evergreen woods.’ Well, that is all you
would make out if you were to inspect the premises most carefully every
day for a month. It is a new place, my little love. The house and stable
only are finished and walled in. The grounds are not laid out or even
cleared, as you may see by the thicket crowding up to the very windows,”
replied Alexander.

“But, I think I like it even better just so. There is something very
fascinating to me in the deep, wild wood, where the trees may grow as
they please, without touch of ax or pruning knife, and where birds may
sing and rabbits run without fear of trap or fowling-piece,” said
Drusilla.

“Then if that be so, not a tree shall be felled, though we should have
to send to the city market for all our fruit and vegetables,” laughed
Alexander.

“Oh no, no, no; don’t ‘Woodman, Spare That Tree’ on my account. The
woods are very charming, but so is a garden with beds of growing
vegetables and parterres of blooming flowers; and so are vineyards and
orchards, and poultry-yards and cow-pens, none of which can be had
without the sacrifice of the woods. And you know what a good little
farmer your dear mother——” Here the tears rushed to the bride’s eyes,
but she quickly wiped them away and smiled, saying: “No, I will not weep
the day after our wedding. I will remember that she is in Heaven,
and—happy as we may be, she is happier still.”

“But what were you about to say, love, when you broke off?” gravely and
gently inquired Alexander.

“Oh, I was going to remind you what a skillful little farmer your dear
mother had made of me, and to tell you how well I can manage a little
place like this, with the help of the two servants.”

“Yes, darling; but you will not need to do so. What? You worry with the
cultivation of cabbage and onions, and the rearing of fowls and turkeys,
and the feeding of cows and pigs? It is ridiculous, the idea!”

“But your dear mother saw to all such things with her own eyes, and
often helped among them with her own hands.”

“My venerated mother belonged to an old school of housekeepers that are
now obsolete, or fast passing away before the progress of civilization.
Machinery does the work of laborers, and laborers have become
intelligent directors of machinery. Nonsense! Even if this were not so,
do you think I would let you spoil your exquisite beauty in the way you
propose, Drusa? No, my darling, your beauty is too rare and rich to be
put to any such uses. I think that even if I were a very poor man, I
would rather labor day and night than you should soil your pretty
hands,” he whispered, lifting one of the little members of which he
spoke, and gazing on it with the eyes of a connoisseur and the smile of
a lover.

“Oh, Alexander! dear Alexander!” said the little bride, earnestly,
“please do not prize my looks so much. It frightens me when you do so.”

“But why?” smiled the bridegroom.

“Oh, because—one’s looks——”

“One’s beauty, you mean——”

“Oh, Alexander, it is such an accidental and perishable thing to be
loved for. Illness or chance might destroy it in a day; and time will
certainly impair it in the course of years. And whether I lose it sooner
or later, what shall I do if I lose your love also?”

This was spoken so gravely and feelingly that the bridegroom burst into
a laugh.

“Why you solemn little quiz! You remind me of a little prig of a Sunday
school scholar that I used to see perched up in the corner of the
housekeeper’s room in my mother’s house in Richmond. A little ‘rum un’
who used to sew quilt pieces and lecture lost sheep.”

“But oh, tell me one thing. Even if I should grow ugly, you would love
me still, would you not, Alexander?”

“_You_ grow ugly? impossible! Your beauty, if you take common care of
it, will last you until you are sixty years old, and by that time, I,
who am so much your senior, will be so blind with age, or love, or
habit, that I shall not know whether you are a Venus or a Gorgon,” said
Alexander, laughing, and rising from the table.

“Till I am sixty! So many years to live together, you and I, if Heaven
should spare us. Such a long and happy life, if you only love me all the
time. Oh, what can I do to keep you loving me all these long, long
years?” aspirated Drusilla, in a sort of repressed fervor.

“Be beautiful, be happy and love me—that is all,” he answered. “And now
put on some outer garment and come with me, and I will show you what
little is to be seen of our small place.”

Drusilla took a gray hooded cloak from the hands of the maid who had run
and fetched it for her, and she wrapped herself in it, drew the hood
over her head, and took the offered arm of Alexander.

He led her out of the front door and down the step of the porch to the
broad carriage drive that had been cleared through the cedars from the
house to the gate.

It was a fine wintry day. A little snow had fallen during the night,
just sufficient to cover the ground with a white garment and powder the
cedars like coachmen’s wigs; but the sky was now clear and the sun
bright.

They walked down the drive to the gate, and then, at Alexander’s
suggestion, turned about and leaned against the gate, and faced the
front of the cottage to take a look at it.

“A mere toy palace, or doll’s house, as I told you,” said Alexander,
disparagingly.

“It is a beauty. But perhaps you are comparing it with spacious Crowood
or lofty Lyon Hall; in which case it must suffer by comparison in size,
I grant you, but not in beauty,” said Drusilla, gazing on her home with
perfect satisfaction.

“I am very glad you approve of it, darling, even in its half finished
condition. In another year I will see what money and taste can do to
convert it into a paradise for you,” said Alexander.

“The sweet spot is Arcadia already. But how were you so fortunate as to
get it, dear Alexander? And have you rented it, or bought it?” she
asked.

“I have taken it on trial for a year, with the privilege of purchasing
it, if I like it, at the end of that time.”

“But why does the owner wish to sell such a pretty place, which he has
only just built?”

“Ah, love, it is a common case. The place was commenced by a poor old
fellow, who was about to retire from business on a comfortable
competency. But he put off living too long, for just as he was preparing
to do it he died.”

“Poor man! and he never enjoyed the pretty place.”

“Let us hope that he enjoys a better one. Meanwhile we have the
privilege of purchasing it, if we like.”

“Oh, I do like it so much!”

“Then consider it purchased, my pet.”

“Not on my account. Oh, Alexander, dear, please do always what you judge
to be best without thinking of me in the matter.”

“But, darling, if I love you as you wish me to do, and as I certainly
do, I _must_ think of your pleasure in everything.”

She looked at him, secretly acknowledging the truth of his words, yet
much perplexed by them.

The house upon which they gazed, incomplete as were its surroundings,
deserved all Drusilla’s praise.

It was a charming little cottage ornée, which, if the truth may be
spoken, was much more suitable as the home of a fresh young bride than
the resting-place of a worn-out old worldling. It was built after no
particular plan, and therefore perhaps all the more picturesque and
pleasing in its aspect. It was so irregularly and fantastically erected
as to defy all manner of description. From the outside it seemed an
eccentric collection of low walls and steep roofs, gable ends, twisted
chimneys, hanging balconies, bay-windows, porches, verandahs, and so
forth. Its dark gray stone walls and dark green Venetian shutters and
pillars and cornices, so harmonized in hue with the colors of the wintry
woods, as at a short distance to mingle with them and be
indistinguishable from them. Such was the outside of Drusilla’s little
home.

The inside was a collection of hexagon shaped halls, chambers, parlors,
quaint closets, cosy recesses and sunny nooks.

“Now I will take you round and show you the stable and the cow-house,”
said Alexander, drawing his wife’s arm within his own, and leading her
around to the rear of the house where, in a neat and well kept stable,
he showed her a pretty pair of gray ponies and a neat little carriage.

She looked up in his face to thank him with her eyes, but when she would
have spoken, he stopped her with a kiss.

Then he took her to an adjoining compartment of the same building, and
showed her a white cow with a young calf beside her.

“I can not thank you enough; no, I can not—not only for all that you
have given me, but for the _beauty_ of every object and every living
creature you have placed around me—the beautiful house and furniture,
the beautiful carriage and ponies, the pretty white cow and calf. Dear
Alexander, I thank you so much for all the beauty with which you have
blessed my home,” smiled and faltered Drusilla, in a voice broken by
happy emotions.

“Beauty! why who was it that, just now, begged and prayed me not to love
her for her beauty?” asked Alexander, quizzingly.

“It was I, of course,” said Drusilla, blushing and laughing, “but that
was because I wished you to love me for something deeper and more
lasting.”

“And so I do, darling; but come—confess that you like beautiful
things—that you like even _me_ better for not being ill-looking.”

“Oh, Alexander, not you! it was never your looks, although I like you to
be handsome. But oh, dear Alick, if you were to be maimed by accident or
marked by illness, I should love you quite as much as I do now, and even
more tenderly, I think, as I know I shall love you when you are old and
gray.”

“Bah! I would rather die than grow old and gray; but the time for that
is far enough off, thank Heaven!” said Alexander, as he led her back
into the house.

He took her into the drawing-room and showed her three musical
instruments, each of the very best quality—a piano, a harp and a guitar.
Upon a stand near was a collection of old standard music, and of all the
best new pieces out.

I suppose no one but a monomaniac in music can understand the delight of
sitting down and trying the tone of a new instrument of the very best
order.

Drusilla placed herself at the piano, and ran her fingers up and down
the keys to test its powers. And then she turned over her music and sang
song after song, for hour after hour, without weariness. And Alexander
leaned over her, and listened to her without flagging.

When at length she arose from the piano, he led her from the
drawing-room and across the hexagon hall to an opposite room, fitted up
as a library. Here, in the elegant book cases, were collected some of
the best standard works in English, French and German, also some choice
Latin and Greek volumes, and a few of the most popular publications of
the day.

Here were neat writing desks, easy reading chairs, soft foot cushions,
and every means and appliance of comfort and luxury.

And on the walls were a few very choice pictures, and on stands stood
statuettes and vases and other gems of art, to please a cultivated
taste.

“No words—you leave me no words to thank you for all these blessings,”
Drusilla murmured.

“I tell you they are all mine as you are mine, so there are no words
wanted for thanks,” smiled Alexander.

“Ah! but I know you did all this for me; I feel it and I must say it,
Alick, dear Alick,” she murmured, with tears of love and joy in her
eyes.

All the time they were in the library they heard the songs of birds—a
sound so unusual in that wintry season, that Drusilla had looked up once
or twice with a startled expression; but as Alexander had only smiled at
her surprise without attempting to gratify her unspoken curiosity, she
forbore to ask him questions, and waited until he should explain the
mystery.

“Come now,” he said, “I have something else to show you.”

And he led her down to the lower end of the room, to a green curtain
that hung from ceiling to floor, and from side to side, and
corresponded, except in color, with that one which divided the
dining-room from the drawing-room.

He drew aside this curtain and revealed a scene of enchantment.

It was a room of crystal glass, in gilded sashes, and it was filled with
the rarest and most beautiful exotic plants, most of them in full bloom.
Among these plants hung large gilded cages, in which were birds of the
most brilliant plumage and the sweetest notes, whose songs filled all
the sunny and perfumed air with melody.

Birds and flowers of all the objects in nature had always been
Drusilla’s especial delight. Her love of them might have been called a
passion. And it had never been gratified until now. And here she had
them of the most beautiful sorts, gathered in one splendid crystal room
like a fairy palace. And as she looked a smile of rapture lighted up her
lovely face, and then she turned towards the giver of all these and
tried to utter her feelings; but instead of speaking, she burst into
tears, threw herself in his arms, and sobbed on his bosom.

He had overwhelmed her with his gifts, as he had done once before.

How smilingly he caressed and soothed her, until she lifted up her head,
dashed away her tears, and said, laughing:

“‘I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of,’ as Juliet, or Lady Macbeth,
or Regan, or Goneril, or some one of Shakespeare’s women says.”

“Miranda, my love; it was Miranda. Never misquote Shakespeare; never
even in your most confidential communications to your most intimate
friends; never even in soliloquy and in solitude!” said Alexander,
shaking his head in mock gravity.

“Indeed I wasn’t even sure it _was_ in Shakespeare,” said Drusilla.

“And now to the dining-room. I think we have earned an appetite for
dinner,” smiled Alexander, drawing her arm within his own, and leading
her from the library.

This evening was spent in the drawing-room, where tea was served.

And so ended the second day of their bright honeymoon.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                            CLOUDLESS JOYS.

                   Oh, pleasant was her welcome kiss,
                     When day’s turmoil was o’er,
                   And sweet the music of her step,
                     That met him at the door.—DRAKE.


For the first few days of their honeymoon, the bridegroom stayed home
with his bride—walking, riding, or playing with her in the mornings, and
reading, singing, or conversing with her in the evenings.

On Sunday, she asked him to take her to church, and he took her to the
nearest one of the sect to which she belonged.

On Monday, he took her into the city, to show her the public buildings
and other objects of interest.

On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, they remained quietly at home. The
weather was very inclement. It had been raining three days, and the
roads were very bad.

Alexander spent the time in doors, in writing letters, examining
accounts, and reading to Drusilla, while she worked with her needle. But
the gay young man of the world found this life “slow.”

On the third dull afternoon that the poor little bride had tried her
best to enliven, while he sat reading to her as she sewed, he suddenly
threw the book from him, got up, yawned, walked up and down the room a
few turns, looked out of the window at the drizzling rain and gloomy
sky, and then turning to his companion, said:

“Drusa, the weather is infernal, but—the German Opera is in Washington,
and our carriage is close. So what do you say to braving the rain and
the wind to see _Der Freichutz_ by the best troupe of artists that has
ever appeared in the city.”

She looked up quickly, and saw that he was anxious to go. She replied:

“I shall be delighted, Alick.”

“You are not afraid of taking cold?”

“Not a bit! I would go through Noah’s Flood to hear good music.”

“That’s my girl! You’re a brick. I’m so glad you are not one of the
timid or sickly sort. That little pale face of yours is very deceptive,
Drusa. One would think to look at you that you were very delicate, but I
never saw or heard of your being sick my life.”

“Except when I cried myself into a fit of illness, when you went to
Europe, Alick. Oh, I hope I shall never have another such a trouble as
that, as long as I live in this world. I remember it yet. Alick, dear, I
would rather die than lose you for another two years,” she said with
much feeling.

“Little goose! I’m not worth a tenth, a hundredth, no, not a thousandth
part of the love you bestow on me,” he answered laughing.

“Oh, Alick, I would not permit any one but yourself to say such things
of you. And I—I won’t let you say them either, sir; so there, now.”

“Come, run away and get ready. I will order the carriage.”

And Drusilla tripped up stairs to make her toilet. And Alexander
sauntered out of the room to give directions to his factotum.

In less than half an hour Drusilla came down, dressed for the evening.

The carriage was at the door.

“I have no tickets, of course; and consequently no reserved seats. But,
on such an inclement night as this, I do not doubt that we shall be able
to obtain good places,” said Alexander, as he handed her into the
carriage.

The roads were heavy, and so, a drive, that in good weather could have
been easily accomplished in thirty minutes, occupied them for
forty-five.

It was rather late when they reached the National Theatre, where the
opera troupe were performing.

The house was full, and the play had commenced.

Upon inquiry at the ticket-office, Alexander ascertained that there were
no good seats to be had, with the exception of those in a stage box,
that happened to be disengaged.

Alexander at once took that, and guided by an usher, led his companion
thither.

On taking her seat in the box, Drusilla’s eyes fell upon what seemed to
her a scene of enchantment.

The house was filled with a fashionable and well-dressed audience, and
the opera was in full play. Drusilla had never been in an opera before.
The Christmas pantomimes of her childhood comprised the whole of her
experiences in the theatrical line. Her artistic eye and ear at once
appealed to, she gazed with curiosity and interest, and listened with
wonder and delight.

Her attention was fixed upon the stage, but her bridegroom’s was fixed
upon her. As once before, in her childhood, he had looked through her
eyes, and heard through her ears, and derived more pleasure from _her_
pleasure, than from the performance on the stage, so now he experienced
a keener delight in watching and wondering at

             “The mind, the music breathing from her face,”

than in listening to the most divine strains of the singer, who was
charming the whole house.

How beautiful she looked in her enthusiasm! She was lovely always, even
when pale and still, but now her lips and cheeks glowed with that
delicate, transparent fire, kindled of emotion, and her eyes beamed with
light, her whole countenance was radiant and inspired.

He was so much absorbed in contemplating her, that he did not perceive
she had attracted and was receiving a great deal of attention from other
quarters of the house. Next to the figures on the stage, the occupants
of the “private” boxes have the most conspicuous position; and if there
is a new beauty among them, she is sure to be discovered and stared at.
Alexander had not thought of this, or perhaps he would not have
exhibited his little beauty in a private box.

At the end of the second act of the opera, however, he was unpleasantly
reminded of the fact. The box door opened, and one of his gentleman
acquaintances came in.

Alexander arose and shook hands with him, but did not ask him to be
seated, although there were two spare chairs; and did not present him to
Drusilla, although the visitor looked enquiringly at her, and Drusilla
glanced timidly in return.

Before this gentleman left the box, another came, and then another,
until the little place was full. And Alexander chatted gaily with them
all, but presented not one of them to Drusilla.

When the curtain arose for the third act, they all bowed and withdrew.

And Drusilla’s whole attention was once more given to the stage, and
Alexander’s to her.

Yet, now that his notice had been attracted to the fact, he could not
help seeing that several opera glasses were still levelled at his box.

“I will never bring her here again,” he muttered to himself, frowning
with a strangely blended feeling of gratified pride in the admiration
his beautiful bride had unconsciously excited, and of morose jealousy
that other eyes should gaze on her so publicly at will. There was
something of the sultan in Mr. Lyon’s selfish nature, and he felt as if
he would have liked to shut up his little beauty from all the world
forever.

He was heartily glad when the play was over. And while the performers
were still curtseying	 and bowing, and the curtain was slowly rolling
down, he hurried Drusilla up from her seat, wrapped her cloak around
her, and took her off lest some of his unwelcome visitors should meet
them on their way out.

When they were seated in their carriage, and the horses were moving at a
smart trot down Pennsylvania avenue towards Seventh street, Alexander
turned to his now quiet companion, and said:

“You were very much pleased, my little love?”

“Oh, more than that; I have been in Heaven!” she aspirated.

“You little enthusiast! But what makes you so quiet now?”

“I have scarcely got back to earth, I suppose.”

“Drusa, you saw those visitors that came into our box?”

“Yes; they were friends of yours, and looked as if they expected you to
introduce them to me.”

“Yes, I dare say they did; but, Drusilla, did you wish me to do so?”

“I? I had no wish on the subject. But any friends of yours, Alick, would
be always most welcome to my acquaintance.”

“Not so, little one. A man may have many friends that he would not like
to present to his wife. And these—were roughs.”

“‘Roughs?’”

“Rude, unbroken colts, unfit for a gentlewoman’s society. But let them
pass. I only wished to explain why I did not introduce them to you. Now
as to the entertainment of the evening. How did you like Xitz?” he
inquired, mentioning the tenor of the troupe.

Drusilla went off into raptures over the tenor.

And they talked of the opera and of nothing else until they reached
home.

Lights from the windows were gleaming through the trees as they drove up
to the house.

“How bright and cheerful our little home looks,” said Drusilla, as
Alexander lifted her from the carriage.

“I am glad you think so, love,” he whispered.

Pina opened the door, and smilingly admitted them.

She took her mistress’s hood and cloak, while her master relieved
himself of his cap and overcoat.

And then she opened the drawing-room door where a fine fire was burning.
And while they stood and warmed themselves before its blaze she drew
aside the crimson curtain that shut off the dining-room, and revealed an
elegant little supper set out in readiness.

And the evening closed as pleasantly as it had commenced.

Alexander loved Drusilla; there is no doubt of that. But as the days
wore on he found life alone with her rather dull. They had been married
a fortnight before he left her alone for a day. But on a certain morning
he had his horse saddled to ride in to Washington “to get the papers,”
he said, and to make arrangements for having them sent to him every day.
As he kissed Drusilla good-bye he added that he should be back as soon
as possible.

She begged that he would not hurry himself for her sake. She said she
would occupy her time with dress-making during his absence.

“But you will be quite alone my poor little love,” he said.

“I shall have pleasant thoughts for company,” she answered; and she
added: “Dear Alick, I do not wish to be a hamper to your motions; never
think of me as any obstacle to your freedom. Please don’t.”

“As if I ever thought of anything else but you!” replied the bridegroom,
who was still a lover. And he kissed her again and rode away.

As soon as Alick reached the city he put his horse up at a livery
stable, and gave himself a holiday by sauntering up and down
Pennsylvania avenue, and lounging into the various reading rooms of the
hotels.

In one of them he heard that an exciting polemic duel was to come off
that day in the Senate Chamber between two distinguished Senators of
opposite parties in politics. Mr. W. of Massachusetts was expected to
make a speech, which Mr. C. of South Carolina was expected to answer.

And Alexander determined to go with the crowd and hear them.

He lost no time in hurrying to the Capitol, and making his way to the
gallery of the Senate.

It was the very height of the Washington season, and the city was as
usual every winter, filled to overflowing.

As many of the elite as could be pressed into that very limited space
was crowded into the gallery of the Senate Chamber.

Alexander with much difficulty made his way into this crowd. But Mr.
Lyon was epicurean rather than intellectual, and would not endure
personal discomfort for the sake of hearing the grandest burst of
eloquence that ever thunderstruck the world. So after experiencing
something of heat, pressure, and suffocation he turned his back upon the
“Godlike,” and pushed his way through the crowd in the gallery to the
crowd outside who were trying to get in, and so slowly progressed to the
library, were the “population” was thinner and the air purer.

He walked up to a table where several ladies and gentlemen were gathered
to look at some new illustrated volumes that lay there for inspection.

One of the ladies turned around, and he found himself face to face with
his Cousin Anna.

“_Good gracious, Alick_, who on earth would have expected to see you
here!” she exclaimed in astonishment, as she offered her hand.

He turned red and pale; took and pressed the offered hand, and then
recovered himself and answered:

“Or _you_, Anna. I thought you were still at Old Lyon Hall.”

“And I thought you were at Richmond, or rather I had hoped you were by
this time.”

“My uncle is here with you, of course,” said Alexander, wishing to avoid
a topic which he saw upon the lips of his cousin.

“Oh, yes, certainly, my grandfather is here. Our coming was his act. He
fancied—it was only fancy—that my health and spirits were drooping in
the country, and that I needed a change, and so he brought me to
Washington. Of course being in mourning, we do not go to balls, only to
receptions where there is no dancing. But how is it that you are here?
Why are you not in Richmond?”

“I hope my uncle is quite well?” said Alexander, persistently ignoring
her questions.

“Yes, quite. I was asking you why——”

“I do not see him; he is not with you this morning.”

“No; he is on the floor of the Senate Chamber. But, Alexander, I asked
you why you are here.”

“Oh, I too, needed a change,” he answered, smiling.

“Ah! but surely, Alexander, can you know——By the way, what have you been
doing with yourself for the last month in which we have not heard from
you?”

“Here is a catechism! Wandering about to be sure; trying to shake off a
very disagreeable companion—meaning myself.”

While he spoke she was regarding him with a very grave face; but there
was more of pity than rebuke in its expression.

“Alick, you _cannot_ know. When did you hear from your home?”

“Not for four or five weeks.”

“Then you _don’t_ know. Oh, Alick, do you think it was right to leave
your home without giving your address, in case anything should happen to
require your presence. Oh, Alick!”

“Anna, since the death of my dear father and mother, in addition to the
grief for their loss I have been oppressed with the cares of the estate.
I wished to get rid of trouble for a little while. And so, to prevent
old Dorset from writing to me about business, I came away without
leaving my address.”

“And suppose, Alick, something of importance should have required your
attention in the meantime? Some matter of life or death?”

“Well, thank Heaven, no such matter has turned up. I see you before me
in health and beauty. And I hear you say that my uncle is quite well.”

“And yet something has happened. Come with me, Alick, to the window
yonder,” said Anna, in a low voice, as she walked off to a distant part
of the room.

“Have you really heard nothing from Dorset, Alick?” she inquired, when
they stood together at some distance from every one else in the library.

“No; I hope nothing has happened to the poor old fellow?” said
Alexander, uneasily.

“Oh, no, not to him, or to any of the servants. Oh, Alick, I am so sorry
to be the first to tell you.”

“Of what in the name of Heaven, Anna, since you and your grandfather,
and even old Dorset and the servants are well.”

“Was there no one else in whom you took an interest?” she gravely
inquired.

“Richard Hammond? Poor Dick! Surely no misfortune——”

“No, no misfortune has befallen Dick; and neither do I give you credit
for caring a straw whether there has or has not. Nothing has happened to
Dick but the inheritance of a large fortune from a bachelor uncle in
Brazil, which has caused my grandfather to look on him with more
tolerant eyes.”

“I am very glad of Dick’s good fortune.”

“I do not give you credit for caring a fig for his fortune, good or bad.
But oh, Alick, I am grieved for you. Was there no one else, no one else
you cared for, left at home?”

“Indeed, I cannot think of any other creature in whom I could be
expected to take so deep an interest.”

“Not—poor little Drusilla?”

Alexander gave a great guilty start and stood gazing at his cousin.
Drusilla had not been associated in his mind with any one left at home;
so he had had no suspicion that Anna spoke of her; and now he wondered
whether Anna had any inkling of the truth. He doubted only an instant,
and then he felt sure by her words, looks and manners that she had not.
Yet he wished to know everything she had to say of Drusilla’s flight.

“What of her?” he inquired.

“Oh, Alick, poor little thing! I grieve so much to tell you. But after
you left home, it seems she became moody, silent, absent, and altogether
queer. She took to wandering off every day by herself. Dorset and Molly
thought that she was going deranged as her poor mother had gone. So they
watched her closely. But one day, about a fortnight after you left home,
she eluded their vigilance and disappeared from the house. And though
the most diligent search was made for her, she could not be found.”

Anna paused, and Alexander tried to look as much shocked as she
evidently expected him to be; but he could not yet trust himself to make
any comment.

“Old Dorset, nearly beside himself with distress, wrote to my
grandfather, telling him of what had occurred, and asking for your
address that he might communicate the matter to you. Of course, not
knowing it, my grandfather could not give it. But I did hope the old man
had discovered your whereabouts and written to you.”

“No, he has not. Dear me! Poor girl, poor girl! how shocking! And no
trace has been discovered of her yet?” said Alexander, acting grief and
anxiety as well as any ordinary stage-player could.

“None that I knew of.”

“Bless my life, how dreadful! I must put advertisements in all the
papers and employ the detectives. What motive does old Dorset assign to
her act of leaving her home?”

“Partial derangement, I tell you, inherited from her mother.”

“Poor child! poor child! I will have inquiries set on foot immediately.
But—here comes General Lyon,” said Alexander, glad to have a diversion
from the very embarrassing subject of Drusilla.

In fact, at that moment the old soldier entered the library, looking to
the right and left in search of his grand-daughter.

Attended by Alexander, she went to meet him.

“Well, my dear, ready to go back to our hotel?—Ah, Alexander, how do you
do, my boy? Glad to see you. How long have you been here?” he asked,
cordially shaking hands with his nephew.

“I reached the city early this morning,” said Alexander, speaking the
_literal_ truth, but giving a false impression, as he meant to do.

“Ah! by the first train, eh?” exclaimed the old man, jumping to the
obvious conclusion. “But where do you hang out, eh, my boy?”

“I have not taken rooms yet,” replied Alexander, who found that he
needed all his presence of mind to answer these unexpected questions
without betraying himself on the one hand and perjuring himself on the
other.

“Ah! left all your luggage at the station, eh? Well, I would advise you
to take rooms at our hotel. We are pretty comfortable there?”

“How long do you propose to stay here, sir?” inquired the young man.

“Oh, the rest of the season, I suppose.”

Here was a dilemma. Of course, Alexander might have ended all his
embarrassments by candidly confessing his marriage with Drusilla. And
why did he not do so? Simply because loving and admiring his young
bride, as he certainly did, he was nevertheless ashamed of having wedded
his housekeeper’s daughter; and he lacked moral courage to face the
astonishment of his cousin and the indignation of his uncle, and to
defend his own act and stand by his own wife.

Ah! but there is a sort of pride that is below contempt.

While Alexander was wondering what he should do to get out of his
perplexities, his uncle changed the subject back to the other dangerous
theme by saying:

“Ah, by the way, that was a sad thing—the fate of poor little Drusilla.”

“Very sad, indeed, sir,” replied Alexander, lugubriously.

“It must have shocked you terribly,” said the old soldier.

“Ah!” exclaimed Alexander.

“Well, well, it can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“I shall do all I can in the premises, sir.”

“Oh, no doubt, no doubt. Come, my dear Anna, let us get on. Alick, come
home with us to dinner.”

Alexander would have made excuses. He was not dressed for dinner, he
said. He had no means of making his toilet.

But his uncle cut him short.

“Nonsense, man, nonsense. Who expects you to be in full dress to-day?
You are a traveller, just arrived in the city. You have left your
luggage at the station, and you have not even engaged rooms yet.
Besides—at a hotel table, who cares how you are dressed? Come along.
There! give Anna your arm, and take her to the carriage.”

What could Alick do?

He offered his arm to his cousin and led her down the many broad steps
leading to the east front of the capitol, where the carriage waited. He
handed her carefully in to her cushioned seat, and bowed and attempted
some excuse for leaving her.

But Anna, seized with some inexplicable whim, perhaps inspired by the
Spirit of Evil for his torment, would not let him off; but insisted upon
his entering and taking a seat beside her.

With a suppressed groan, Alexander obeyed.

The old soldier followed them into the carriage.

When he was comfortably seated and the horses had started, he rubbed his
hands and said:

“This is fortunate. I needed some one whom I could trust, to take Anna
out in the evening. Who so proper an escort as her betrothed husband?
Now this evening there is to be a grand reception at the Executive
Mansion. I do not feel well enough to go out at night, so I must impress
you into the service, my boy.”

“I should be most happy, sir,” said the young man, actually trembling
under his accumulating embarrassment. “I should indeed be delighted,
but——”

“But what?—Oh, nonsense, you cannot make any excuse about your toilet in
this case; there is plenty of time to get your luggage from the station,
and get yourself up for the evening in the most unexceptionable style.”

“Yes, sir, but——”

“But what, again? You cannot possibly have any other engagement. You
have been in the city too short a time. Alexander, what has come to you?
You are not like yourself at all. I really think your betrothed has a
reason to feel piqued,” said the old man, gravely.

“I beg your pardon and hers, sir—I am—if I must speak the truth, a
little upset upon the subject of that poor girl,” said Alexander, in
explanation, again speaking the literal truth, while intentionally
giving a wrong impression.

“Oh exactly, to be sure, my dear boy, and it does you credit. I am
certain I ought to beg _your_ pardon, now, for doing injustice to your
good feelings. But Alick, my lad, your compassion for that poor child
need not prevent you from ordinary social pleasures. You really must
escort your cousin to the President’s reception to-night.”

“My dear grandfather,” put in Anna, “I will not, if you please, have any
gentleman pressed into my service against his will, even though that
gentleman should be my affianced husband. Dick is in Washington. He
called on me this morning, and begged leave to attend me to the White
House this evening. I told him I would hold his proposal in reserve, and
let him know in time.”

Now what was there in the name of his old rival, poor Dick, that should
have raised Alexander’s jealousy? Mr. Lyon was a married man, and had no
right to feel annoyed at the idea of Richard Hammond becoming the escort
of his cousin. Nevertheless he _did_ feel annoyed, partly, perhaps,
because he had once considered Anna his own property, and however
lightly he had valued the possession, he could not, even now, see her
pass over to another without a secret feeling of rage and jealousy; and
so he hesitated to answer:

“No, my dear cousin; if you please, I claim the right of attending you
in person. I can not resign that right to Mr. Hammond.”

“And _I_ claim the right of choosing my own escort,” said Anna, proudly.

Alexander bowed.

“Girl and boy, I will have no lovers’ quarrels here, Anna, you should
feel that there is an impropriety in an engaged young lady accepting the
attentions of another gentleman, when her betrothed is anxious to show
her those attentions himself. Alexander, you are to take Anna to the
reception this evening. Young people, both see that you obey me. _Some_
respect should be paid to my gray head and my eighty years,” said the
old soldier, with dignity.

Both the young people bowed and acquiesced. And so it was settled that
Alexander should attend Anna to the reception of the evening.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                          A QUEEN OF FASHION.

                 Here high-born men were proud to wait,
                 And beauty watched to imitate
                   Her gentle voice, her lovely mien,
                 And gather from her air and gait
                   The graces of its queen.—BYRON.


Alexander went with his uncle and cousin to their hotel.

“And now, my boy,” said the old gentleman, after he had dismissed the
carriage and taken his grand-daughter into the private entrance, “let us
lose no time in going to the office and securing your rooms. Guests are
arriving by every train, and the house is in a fair way of being crowded
if it is not so already. Indeed, I fear you may not, even now, be able
to obtain rooms here.”

“Heaven grant I may not!” was the fervent, though silent, aspiration of
Mr. Lyon, who was almost at his wits’ ends with perplexity.

In the strong hope that there was no room to be had, he let his uncle
drag him along to the counter of the office, which was crowded with
applicants for accommodations. It was some minutes before General Lyon
could get audience with the sorely embarrassed clerk of the house. When
he did, it was to receive the answer that the crowded state of the
office led him to anticipate.

There was not a room nor a half a room, nor a bed nor a half a bed, at
the disposal of the house.

“I thought so. Well, Alick, I am sorry; but you must try to get rooms as
near us as possible. I don’t think the Blank House is full yet. It is
too far up town for strangers. But hark ye! it will be full in an hour
from this time. ‘Make hay while the sun shines.’ Run, now; jump into a
cab and drive for life to the Blank, and engage your rooms before this
crowd gets there and tills the house.”

Again, what could Alexander do? He saw at a glance that he must
ostensively live at Washington—that he must have rooms at some hotel,
though he might never, or very seldom, occupy them. And he was only too
glad that he was not obliged to have rooms in the same house with his
uncle, and so be always under the old gentleman’s eye.

He thanked General Lyon for his advice, and said that he should avail
himself of it.

And he went out and jumped into the first cab that offered, and drove to
the Blank House, where he happened to be in time to engage the only
bedroom at the disposal of the proprietor.

He took the key of his room, which he meant only to occupy on his
occasional visits to the city, and then he drove to the “establishment”
of a fashionable tailor and gentleman’s outfitter, and he suited himself
with a full evening dress, including linen, gloves, perfumery, et
cetera. These he ordered to be sent to his room at the Blank House.

“I am booked for his Excellency’s reception this evening, and so it will
be considerably after midnight before I can hope to get back to
Cedarwood. Poor little Drusa! I hope she won’t be anxious, and sit up
and lose her rest,” he said, as he hurried back to his hotel to make his
toilet for the evening.

While waiting for his parcel from the tailor’s he lounged into the
reading room, and took up one of the evening papers; but its columns
could scarcely engage his attention, which was wholly engrossed by his
embarrassments.

“It is now near sunset,” so ran his thoughts, “and poor little soul! she
has been watching for me for hours, is watching for me at this moment,
and will watch for me for hours longer, until long after midnight,
tormented by nobody knows how many fears and fancies concerning me.
Plague take the old man! what brought him bothering to Washington just
at this time?” very irreverently muttered Mr. Lyon to himself, as his
eyes ran over the news items of the paper without taking cognizance of
their meaning.

His ostensible reading and his real reverie was rudely interrupted by
the clap of a hand upon his shoulder, and the ring of a laugh in his
ear.

He turned sharply around and recognized Captain Reding and Lieutenant
Harpe, two young officers of the army, who had been among the visitors
to his box on the evening when he had taken Drusilla to the German
Opera.

He bowed coldly in rebuke to their laughter, but they took no offence.

“Hey, old boy! so here you are at last!” said Reding.

“We have been looking for you for days—ever since we saw you at the
German Opera with that pretty little girl,” said Harpe.

“Where have you been hiding yourself all this time?” inquired Reding.

“And above all, where have you hidden that little beauty, you churlish
fellow?” added Harpe.

“You never presented us to her,” said Reding.

“Ah! we owe you one for that,” added Harpe.

“Gentlemen,” answered Mr. Lyon, slowly and coldly collecting his
thoughts, “if you will be good enough to speak, one at a time, and
forbear a second question until a first is answered, perhaps I may be
able to satisfy your curiosity. On the evening to which you allude I
happened to be passing through Washington, having in my charge the
daughter of a clergyman. She was the very young lady whom you saw with
me at the opera. I made no stay in the city beyond that evening; but
took my young charge immediately to her home.”

And in this statement also Mr. Lyon told something near the literal
truth, while intentionally giving a false impression.

“Ah, well,” said Reding, “but why did you not introduce us to the little
beauty?”

“If you must have it, I did not think two gay young blades like
yourselves very desirable acquaintances for a clergyman’s daughter,”
said Mr. Lyon.

“And you were!—oh! oh! oh!” laughed Reding.

“Deuce take it, what do you mean by that, Alick?” inquired Mr. Harpe.

“Nothing against your honor, gentlemen. If my charge for the evening had
been any other young lady in the world, I would have presented you to
her.”

“Much obliged,” said Reding; “but to tell you the truth, Lyon, whether
you like it or not, the young person in question did not impress us as
being a young lady.”

“What do you mean by _that_?” exclaimed Mr. Lyon, in a low, stern voice,
as he glared at the speaker.

“Oh, nothing against _her_ honor—nothing in the world. I mean simply
that the little creature seemed to us to be, not exactly of ‘low birth,’
but of ‘humble parentage,’ as the phrase goes. She had not the manners
of good society,” answered Reding.

“Heaven forbid she ever should have,” said Alexander, firmly. And yet
the criticism galled him; all the more, perhaps, because he felt it to
be the truth. His lovely young wife had not, as these critics said, the
manners of “good society.” Yet it was hard to say what she lacked.
Whatever it was, it was something in which Miss Anna Lyon, a very queen
in society, excelled. What was it, then? Drusilla was pretty, graceful,
well educated, and well-dressed. She excelled in many accomplishments,
and was conversant with the history of the past and the literature of
the present, and she conversed intelligently upon all these. She was
sweet, gentle and courteous in her deportment to all persons. What then
did she lack? I will tell you—self-esteem and self-possession—both of
which qualities are in high favor in “good society.” Drusilla’s manner
was that of one who had always occupied a subordinate position by living
among her superiors. She had too little of assurance and too much of
deference.

And this delicate and retiring manner, which had been one of her
sweetest charms in the eyes of her lover, now suddenly became
objectionable in the estimation of her husband.

“No,” he muttered to himself, “she has _not_ the air of a lady; she has
the air of a maid-servant. Poor little thing! I fear I shall never be
able to introduce her.”

“No offence, I hope, Alick!” said young Harpe, good-humoredly, noticing
Mr. Lyon’s gloomy abstraction.

“None in the world,” answered Alexander.

“Because, if there should be, I am ready to fight or apologize, or to
give you any sort of satisfaction you may please to demand,” laughed the
young lieutenant.

“I ask as a favor that you will drop the subject of this young lady; for
she is a lady by position, if not—according to your judgment—in manners.
And now, gentlemen, as I have an engagement, I must wish you good
evening,” said Mr. Lyon, bowing and withdrawing from their proximity.

“No,” he said, as he went slowly up to his room, “I must not bring
Drusilla into public again. Her beauty excites attention and her
simplicity provokes criticism, and both raise questions difficult to
meet. Poor little Drusa, she must always be a hidden treasure, a secret
‘well-spring of joy’ to me. Well, she will not object to that, and she
will be all the lovelier and the sweeter for this seclusion,” he added,
in some self-satisfaction, as he entered his room and began to dress for
the evening.

As soon as he was ready he went down to the dining-room, took a single
cup of strong tea, and then passed out to the sidewalk and called the
best-looking cab that he saw upon the stand.

A short drive took him to the hotel where his uncle and cousin were
stopping. He was shown up into their private parlor, where they were
awaiting him.

“You are late, Alick,” said Anna, advancing from the fire to meet him
half way across the room.

“I had to wait for my parcels,” replied Alexander, bowing and smiling
apologetically.

“Oh, your luggage from the railway station? Well, the porters _are_
slow, that is certain; but then they have so much to do,” said old
General Lyon, drawing a natural inference.

Alexander bowed in an absent sort of a manner, but did not reply. He was
gazing at his cousin. How grandly beautiful she looked, how graceful,
how stately! Ah! _she_ had the air, not only of “good society,” but of
the best society! And that upstart puppy, that good for nothing Dick
Hammond, to aspire to her. Ugh!

Such was the tenor of Mr. Alexander’s thoughts as he stood for a moment
contemplating his beautiful and imperious-looking cousin. In fact, Anna
was at an age when every season added to her beauty. Always
well-looking, she had never in her life looked so well as to-night.

She wore a deep mourning full dress of black crape, over a black silk.
It was made with a low corsage and short sleeves; both sleeves and
corsage were edged with a narrow trimming of fine white thule; and the
fairness of her perfect neck and arms were set off by a necklace and
bracelets of jet. Her golden auburn hair was in plain rolls at the back
of her head, and a band of jet above her forehead was its only ornament.
This simple mourning dress set off her blonde beauty more completely
than the most elaborate toilet could have done.

“I am ready, Alick. What are you waiting for?” she inquired, breaking in
upon the spell that bound him.

“Nothing,” he answered, with a slight start. “I am at your service this
instant.”

And he stepped towards her, and fastened the glove on the hand that she
held out to him. And then he wrapped her opera cloak carefully around
her shoulders, tied the little hood under her chin, drew her arm within
his own, and led her from the room down to the carriage, wondering all
the way how it was that his cousin Anna, whom he had only known as a
rather pretty girl so long, should so suddenly have become so beautiful
in his eyes.

Ah! Mr. Lyon, she had grown beautiful to you only in becoming
unattainable by you. A common case.

Old General Lyon followed them closely, and saw Alick put Anna into her
seat, and tuck her wrappings carefully around her, and then get in and
place himself beside her.

“Take care of her, Alick; the night is growing colder,” said the old
gentleman.

“I shall take the best care of her, sir,” replied Alexander.

“Anna, mind, you are not to stay late,” said Anna’s grandfather.

“‘Late?’—Who stays late at a President’s reception? Everybody—that is,
almost everybody, leaves before twelve. I shall be back by half-past
eleven, sir. It is only to make one’s bow or courtesy to his Excellency
in the Reception Room, and walk once or twice through the East Room, and
come away,” laughed Anna.

“Very well, I shall sit up for you,” said General Lyon, by way of
sealing the bargain, as he retreated from the carriage door.

The coachman put up the steps, clapped to the door, mounted his box, and
drove off.




                              CHAPTER XVII
                             MORAL MADNESS.

                    And she was all forgotten,
                      Amid the dazzling hall,
                    Amid the thundering music
                      And maddening carnival.—ANON.


“I was so upset by what you told me, Anna, that I really forgot to ask
you how long you have been in the city,” said Alexander, as soon as the
horses were in motion.

“We have been here just four days,” answered Miss Lyon.

“You have not been out much?”

“No; my grandfather has a crotchet that one must make one’s first
appearance in public at the President’s reception. This is the first one
that has been held since our arrival, and consequently the first evening
that I have been out.”

“I am very fortunate in being here to go with you,” said Alexander, this
time speaking, to his shame, quite truly; for he _was_ glad to escort
his beautiful cousin, if only to prevent Richard Hammond from doing so.

“Thanks,” she answered, very coldly, as if not believing his statement,
or not valuing it.

The very short distance between the hotel they had left and the palace
to which they were going was soon accomplished, and the carriage was
drawn up in the rear of some fifty others that occupied the drive
leading to the doors of the Executive mansion.

“There seems to be a great crowd here to-night,” said Alexander, while
they waited their turn to drive up to the door.

“There is always a crowd here in the month of February, I believe. It is
in this month that the city is full of strangers—literally _full_,
Alick,” replied Anna.

It was twenty minutes before their carriage slowly worked its way up
before the main entrance of the mansion. Then Alexander handed his
companion down from her seat, and took her up the broad steps leading
into the front hall of the palace.

A President’s reception has been described so often that there is no
need of a description here.

The reception of this evening in its general features differed from none
of its predecessors or its successors. There was the same crowd of
carriages on the drive, the same stream of foot passengers on the walk,
and the same crush of guests in the hall, in the cloak rooms, in the
corridors, in the ante-rooms, in the audience-chamber, in the reception
room, and in the east drawing-room.

Having each deposited their outer wrappings respectively in the
gentlemen’s and the ladies’ cloak rooms, Alexander and Anna met at the
door of the latter. He drew her arm within his own, and they soon found
themselves in a crush of crinoline and broadcloth, and an atmosphere of
patchoula frangipani, being forced forward through the corridor and the
ante-room into the reception room. In due time they were pressed up to
the presence of the President and his suite; but they had scarcely made
their respective bow and courtesy, and touched his Excellency’s hand,
before they were carried onward through other rooms into the east
drawing-room, where they found a little more space and freedom of
motion.

A military hand was playing a national march, to the measure of which
nearly half the company were promenading in a procession around and
around the saloon in a manner which, to a new comer, must have looked
simply idiotic.

Others of the assembly were seated on the various sofas and divans that
lined the walls of the room.

“Will you take a seat or a promenade?” inquired Alexander of his
companion.

“Oh, a promenade, by all means,” replied Anna. “I like the perfect
vacuity of mind that falls upon one in that orbit.”

Alexander drew her arm closer within his own, and they fell into the
procession. Immediately before them walked a foreign minister, in his
official costume, conducting a lady of high rank and fashion.
Immediately behind them came a general officer with a reigning belle
upon his arm.

But the reign of this belle was over from this evening. Her successor
had arrived.

Alexander and Anna had not made the circuit of the room twice, before he
saw that his companion was, “the observed of all observers” in the
place. He saw eyeglasses levelled at her; he heard whispered questions
concerning her:

“Who is she, that beautiful girl in black crape and jet?”

And he heard the whispered answers:

“A new debutante in the beau monde, I fancy.” Or—

“I don’t know, but that is young Lyon, of Richmond, who is escorting
her.”

“Splendid woman!”

“Magnificent creature!” Etc., etc., etc.

As he saw and heard all this, Alexander was strongly affected with
contradictory emotions. If the beautiful girl by his side had been
undisputably his own, he might have witnessed the sensation she created,
with unmixed pride and pleasure. But he had by his own rash act, lost
his own once exclusive right over her, and even put himself beyond the
circle of ordinary aspirants for her favor. And now the universal
admiration her beauty excited, aroused his dog-in-the-manger jealousy,
rather than flattered his pride.

And, upon the whole, not liking the situation, he stooped and whispered
to his cousin:

“Shall I lead you to a seat now, Anna?”

“If you please,” she answered.

And he took her to a distant sofa, gave her the corner of it, and placed
himself by her side.

But he gained nothing by the motion. On the contrary, he lost.

No sooner were they seated, than up came Richard Hammond, confident and
smiling.

Anna received him with the utmost graciousness.

And he stood before her, talking and laughing with her very gaily.

Other gentlemen friends, whom Anna had met on former occasions, came up
and paid their respects, and lingered near her. Her lady friends, a few
of whom were present, also sought her out, and greeted her with much
apparent gladness, and introduced _their_ friends to her.

There was not room on the sofa for all these ladies. So Anna, deeming it
discourteous to sit, where so many were standing, arose from her seat
and stood up. And very soon a circle of the most distinguished men and
the most brilliant women in the assembly was formed around her. And she
seemed as a queen, receiving the homage of her court.

Presently, a general buzz in the crowd announced some interesting event,
and before the little excitement subsided, the commanding form of the
President was seen passing with his suite through the room.

In due course, he drew near the circle that surrounded Miss Lyon. On
seeing that young beauty, he immediately passed through the circle that
divided to admit him, and stood before her, holding out his hand, and
saying, in a fatherly and familiar manner:

“How do you do, my dear? I am very glad to see you here, this evening.
But where is my old friend, the General?”

Miss Lyon, with a deep courtesy, explained that her grandfather’s
precarious state of health deprived him of the honor of waiting on his
Excellency.

The President expressed his regret at this. And then instead of passing
on and dispensing his courtesies impartially among his guests, he
lingered near the beautiful Anna, apparently as much fascinated by her
charms, as the youngest man in his presence.

Full half an hour he stood talking with the beauty, and then reluctantly
bowed his adieux, and immediately left the room.

This seemed the signal for the breaking up of the assembly.

And then followed other leave-takings, and the pressure through the
corridors to the cloak rooms; and the confusion of tongues and of
properties there, and the crush in the hall, and finally, the escape
into pure, bracing air of the clear starlight night on the outside.

Alexander and Anna had to wait the turn of their carriage to drive up.

When, at length, they were comfortably seated within it, Alexander took
out his watch, and said:

“Half-past twelve o’clock, and we promised to be home at half-past
eleven. We have kept your grandfather waiting for an hour.”

And he thought with compunction of one other whom he had kept waiting
much more than an hour.

They were driven rapidly to the hotel. On their arrival, Alexander
helped Anna out of the carriage and hurried her into the house, for the
night was sharp.

They found General Lyon up, and expecting them, with much impatience.

“An hour behind time, Anna,” he said.

“The President detained me in conversation, to the envy of all his other
lady guests,” laughed Anna.

“And you will forgive her delay,” said Alexander, “in consequence of her
conquest of our President. I consider it a great success.”




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                              A DARK RIDE.

        As yet ’tis midnight deep, the weary clouds,
        Slow meeting, mingle into solemn gloom,
        The while the drowsy world lies lost in sleep.—THOMSON.


As soon as Alexander Lyon had bid good night to his uncle and cousin, he
hurried to the livery stable where he had left his horse, doubting that
it would be open at so late an hour.

But it was not yet closed for the night; so upon Mr. Lyon’s requirement
one of the hostlers led out the horse, already saddled and bridled for
the road.

“A dark night, sir,” said this official, as he put the reins in the
hands of the rider.

“Yes, and a dark road before me,” replied the young gentleman.

“I hope for your sake it isn’t a long one, sir.”

“It is about five miles directly in the face of the wind,” laughed Mr.
Lyon.

“Sorry to hear it on your account, sir. The weather’s sharpish. The
wind’s got round to the northud and blows up pretty keenish. I wish you
well at your journey’s end, sir.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

Alexander rode briskly away.

The night had grown bitterly cold; but his horse was fresh, and the
rider thought that in such weather as this it would do the beast no harm
to ride him hard. So he put him into a gallop, and soon left the
gas-lighted, populous streets behind, and found himself in a dark and
lonely road, where nothing was to be seen on either side but wintry
woods and stubble fields, frozen brooks and straggling fences, and at
long intervals some isolated dwelling.

At length he came to the old turnpike road leading through the woods
towards his home. Here it was necessary to slacken speed; for the road
was obstructed in many places, and the sky was very dark. So he drew
rein at the entrance of the wood, and went on in a walk.

Notwithstanding the rapidity with which he had galloped over the five
miles on the Seventh street road, his blood was half stagnant with the
cold. His face, after smarting fiercely in the wind had lost all sense
of feeling, and his hands were so numb that he could scarcely hold the
bridle.

In addition to his physical discomfort he experienced much mental
disturbance; and both together made him irritable and angry with himself
and all the world. He was vexed with his uncle and cousin for being in
Washington: with Richard Hammond for being always at hand to wait upon
the beautiful heiress; with the old man in Brazil for dying and leaving
the young spendthrift a fortune to recommend him; and, above all, with
himself—not exactly for having married poor little Drusilla, but
certainly for having by his own act put it out of his power to marry
Anna; and _worse_ than all, he was vexed in advance with his sweet
little wife for the reception he felt sure she would give him when he
should get home.

As he rode slowly through the woods he muttered to himself:

“I _know_ she has been watching for me ever since noon to-day, just
because I said that I would be home then. She has been watching more
than twelve hours. And now of course she has worried herself into a fit
of intense anxiety, and most likely of illness besides. And there she
is, no doubt, sitting with a pale face and red eyes, weeping over a
smouldering fire, or an extinguished one. And she will meet me either
with tears or sorrowful reproaches, or both! And, after all, what can I
say for myself? Ah, bah, why will women take such things so much to
heart? As if it was not enough to have been driven almost to mental
distraction for her sake to-day, without being subjected to a scene
to-night.”

So growling within himself, the culprit rode slowly onward towards his
home, and the nearer he got to it the more slowly he rode. He actually
dreaded to meet Drusilla. But ride on slowly as he might, he could not
put off forever the inevitable moment of arrival.

He soon saw the light of his home gleaming through the trees.

“There, I knew it!” he said to himself. “She _is_ sitting up for me.
There are the drawing-room windows all ablaze, and not a shutter closed.
I had a faint hope that she might have gone to bed and cried herself to
sleep, like a child as she is. But that’s all over now. I’ve got to meet
her with her red eyes and pale face. Confound it all, if she does get up
a scene, I’ll teach her a lesson she’ll not soon forget!” he growled,
trying to work himself up into a fit of rage in anticipation of the
dreaded meeting. And yet, in the midst of all his efforts, his heart
reproached him, and he relented a little towards his young wife. So now
it was half in anger and half in compunction he drew near his home.

To give himself more time, to postpone the evil hour as long as
possible, he first rode around to the stable to put up his horse
himself.

And then he walked slowly to the house and knocked at the front door.

It flew open on the instant.

And there stood Drusilla, warm, glad, beaming with delight, radiant with
welcome.

“I heard you come,” she exclaimed—“I heard you ride around to the stable
first, and so I was here ready to open for you. But oh! how cold you
look. Come in quickly,” she said, taking him by his frozen hands and
drawing him into the hall, and then closing and bolting the front door
with her own nimble fingers.

For an instant he was so “taken aback” by her unexpected manner that he
positively shrank from her. But the next moment he caught her and folded
her to his bosom, as he murmured:

“My darling, darling child! My own dearest and best little Drusilla! how
could I ever leave you! Heart of my heart, I will never leave you again
for a whole day alone as long as I live in this world.”

Rash vow! but he meant, at the moment, to keep it.

“Yes, that is what I am,” she whispered—“heart of your heart. That is
the sweetest and the truest name you ever called me. And now let me help
you off with your overcoat, and then you can come into the drawing-room.
There is a good fire.”

He let her assist him in taking off his coat, and then he followed her
into the drawing-room, where, as she had said, there was a good fire.
His easy chair was standing before it, and his furred slippers were
lying on the rug. And she had even brought down the boot-jack and laid
it by the slippers.

Near the easy chair stood a small round table, covered with a white
damask cloth and laid for two persons.

A bright tea-kettle sat singing before the fire, and two small silver
covered dishes sat upon the hearth.

Seeing these simple preparations for his comfort and seeing the happy
little creature who had made them, his heart smote him, first for having
left her alone so late, and then for having entertained such hard
thoughts of her.

“My darling child, how kind of you to do all this for me. But I am sorry
you took the trouble,” he said, putting his arm around her and drawing
her towards him where he sat in his resting chair.

“But suppose it made me happy to do it? Suppose it interested and amused
me while waiting for you?” she asked.

“Ah, ‘waiting’ indeed! how long you have waited! I was in hopes that you
had gone to bed and gone to sleep; but when I saw the lights in the
drawing-room windows, I knew that you were still up.”

“I left the shutters open on purpose; I thought the light would look
cheerful to you as you rode home through the woods.”

“Dear heart! I ought to have known your loving motive as I came along;
but I didn’t. Ah, weren’t you tired and sleepy with waiting?” he asked,
as he drew her on his knee.

“Why no. It is not so _very_ late, after all. And I have sat up many and
many a night later than this only to finish a piece of needle-work I
happened to be pleased with, or book I was interested in. And wouldn’t I
much sooner sit up to give my dearest a good warm supper after his long,
cold ride?”

“My pet, my love, my darling, my—oh! what can I call you that will be
good enough and dear enough for you?”

“Call me no hard names at all,” she said, gayly, kissing him and
springing from his lap. “But take off your boots while I put supper on
the table.”

Poor little Drusilla, these arrangements of hers were not according to
the usages of “good society.” Now, Anna Lyon would have let her husband
go up to the top of the house in the cold before she would have
permitted the boot-jack to be brought into the drawing-room; and would
have let him broken his fast in a dreary dining-room, or even gone
hungry and thirsty to bed, before she would have allowed a kettle to be
boiled, or a supper to be laid, in the drawing-room. And only a few
hours before this Alexander had been lamenting in his heart his little
wife’s deficiencies in the manners of “good society.” But now he was
hungry and cold, and so,—flagrant as her breach of etiquette was, he did
not seem to see it; he only realized that he was at this moment the
happiest man, with the loveliest wife, in existence.

The supper was soon placed upon the table. Of the two silver covered
dishes, one was found to contain a pair of nicely roasted partridges,
and the other equally well roasted potatoes. Besides these, there was a
fresh salad prepared, as he thought none but Drusilla could prepare it.
And there were light biscuits and delicate jellies and fresh fruits. And
there were “schnapps” and lemons and loaf sugar, and all the materials
for the hot punch that she thought he would like after his cold ride.

“Tell me, darling,” said Alexander, after he had refreshed himself with
these viands, and was taking his ease between the table and the fire,
“tell me how you have passed the lonely day. Were you very lonely and
very anxious?”

“No,” she answered, “I wasn’t lonely. I was very busy, and I was
thinking of you, and looking for you. And—yes, I am forced to admit that
I was a little anxious.”

“Poor child! I had promised to be home at noon. What did you think, and
what did you do when I failed to come?”

“I thought something had detained you a little, and that you would be
home very soon; and—I took a cup of tea and bit of toast for lunch,”
laughed Drusilla.

“And afterwards, when hour after hour passed, until our late dinner time
came, what then?”

“Oh, I waited, expecting you every minute, until some hours past our
dinner-time, and then—I ate my own dinner and had yours put away to be
kept warm.”

“Wise little girl.”

“But I scarcely thought you would need the dinner. I fancied you were
dining with some friend you had met in the city, and that _that_ was
keeping you.”

“Little witch! And then when it grew dark and late?”

“Oh, _then_ I grew a little nervous about you, and had ever so many
foolish imaginations—that robbers had attacked you on the dark road, or
that the horse had thrown you, or some other fatality had overtaken you;
and so I was troubled with anxiety. But I reasoned and fought against
that anxiety. I said to myself how much more likely it was that you were
spending the evening with some friend; and then I recollected that the
Italian Opera was in Washington, and I thought it most probable that you
had gone there.”

“Ah! well, and what next?”

“Why, about ten o’clock I called in Pina and told her as the night was
so sharp, and the ride so long, you would need a warm supper when you
should arrive; and that we must get one up between us for you. And so
Pina dressed the partridges, and I made the salad and set the table,
and—that was how it was. And when all was ready I made Pina and Leo go
to bed, because the poor creatures have to rise so early in the morning.
And I told them to leave the shutters open, that the light might be a
beacon to you on this dark night.”

“My darling, darling child! I always knew that your nature was as sweet
as a saint’s, but I never knew how heavenly sweet, until to-night! You
have given me such loving welcome! You have not even _looked_ a reproach
to me for disappointing you, and you have not once asked me why I did
it.”

She stopped his words with kisses. And with her arm around his neck, and
her cheek laid against his, she whispered:

“As if I hadn’t faith in you. As if I didn’t love you and trust you.”

“Oh, you dove! I would not give you for Anna Lyon and all the fine
ladies that live, or ever did, or ever will live!” he said, warmly
embracing her.

“I hope,” she whispered, softly, “that you would never wish to give me
up for any one; not that I am better than others; not that I am so good
as they; but because I am your own, and you love me. But what made you
think of Miss Lyon just then, dearest?”

“Oh, because, you know, it was planned between our parents, that Anna
and I should marry, whether we liked to do it or not; fortunately,
neither of us liked to do it.”

“‘Fortunately;’ oh yes, how very fortunately! I cannot bear to think
what I should have done, if you had married Miss Lyon,” said Drusilla,
with a shudder.

Alexander wished to divert the conversation from the dangerous topic to
which he had so thoughtlessly led it, so he said:

“And you thought I had gone to the Italian Opera, this evening, did you,
my little love?”

“Yes, I thought you had dined with some friend, and then had gone with
him to see Lucia di’ Lammermoor. Had you not?”

“No, my darling, no; I wouldn’t have left you alone all the evening, for
the sake of hearing the grandest opera ever written and played.”

“Wouldn’t you, Alick? But you might have done so. I shouldn’t have
thought hard of it. I couldn’t expect you to be tied down to me all the
time.”

“But, my darling, I wouldn’t have, broken faith with you and stayed
away, when I promised to be home, for any amusement under the sun. And
nothing but the most urgent necessity should have kept me away on this
occasion.”

“Dear Alick, nothing disagreeable to you, I hope?”

“Only disagreeable, love, in so far as it detained me from your side.”

“Then I am glad.”

“It was only—some unexpected business connected with my late father’s
will,” said Alexander, hesitatingly, and again speaking a literal truth
to give a false impression. For certainly his embarrassments with Anna
Lyon did grow out of his father’s will—will that he, Alexander, should
marry her.

But Drusilla understood him as speaking in a financial sense only—as he
intended that she should; and she brightened up and answered:

“Ah, well, Alick, dear, since it was not very vexatious business, never
mind if it _did_ keep you away from me a few hours longer than you or I
expected. I can not hope to have you always here beside me; but you are
here now; and all is made up to you, is it not?”

“Yes, dear heart of my heart, all is made up to me now,” said Alexander,
folding her fondly to his heart.

And the night that he had dreaded so much closed in this perfect peace.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                           A NEGLECTED WIFE.

               He saw proud Clara’s face more fair,
               He knew her of broad lands the heir,
               Forgot his vows, his faith foreswore,
               And Constance was beloved no more.—SCOTT.


The day and night described in the last chapter were the types of many,
too many days and nights that followed them. Alexander Lyon had placed
himself in a false position and had a very difficult part to play
between his wife and his betrothed.

On the morning after that little supper the young couple slept late;
because on the previous evening they had found their bright fireside so
delightful that they had remained there billing and cooing like a pair
of lovers, as they still were, until the small hours, when at length
they went to rest.

She was the first of the two to rise in the morning; for she was an
ardent little housewife, and she liked to have everything about her
small home in perfect order.

He slept on until noon, and then awoke with a weight upon his mind,
though a very vague idea of what it meant. But presently, as his brain
grew clearer, he remembered all the perplexing events of the preceding
day and cursed his fate for bringing him into such an embarrassing
position.

As he made his morning toilet he reflected that his uncle, an “early
bird,” like most old country gentlemen, had probably some hours before
this called at his room at the Blank House and found him absent, and
perhaps had been told by the servants there that he had not been in all
night.

What could the old gentleman think of such irregularity on the part of
his nephew and intended son-in-law?

Alexander scarcely dared to answer that question. But full of anxious
and perplexing thoughts, he finished his toilet and went below stairs.

In the breakfast room he found a fine fire, a neat table, and his lovely
young wife in her pretty morning dress of white merino with black
trimmings.

She put aside the book she had been reading and arose to receive him. He
kissed her in silence and then dropped heavily into his chair.

She rang the bell and ordered breakfast served.

“I hope you have not waited for me, dear?” he languidly remarked.

“No; I had a cup of tea and a bit of dry toast when I first came down;
but that was nine o’clock, and it is after one now; so I am quite ready
to take breakfast with you. It will be my lunch.”

Fragrant Mocha coffee, fresh eggs, smoked salmon, broiled chicken and
light muffins were soon placed upon the table; and the two sat down to
breakfast.

But tempting as the viands were that stood, before him, Alexander could
eat but little.

Drusilla noticed his want of appetite and said:

“You are not well, dear. Have you a head-ache? Shall I order some strong
green tea made for you?”

“No, Drusa; I never drink tea in the morning unless I am really sick.
And I am quite well now; except that I am a little disturbed in regard
to—to that business connected with my late father’s will,” said
Alexander, evasively.

“Oh, then it wasn’t settled yesterday?”

“Oh, no; and I fear it will not be for many days yet.”

“I am sorry, Alick. But never mind. Everybody must have some little
thing to vex them; but it can’t last forever, you know. Try a little bit
of this smoked salmon. It is very nice.”

To please her he tried the salmon, and found that it gave him an
appetite; and he made a better breakfast than he had expected to do.

When he had finished, he rang the bell, which summoned Leo to the room.

“Have my horse saddled and brought around here directly,” he said to the
boy. Then, turning to his wife, he added:

“I shall have to ride into town to-day to look after that business; but
I will try to be back before night. I hope you won’t be very lonesome,
dear?”

An involuntary expression of surprise and disappointment clouded her
face for an instant; but she chased the clouds away, and smilingly
replied:

“Oh, no, I shall be very busy. But if you will tell me at what hour you
will be back, I will have dinner ready for you.”

“Have dinner at the usual hour, my dear. I will be back in time for it
if I possibly can. But do not wait for me beyond five o’clock, do you
hear?”

“Yes, Alick,” she answered, and again she had to chase away a rising
cloud of disappointment by a sunny smile.

He went out to prepare for his ride, and as soon as he was ready he
kissed his young wife and begged her not to mope; and then he mounted
his horse, that stood saddled at the door, and rode briskly away.

She looked after him until he was out of sight, and then with a sigh
turned into the house.

Meanwhile Alexander rode rapidly into the city, and, after leaving his
horse at the livery stable, hurried anxiously off to the hotel where his
uncle and cousin were stopping, and sent up his card.

They were both in, and he was soon ushered up into their private
sitting-room.

General Lyon, reclining in his resting chair, was reading the morning
papers; and Miss Lyon, lolling on the sofa, was turning over the leaves
of the libretto of the opera of the evening.

Alexander felt a little guilty as he walked into their presence.

But he was instantly consoled and reassured by the manners of both old
gentleman and young lady.

“Oh, is that you, Alick? Good morning. Sit down. Excuse me for not
rising. This is a shocking version of Il Trovatore,” said Anna, without
moving, or lifting her eyes from the pages she was studying.

“Ah! how do you do? Glad to see you. Intended to walk around your way
this morning and see how you were getting on. But really, in such sharp
weather as this, it seems to require an effort to leave the chimney
corner. Hope you’ll excuse my not calling.”

“With all my heart, sir,” said Alexander, feeling immensely relieved,
and blessing his stars that his uncle had not called on him and
discovered his absence after all. “With all my heart, sir! I could not
indeed expect, and would not wish you to take the trouble. It is rather
my duty always to wait upon you—a duty that I shall always be most happy
to perform.”

“You’re a good lad, Alick, a good lad,” said the old soldier, frankly
holding out his hand to his nephew.

“I hope I shall always be so happy as to deserve your good opinion,
sir,” said Alexander, taking the offered hand and bowing deeply over it.

But as he lifted himself up again he encountered the laughing eyes of
Anna, who was regarding him with a mocking smile.

“Now, really, Alick, you know you are growing so Joseph Surfacish, that
I am beginning to doubt your sincerity,” she said.

Alexander’s countenance fell. But the old gentleman came to the rescue.

“Never mind her, Alick. Who ever does mind Anna? But listen to me. I
have made an engagement for you this evening.”

Alexander started, with an unpleasant sensation about his heart; but the
old gentleman, without noticing him, went on:

“There have been several parties calling here this morning, to invite
Anna to go and hear this celebrated Italian Opera Troupe. But I excused
her to one and all, telling them she was engaged to go with you, and
also giving them to understand that she was also engaged for life to
you, so that they might not waste any attentions upon her. And I sent
and took a private box for you both, for this evening. Come! no thanks.
I don’t desire any. It was perfectly convenient for me to make these
arrangements, to save you the trouble.”

Alexander was dumb-foundered; he could not have returned thanks if he
had tried. He dropped into the nearest seat, and wiped his face with his
handkerchief, while the old gentleman went on to describe the
attractions of the Italian Opera, and while Anna silently, with an
amused expression of countenance, watched both.

“I—I fear, sir, that I cannot have the honor intended for me. I—”

—“Cannot have the honor intended for you? What the mischief do you mean
by that, sir?” demanded the old gentleman, in surprise and displeasure.

“A previous engagement, I regret to say, sir, stands in the way.”

“What sort of an engagement, boy? What sort of an engagement?”

“I had promised to dine with a friend—” began Alexander, speaking truly
as to the letter, and falsely as to the spirit. But the old gentleman
stopped him.

“Oh, a friend! a gentleman, of course, for it isn’t possible that you
should have promised to dine with any lady. Bosh, boy! Send the man an
excuse; tell him here is a lady in the case; and take an early dinner
with us, and be ready to attend Anna.”

“Really, my dear grandfather, I wish you would not press this matter
upon Mr. Lyon. You know that Dick is most anxious to be my escort,” said
Miss Lyon, in very justifiable displeasure.

Mr. Lyon and Dick. She called Alexander “Mr. Lyon,” and Richard Hammond
“Dick.” Alexander noticed the distinction, and his blood fired; but
before he could say a word, the old gentleman, with a flushed brow,
struck in:

“Dick? What the deuce do you mean, Anna? Do you suppose I am going to
allow you to be gallanted about by Dick or any other man, for that
matter, to set people gossipping? You an engaged young lady! And you,
sir!” he exclaimed, turning angrily to Alexander—“Thunder and lightning!
what do _you_ mean, sir, by your excuses and your hesitations? Do you
mean to slight your betrothed, sir?”

“Heaven forbid!” answered Alexander, earnestly. “I told you the reason
why I hesitated—that I had an engagement to dinner, but that
engagement—every lighter engagement—shall give way to your will, sir,
and my dear cousin’s service.”

And so saying he bowed to his uncle, and would have lifted his cousin’s
hand to his lips, but that she drew it away with a mocking smile as she
said:

“Thanks, Mr. ‘Joseph Surface.’ As I am resolved to see the opera, and as
I cannot do so without your escort, I suppose I must accept it. Though I
tell you plainly that I would much rather have Dick’s company.”

“Anna!” exclaimed the general, again breaking in before Alexander could
reply; “Anna, this is unbearable! to tell your betrothed husband that
you would rather have another man’s company than his!—But Alick, my boy,
I must say that you brought it all on yourself by your tardiness and
seeming indifference.”

“I am very sorry if I have seemed to be indifferent, when in fact I was
very far from _really_ being so. I hope my dear cousin will forgive me,”
bowed Alexander.

“Oh, of course she will. She spoke only from petulance—nothing else,”
smiled the old gentleman.

But Anna said nothing.

At this most unpropitious moment Mr. Richard Hammond was announced and
entered the room.




                              CHAPTER XX.
                                RIVALRY.

           And he was jealous, tho’ he would not show it,
           For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.—BYRON.


For an instant the rivals glared at each other; and then remembering in
whose presence they stood, they lowered their eyes.

Richard Hammond shook hands with his uncle and his Cousin Anna and then
turned towards Alexander, and the kindness of his heart overcoming all
his jealousy for the moment, he frankly held out his hand, saying:

“How do you do, Alick? I hope you are well!”

“Thanks, quite so,” returned Lyon, stiffly.

The general, a frank-hearted old soldier, did not like the reception
that Alick had given Dick. He thought the successful rival, the accepted
lover, the promised husband, might well afford to be more generous; and
so to make up to Richard for the coldness of Alexander, he turned to the
former and clapping him on the shoulder, exclaimed:

“Come, my boy! what are you standing there for? Sit down! sit down! and
make yourself at home. Stay and dine with us. We shall be quite a family
party!”

Dick laughed, thanked his uncle and took the offered seat.

And really soon his presence seemed to be a godsend to the constrained
party. His gay, good-humored manner and conversation soon raised the
spirits and warmed the hearts of all the little group. Even Alexander
had the grace to come out of his sulks, and to say:

“I must congratulate you, Dick, upon your accession to a large fortune.”

“Thank you, Alick. It came in good time, I tell you that. But Lord,
Alick, maybe after all this fortune is only so much more steam clapped
on the engine with which the demon is driving me on the road to ruin!”
said Dick, with his usual outspoken truthfulness.

“I hope not; I hope not,” said Alick.

“And I _believe_ not,” put in the general. “I am very glad to know that
my nephew Dick has given up all his wild companions, who having spent
one fortune for him, would be very glad to spend another.”

“Ran away from them, uncle, ran away from them. I hadn’t courage to give
them up, so I gave them ‘leg bail’ and left them all behind in
Richmond.”

“Right my boy! right! whatever may be said of the heroism of braving
bodily perils, it is much wiser to run away from moral danger than to
face it.”

“Dick cannot bear to give any one pain. And if he had stayed among his
old associates in Richmond, he would have let them ruin him again,
rather than he would have hurt their feelings by cutting their
acquaintance,” explained Anna.

“Exactly. Therefore I say it was wiser to run away, as it will also be
wisest to stay away,” said the general. “But here comes the waiter to
lay the cloth for dinner.”

They all dined together; and afterwards, as there seemed scarcely any
way of eluding the engagement, Alick took Anna to the Opera.

It seemed really discourteous, as Alexander had a whole private box to
himself and Anna, that he would not invite Dick to take a seat in it;
but in fact he could not bring himself to do such violence to his own
feelings of rivalry.

Dick went to the opera, however; and he occupied an orchestra chair in a
much better position for seeing and hearing than was Alexander’s and
Anna’s private box.

And when the curtain fell upon the first act, he came around to the box,
without seeming to think that he was intruding, and gayly and
good-humoredly talked and laughed with his cousins, until the curtain
rose upon the second act. And in the intervals of all the succeeding
acts he came round to their box. Though there were two vacant seats,
Alexander never once invited him to take one of them. Anna always did,
however, and pressed him cordially to sit down. But Dick always gayly
declined, and merely leaning over the back of one of the unoccupied
chairs, talked and laughed until the rising of the curtain warned him to
make his bow and retreat.

The performance was a very long one, so that it was some time after
twelve o’clock when Alexander took Anna back to the hotel and gave her
up to the charge of her grandfather.

And it was after two o’clock, when, half frozen and half famished, worn
out in body and harassed in mind, he reached his home.

As on the evening previous the lights from the little drawing-room
windows, gleaming through the wintry woods, cheered him on his approach
and warned him that his loving wife was still up and waiting to welcome
him home.

And there he found a bright fire, a warm supper and a happy face to
comfort him. As before she forbore to reproach or to question him, and
she received his voluntary explanation without hesitation and without
doubt;—but this explanation, while true to the letter as far as it went,
was false in the spirit—giving her the impression that still “the
troublesome business connected with his father’s will” detained him in
town.

Much of his conversation now, while being true to the letter, was false
in the spirit. But how could this possibly be expected to last?

Day after day Alexander rode in to town. Night after night he came back,
never earlier than one o’clock, sometimes as late as three or four; for
on these occasions he would have to escort his cousin to a ball where
the festivities were kept up until near daylight. And though Anna being
in half mourning refrained from dancing, she seldom retired from the
scene until one or two o’clock.

For many days and nights Drusilla bore this state of things with
exceeding patience and cheerfulness; always accepting his excuses for
leaving her in the morning, and always having the lighted windows, the
warm drawing-room, the bright fire and the hot supper to welcome him at
night. But ah! worship him as she would, she was but a soul encased in
flesh and blood, and her health and spirits from loneliness and late
hours, long continued, began to suffer. There was another cause, too,
for the poor child’s failing strength, which had her husband known it,
should have appealed strongly to his tenderness. But to do him justice
in this particular, he did not know it any more than his wife did. She
became nervous and irritable, and she wondered what could ail her, to
make her so unlike her old self. She tried very hard first to overcome
her nervous irritability, then to keep it from annoying him.

After he would leave her each day she would begin to occupy herself
diligently, so that her spirits might not droop. She inspected every
portion of her house from roof to cellar, and kept all in perfect order.
She did a great deal of needle-work, she read many books, she painted
some pictures, and she perfected herself in some of the most difficult
pieces of music. So at first she managed to get through her lonely days.

When the day’s work was done, and the sky grew dark, and she knew that a
long, lonely night was before her, she would have a bright fire lighted
in the drawing-room and an exquisite little supper planned out for her
husband.

And then, when bed time came, in her kindness of heart she would send
her servants to rest, and she would sit alone by the fire, reading and
watching until his return. Sometimes, in the loneliness of the place,
and of the hour, the stillness would grow almost awful to her, and she
would feel that she must speak to some human creature, or go mad, and
she would be tempted to go and call Pina up to sit with her. But there
again her compassion came in and saved her servant from being disturbed.
And so, rather than inconvenience another, she would sit on alone
“through the dead waste and middle of the night,” until she became so
nervous as to dread to hear the sound of her own low breathing, or to
see the reflection of her own scared face in the glass.

But then how welcome the sound of his horse’s feet, which her listening
ears could hear in the deep silence even when he was riding along the
open road before he turned into the wood.

Then in a moment all was changed. The flush of joy chased the paleness
from her cheeks; the light of love beamed from her eye; and she was
ready to welcome him with her happy face.




                              CHAPTER XXI.
                     THE SORROWS OF THE YOUNG WIFE.

              Yet for all this, let him stand
                In my thoughts, untouched by blame,
              Could he help it, if my hand
                He had claimed, with hasty claim?
              That was wrong, perhaps, but then
                Such things be, and will again.
              Women cannot judge for men.—E. B. BROWNING.


One morning near the last of February, when the young wife arose,
leaving her husband still in bed heavily sleeping off his fatigue, she
found that it was snowing fast, the flakes coming down fine and thick as
sifted flour, and promising a deep and heavy fall. And she was glad to
see it, for she said to herself:

“Surely Alick cannot leave home on such a tempestuous day as this.”

And if it had been possible for her fireside and breakfast table to have
been brighter and more attractive than they always were, she would have
made them so this morning for his sake. And the hope, the almost
certainty of having him home all day long made her face radiant with joy
and beauty.

Presently he came down heavily enough.

“What beastly weather!” he said, looking through the window at the
thickly falling snow.

Her face fell a little, she scarcely knew why. But she touched the bell
and ordered the breakfast served.

“And tell Leo to have my horse at the door in half an hour,” added
Alick.

“You are not going out on such a day as this, dear Alick,” she said.

“Yes, I am. It is that horrid business. Now, Drusilla, my little woman,
do try to be cheerful and don’t vex me by looking that way,” he said, as
he saw her grave face.

“I am only sorry, dear, that you have to leave home in such weather,
that is all,” she answered, as she turned and busied herself with
pouring out the coffee that was just then set upon the table.

And he ate his breakfast in haste, dressed in haste and then mounted his
horse and hurried off to town.

The snow continued to fall and the day passed very heavily with the poor
young wife. Still her thought was for her husband.

“Oh, what a night he will have to come home in,” she said to herself
again and again, as she saw that the weather grew worse and worse as the
day waned later and later.

At length towards evening she could keep her anxiety to herself no
longer, and she said to her maid:

“Oh, Pina, what a night for Mr. Lyon to ride home in!”

“Indeed, ma’am, I don’t think he will come at all.”

“Not come home at all!” echoed Pina’s mistress, aghast.

“Why you see, ma’am, it will be dangerous. Only look out. The fences are
nearly all covered and the snow is still falling,” said the girl,
pointing through the windows of the kitchen where this conversation took
place.

“I see,” sighed the lonely wife, and her heart seemed to sink like lead
in her bosom. But then she took herself to task and said:

“Why should I feel so miserable because my husband must stay away from
me for one night? I would much rather that he should stay all night in
Washington than risk his life in attempting to return home in the
darkness, through such a snow-storm as this, in which all landmarks seem
to be lost.”

And so she tried to reason with her longing heart.

At night, however, it stopped snowing. But the wind came up from the
northwest and blew very hard, and the new fallen snow began to freeze as
firm as adamant.

“What do you think now, Pina? Do you think your master can get home?”
inquired the master’s wife of her maid.

“Lor, ma’am, why this is worse than the other.”

“What is, Pina?”

“This freeze is worse than the falling snow, ma’am; because it will make
the roads all as slippery as glass; so, even if his horse is rough shod,
master will hardly be able to get home.”

“Well, Pina, I trust that he will run no risk. But, in case he should
come, we must have everything ready for him as usual. The worse the
weather, the more comfort he will want. So you must dress the wild duck
for the roaster, and I will make a little cabinet pudding,” said Pina’s
mistress, tying on an apron and tucking up her sleeves.

“We may prepare for him, ma’am, but he will never return such a night as
this, you may take my word for that. It would be as much as his life and
limbs are worth to attempt it,” answered the girl.

These words made the young wife very uneasy. Much as she wished for his
presence, she now prayed that he might not set out to return. And it was
with some comfort she reflected that Alexander never unnecessarily ran
any risk; that he would certainly be able to judge of the dangers of the
roads, and would as certainly avoid them. Still, in the event of his
returning that night, she was determined to have everything ready for
him.

As night deepened, it grew colder and colder. Outside it was like the
polar regions. There

                 “Dread winter spread his latest glooms
                 And reigned tremendous—”

—all darkness, snow and ice.

Inside, all was light, warmth and comfort.

In the drawing-room a large bright fire was burning; the little table
was laid for supper; the easy chair and the warm slippers were ready.

At ten o’clock, Drusilla, as usual, would have dismissed her maid to
bed, but the girl pleaded to remain up “for this once” with her
mistress.

“If you please, ma’am, master will not be home to-night, I’m certain
sure of it. But you’ll sit up all the same. So please let me sit up with
you till you gives it up.”

“As you like, Pina,” replied the young mistress.

And the little lady settled herself in one of the easy chairs before the
fire, and the maid nestled down among the foot cushions in the corner.

In less than an hour, Pina, overcome with the heat of the fire and the
heaviness of her own head, fell fast asleep.

And Drusilla watched on, almost as much alone as if her maid had been a
hundred miles away—as very likely she was, in the spirit.

Drusilla was hoping against hope, that her too much loved husband might
return home and in safety; but she could not justify this hope to her
reason, for certainly this was a night in which no man in his senses,
who valued his life and limbs, would take the road; and just as
certainly, Alexander had a wholsome regard for his own; so it was not
likely that he would risk them.

Still, Drusilla waited and watched until the clock struck twelve. Then,
as her maid was snoring sonorously, to say nothing of baking her head by
getting it almost into the fire, Drusilla woke her up and ordered her
off to bed.

Pina, too utterly wearied with watching, and too stupid with sleep to
make any resistance, stumbled off to her attic, finding her way as a
somnambulist might.

And Drusilla was left quite alone. The clock struck two. And still she
watched on and on. She thought there was little use in doing so, but she
could not help it. She continued, at intervals, to stare through the
windows, and to listen to every sound without, though she saw nothing
but the darkness of the night, and the glimmer of the snow-clad,
spectral looking trees, and heard nothing but the howling of the wind
and the rattling of the icicles.

But suddenly, through all deeper sounds, she heard the merry ringing of
sleigh-bells!

And she started to her feet, for she knew in an instant, that her
husband had come home in a sleigh—a possibility that had never occurred
either to herself or her servant.

She ran to the door and pulled it open. But Alexander had turned around
to the stable, and so it was some ten minutes before he returned to the
door.

It flew open at his knock, and Drusilla threw herself in his arms; she
could not help this, she was so overjoyed at his almost unhoped for
return in safety that night.

“Up still, my faithful little darling?” he said, kissing her.

“Yes; and I hope you are very hungry this time, as well as very cold,
dear Alick, for I have such a supper for you!”

“Yes? Well you may swear that I am famished, for I have not broken my
fast since luncheon,” he laughed.

She helped him to draw off his overcoat, and hung it up in the hall; and
then she pulled him with affectionate solicitude and playful force out
from the cold hall into the snug little drawing-room, and made him
comfortable.

“Dear Alick, your hands are almost frozen! You must have had a real
Laplander’s ride, and without the Laplander’s furs. How came you to
undertake it, dear?” she asked, as she pushed him down in his arm-chair,
and sat on a cushion at his side, and took his icy hands between her own
warm ones, and rubbed them. “Why did you come, Alick, dear?”

“My darling, it is bad enough for me to stay away from you as much as I
do—as much as I am _compelled_ to do on account of that vexatious
business; but really it would be too bad to stay away all night, and I
never mean to do that,” he answered.

“Oh, Alick dear, how glad I am to hear you say so. And I am so glad you
came to-night, since you have reached home in safety. The servants
thought that you would not come, that it would be too dangerous a
journey to undertake on horseback.”

“So it would, my dear, and that is the reason why I bought the sleigh;
which, besides, I thought would be useful this winter.”

“Oh, yes, indeed, so it will. And we are both so fond of sleighing. We
shall have some fine sleighing together,” she said.

He made no reply to the observation, for he knew full well that he
should have no time to realize her anticipations.

“Don’t you remember, Alick, the fine sleigh rides we used to have in the
Christmas holidays, when you used to come home to spend them; and when
you used to take Miss Anna out, and always insist that your ‘child,’ as
you called me, should go along, too? Do you remember, Alick?”

“Yes, little Drusa, quite well,” he answered gravely, and with some
emotion, as he tenderly smoothed her hair with his hand.

“Oh, can I ever forget all your kindness to me from that time to the
very present? Can I ever do too much—can I ever do enough for you?”

“Poor little Drusa!” he murmured.

“But there, your hands are warm now, and I will set the supper on the
table,” said the busy little housewife.

When Alick was warmed and fed, and comforted and satisfied, he turned
from the table and the fire towards his little wife, and said:

“Well, Drusa, as I had the sleigh I thought I might as well bring
something home in it besides myself. So I walked into several of the
book stores and picked up the best of the new books that are published.”

“New books! Oh, thank you, dear Alick; where are they?” eagerly
exclaimed Drusilla, rising from her chair to look for them; for she who
had so few amusements—so few?—I should have said no amusements at
all,—was delighted at the mention of new books. “Where are they, Alick
dear?” she repeated, glancing around the room.

“Sit down, my pet. Do you think I could have brought them in my hand, or
in my pocket? Why, they are an armful for a railway porter. I left them
in the sleigh in the stable. You shall have a glorious time over them
to-morrow; it is too late to look at them to-night even if we had them
lying before us; for, do you see what o’clock it is?”

Drusilla glanced up at the Ormolu time-piece on the mantle shelf, and
saw, with surprise, that it was nearly two o’clock in the morning.

And Alexander arose at the same moment to put up the guard and close the
shutters, saying, with a smile,

“We have to be our own servants when we are so unreasonable as to sit up
so late, love.” And soon after both retired.

The next day was intensely cold, but clear and brilliant; the ground was
covered deep with hard frozen snow, and the trees were clothed with
frost and ice, and the sun shone out of a bright blue sky, lighting up
all the scene with blinding radiance.

Immediately after breakfast, Mr. Lyon had the sleigh brought around to
the door. The packages, left in it from the night before, were ordered
to be taken out and brought into the drawing-room.

“Here, little one! here are some dozens of new books that will help you
to kill the time between this and my return,” said Alexander, directing
her attention to the packages.

“Oh, thank you, Alick. But must you go to town again to-day?”

“Of course I must; I must go every day for some time yet.”

Drusilla suppressed the sigh that arose to her lips, but she could not
forbear the question:

“And stay late, Alick?”

“That is as it may be, Drusa. I shall return as soon as I can get away.
Now amuse yourself with your books, and don’t mope.”

“Oh, no, I won’t mope,” said Drusilla. “You are so good to me, Alick, I
ought not to do so.”

He jumped into his sleigh, and sped away to the ringing of the bells.
And she watched him out of sight, and then turned into the drawing-room
and sat down among her new books, and began to unwrap them. Most of my
readers know the delight of opening and examining a package of new
books. Drusilla was absorbed in the pleasure of opening package after
package, and examining volume after volume, until at length she selected
the book that she wished to read first, and laid it aside, and then she
took the others into the library and put them in proper places.

She had scarcely completed this pleasant piece of work, before she heard
her maid calling to her:

“Oh, ma’am, ma’am, come here, please, and see the snow-birds.”

She who loved all living creatures, went into the kitchen and looked
from the windows, and saw hopping about upon the frozen snow several
hundred of these little creatures.

Drusilla, who had always spent her summers in the country, but her
winters in town, had never seen, or, if she had seen, had never
particularly noticed, these birds before.

“My! what a sight! What brings so many of them here, Pina?” she
inquired, in astonishment.

“Why, you see, ma’am, the ground and the bushes and the trees are all
covered with frost and snow and ice, and they can’t find anything to eat
in the woods or fields or lanes, and so they look for food about
houses.”

“Poor little things! What do they eat, Pina?”

“Anything eatable, ma’am, that is small enough for them to
swallow;—grains of rice, crumbs of bread, specks of meat——”

“Oh, throw out whole handfuls of rice for them,” said Drusilla.

“That would hardly do, ma’am. It would sink in the snow and be lost
before the birds could get it. But if you will let me sprinkle food on
all the window-sills around the house, you will see the little creatures
come in scores to eat. And it will amuse you, like, ma’am, to sit and
see the art of the little rogues, how one will watch from a bush to see
the coast clear, and then notify the others to come and eat.”

“Oh, then,” said Drusilla, with all the eagerness of a child, “crumble
up several loaves of bread, and sprinkle every window-sill of the house
full as it will hold.”

“Would you like some traps set in the woods, ma’am?”

“Traps, what for?”

“To catch the birds, ma’am.”

“To catch the birds?”

“Yes, ma’am. They make excellent pies, and——”

“Oh, hush—no!”

“The boys will catch them, ma’am, if you don’t. They set traps in the
woods. And they puts food under them. And the little birds go to get it,
and are caught and killed.”

“How cruel and treacherous! Poor little things, to be frozen out, and
starved out, and to come to us for food and shelter, and to be killed
and eaten. The boys shan’t trap them on our place, any way. So if you or
Leo find a trap in our woods break it up, and if you find a trapper whip
him!” said the little champion of birds, as she left the kitchen.

That day passed with Drusilla less drearily than usual.

When all her household duties had been discharged, she sat in her snug
little drawing-room, feasting upon her new books, and furtively watching
the snow-birds that were feasting upon the crumbs on the window-sill,
and which as furtively watched her, and flew away the instant they
caught her eyes, only to fly back the instant they saw them fall upon
her book again; for these little raiders did not yet know their
benefactress.

So quiet was this place that the wild creatures of the woods feared not
to approach it; and Drusilla, looking from her window, could see the
squirrel seated on a twig and nibbling his nut, or the opossum curled up
in his hole, or the fleet little hare race across the frozen snow, or
the raccoon peeping from the hollow of his tree. It was well that this
child of nature loved nature with all her children so well, for not a
human being could Drusilla see from her window.

Her beautiful wild wood home—beautiful even in the dead of winter—was
separated on all sides by many acres of thick woods from any public
thoroughfare. The road leading through the woods was a strictly private
one leading to her house, and nowhere else.

Drusilla sat alternately reading and watching her favorites, until two
o’clock in the afternoon, when Pina brought in her mistress’s simple
dinner of boiled chicken and custard pudding.

It was a solitary dinner; for things had come to such a pass now that
the little wife, instead of taking a luncheon in the middle of the day,
and waiting dinner for the husband who never, never came to eat it,
always now dined alone soon after noon.

And now Drusilla consoled herself for the absence of her husband by
thinking of the supper she would prepare for him and share with him in
the evening.

“Pina,” she said, as she saw the snow-birds fly away from the
window-sill at her slightest motion; “Pina, will I never be able to tame
these little creatures by kindness?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am; you may make them so tame that they will come and eat
out of your hand.”

“How—how can I do that?”

“By just doing as you do now, ma’am. They will soon find out as you mean
them no harm but good, and they will cease to fear you and begin to love
you,” answered the girl, as she removed the dinner service.

And Drusilla spent the afternoon as she had spent the morning.

That night Alexander, for a wonder, came home as early as eight o’clock.
And the cheerful day was succeeded by a happy evening.




                             CHAPTER XXII.
                       DIFFICULTIES OF DECEPTION.

                Ah, what a tangled web we weave,
                When first we venture to deceive.—SCOTT.


Alexander had his troubles too, and they were not the less trying
because he had brought them on himself by his own wrong-doing—rather the
more so, in fact, since remorse was added to regret, and the loss of
self-respect to the loss of domestic peace.

He was learning by personal experience that “the way of the transgressor
is hard.”

He found it very difficult to play two parts and live in two places at
the same time.

This was the way his day passed. He usually arose at ten o’clock in the
morning, with a bad head-ache and a worse heart-ache, made a quick
toilet and a poor breakfast, then threw himself into the saddle and rode
away as fast as his horse’s feet could carry him.

He always contrived to be at his rooms in his hotel by eleven o’clock in
the forenoon, lest his uncle should call for him and find him out. And
always on entering his chamber he would tumble his bed and slop his
wash-stand to deceive the servants of the hotel into the idea that he
had slept there; for he was in constant dread lest his uncle should
discover that he passed the night elsewhere.

To carry on the deception, every day he breakfasted at the hotel table,
and he dined with his uncle and cousin. And every evening he accompanied
Anna to some place of amusement, where she was always the most admired
beauty in the room, and where he was the most envied man, because it was
generally understood that he was her betrothed husband.

He seldom returned home before one o’clock, and sometimes not before
three in the morning.

You perceive by this how little time he had to bestow on his young wife.

Meanwhile Drusilla was more lonely than words can tell.

Just think of it.

It was the depth of winter.

She lived in a lone house in a thick wood. She had no companion in the
house, no acquaintance in the neighborhood, and no correspondent in the
world. She never made a visit, or had a visitor, or wrote a letter, or
received one. Her one object in life was her husband; her one interest
in the day his return at night; and if he had given her a little more of
his company, if only an evening now and then, she could have been
happy;—or if, when he did come home, he could have been more cheerful in
her presence, she would have been less miserable.

But, ah! friends, Alexander—as is always the case with an evil-doer—went
on from bad to worse.

And when morning after morning he gulped down his coffee in hot haste,
and hurried away from his home, in eager anxiety; and when night after
night he returned in the small hours, too cold, tired and harassed to
notice the preparations she had made for his comfort, or to share the
supper she had kept waiting for him, or even to bestow a kiss or a
smile, or a look upon her; when, in fact, he seemed to have become
estranged from her; then, indeed, her heart failed, her beauty faded,
and she hung her head like a flower drooping in the cold.

She tried very hard to keep up her spirits and preserve her beauty for
his sake and for her own. For more than all earthly things she wished to
retain his love. And she remembered how in her childhood, he had scolded
her for crying, telling her that it made her ugly, and that he could not
possibly love an ugly little girl; and how she had almost suffocated
herself then, in her efforts to suppress her sobs, lest she should grow
ugly and lose his love.

Then he had been a mere thoughtless youth, teasing a timid child who
loved him; now he was or seemed a heartless man, torturing a sensitive
young woman, who had given her whole life into his hands.

Yet these were not her thoughts of him; she did not blame him even to
herself; she was more ingenious in finding excuses for his conduct, than
even he would have been. But she was right in trying to be always bright
and beautiful, so as to retain his love, since she valued it so
highly—for he _did_ dislike ugly and sorrowful faces.

And at length, when her powers of self-control were exhausted—when
loneliness, late hours, fatigue of body and distress of mind had done
their work upon her heart and frame, and broken down her health and
spirits—her pale face, heavy eyes, languid motions and faltering tones
irritated him, for they were so many severe, though silent and
involuntary reproaches to him.

“As if it were not enough,” he sometimes said to himself, “that for her
sake, I have foolishly given up the most beautiful woman of the day, and
sacrificed the most brilliant prospects of my life, and worse than all,
placed myself in a false and degrading position, but that now, she must
make me more miserable still, with her moping manners.”

But here his faithful conscience always rebuked him for his injustice,
and awakened his memory to remind him, that his poor young wife herself,
child as she was, had at the time of his proposal for her hand, set all
these possible regrets before him, and had warned him to pause and
reflect, before taking the irrevocable step of making her his wife; and
that he himself had been strong to overcome her hesitation and stubborn
to maintain his own will.

And then in a fit of remorse, he would break out upon himself with:

“I am certainly the most infernal villain that Heaven ever let live!” or
words to the same effect.

In these moods he would go and buy something to take home to Drusilla,
some set of jewels, piece of lace, rich shawl, gay dress, or other
article of vanity.

But soon he saw that his child bride, who was still wearing her first
mourning for her dead mother, valued these things not in themselves, but
only as proofs of his thought for her.

And besides, how could jewels and fine clothes console the loving young
wife for the lost society of her husband?

But Alexander was provoked, that his efforts to please her were so
utterly unavailing. He did not reflect that if she had been a vain,
selfish woman, and had loved herself more than she loved him, she would
have been happy in his _presents_, and indifferent to his _presence_.

But as she was neither vain, nor selfish, as she loved him rather than
herself, she pined amidst all her plenty, because he was almost always
absent from her.

This pining became evident in her appearance, notwithstanding all her
efforts to conceal it.

And sometimes it exasperated him so much that it was with difficulty he
could restrain himself from reproaching her, and thus adding to the sum
of his own injustice and her misery.

Often, also, his temper was severely tried in town by what _he_ called
the difficulties of his position, but what any one else might have
called the hardships of the transgressor.

One day especially, when he rode into the city a little later than
usual, he found his uncle at his room waiting for him.

“Where the deuce is it, Alick, that you gallop off to every morning of
your life?” inquired the old gentleman, who had somehow or other got a
hint that his nephew rode _into_ Washington every morning, but had no
suspicion that he slept _out_ of the city every night. “Where the deuce
is it that you go?” he repeated.

Alick, taken by surprise, hesitated before he could summon the presence
of his mind, and reply:

“Oh, I make a practice of taking a gallop through the morning air for my
health.”

“Umph, umph, umph!” growled the old gentleman. “You look more like you
made a practice of sitting over your wine until four or five, or six
o’clock in the morning, for your illness.”

Alick laughed rather lugubriously, it must be confessed, for he saw that
the old gentleman’s suspicions were aroused, although, of course, they
must have been of the vaguest character.

“Well,” said the general, “you have got a busy day before you, Alick,
and no time to lose. First, you have to escort Anna to St. John’s
Church, to be present at the wedding of Senor Don Emillio Arayo, the son
of the Brazilian Minister, with Mademoiselle Marie de Courcey, niece of
the French Ambassador. All the world is going, and Anna is going with
them, of course.”

“Satan fly away with the Spanish puppy and the French ninny!” was
Alick’s secret thought. But he bowed, and said:

“Sir, I shall be most happy.”

“And then you are engaged to dine at Major General Scott’s. And after
that to go and take Anna, to see the great new tragedienne, Mrs. Starrs,
in Lady Macbeth; after which you sup with me and Anna.”

“What a fussy old Polonius uncle is getting to be, to be sure! I really
think the old man is falling into his dotage,” thought Alick within
himself. But he answered aloud:

“A very pleasant programme, sir.”

“Aye, I suppose you young people think it so. I confess I don’t. But,
Alick, my boy, I must beg you to forego your gallop to-morrow morning.
My old friend—and your late father’s oldest friend—Commodore Storms, is
coming to breakfast with me at eight o’clock, and, of course, you must
join us. It will be the only chance you will have of seeing him, as he
is only passing through the city on his way south, and leaves by the
mid-day train to-morrow.”

Alexander stared in dismay, and then inquired:

“Could I not see him to-day, sir?”

“No, he is gone with a party to visit Mount Vernon. Besides, what time
have you to do any thing to-day but what is appointed for you?”

“None indeed,” said Alexander with an involuntary sigh, which did not
escape the notice of the old man.

“Does it afflict you so much then?” enquired the general.

“What sir?”

“The idea of your giving up your mysterious morning ride for a breakfast
with two old Revolutionary relics like the commodore and myself,”
answered the general, fixing a scrutinizing gaze upon his nephew’s face.

“Oh no, sir! I—was thinking only how much rather I would see my father’s
old friend sooner than later,” answered Alexander, again true in the
letter but false in the spirit of his reply.

And so Mr. Lyon concluded that there was no alternative for him but to
stay in town all night as well as all day. And he did so, fully carrying
out the programme sketched for him by his uncle, but feeling all the
while great pain from the thought that his poor lonely young wife would
sit up the whole night waiting anxiously for his return.

The next day was quite as much taken up with engagements as any former
day had been; and so it was long past midnight when Alick got home.

He found Drusilla wan and wasted with waiting and watching there two
days and nights of suspense and anxiety; but he saw no look of reproach
in her gentle eyes, heard no word of blame from her sweet lips.

He perceived her sufferings and was angry with himself for causing them,
and he began some lame explanation of his absence.

But she saw his embarrassment and stopped his faltering words with a
kiss, and she said:

“Dear Alick, it is enough that you are here again to make me happy. You
do not need to render your poor little wife, who has not much wisdom of
her own, an account of your actions.”

And she told him the little news of the two days at home, and she
laughed and jested and served his supper with her old cheerfulness and
alacrity.

The next morning Alexander went to town with the deliberate purpose of
ending his own perplexities and his wife’s sufferings, by doing the
right thing and confessing his secret marriage, to his uncle.

But ah! it always happened whenever an especial fit of repentance moved
Alexander to amendment, something occurred to throw him back upon his
evil course and confirm him in it.

So it was on this morning.

He strolled into a reading-room and sat down at one of the tables and
took up a paper to look at the news of the day. He had not been there
more than five minutes when he heard his cousin Anna’s name mentioned in
connection with his own. Impulsively he looked up and listened.

The speakers, seated at a table near, were strangers to him, as he
evidently was to them, since they discussed his private affairs so
freely in his hearing.

“I tell you there is not a word of truth in it. It is all a mistake. It
is a false report. The beautiful Anna cares no more for young Lyon than
she does for you or me. If she cares for any one on earth, it is for
that handsome fellow, Dick Hammond, who has just come into a great
fortune,” said the first speaker.

“That may all be quite true. I am not saying who she cares for, but who
she is going to marry. She may not care a pin for Lyon, and she may
adore Hammond; but for all that she must marry Lyon and give Hammond the
goby, since such was the will of the two ancient landed proprietors, her
grandfather and granduncle, who long ago decided that their large
estates should be united,” said the second speaker.

“Well, if I were the lady’s choice, Dick Hammond, I think I should set a
very serious impediment between the union of those said estates.”

“And if I were the betrothed lover, Alexander Lyon, I would break Dick’s
neck for his presumption,” said the last speaker, as both arose from the
table and strolled away.

Alexander’s anger and jealousy were both aroused, and his good
resolutions were put to flight. He arose and followed the two speakers,
but they had disappeared in the crowd.

The days of duelling are past, thank Heaven; else Alexander would have
liked to have sought out and called out one or both of these male
gossips and exchanged a shot with either or both of them at ten paces.

As it was he could only let his anger cool down and then acknowledge to
himself that they had really neither done nor said anything very wrong.
They had only unconsciously wounded his self-love and aroused his
jealousy.

Anna Lyon, his beautiful cousin, had always been intended for himself,
he said, and Dick Hammond knew it. And even now, for all Dick Hammond
knew to the contrary, he, Alick Lyon, had the exclusive right to Anna’s
regards.

How then did he, Dick Hammond, dare to set himself up as a lover of
Anna, and a rival of her betrothed?

Yes! and how dared Anna, in the face of her parent’s will and her own
engagements, receive and favor him as such?

Alick ground his teeth with rage and jealousy.

“They must never know, they _shall_ never know, but that my claims to
Anna’s hand are as good as they ever were!—At least they shall not know
it until all possibility of Hammond’s union with Anna is destroyed,”
said Alick to himself.

And that day he devoted himself with lover-like assiduity to his Cousin
Anna. And that night he remained in town all night.

Alas, for Drusilla! She had fallen upon still darker days; for now she
never even knew when waiting up for her husband, whether he would return
or not.

Still—still she strove against despondency and hoping against hope,
assumed some cheerfulness.




                             CHAPTER XXIII.
                             SILENT SORROW.

          And the little lady grew silent and thin,
            Paling and ever paling,
          As is the case with a hid chagrin,
            And they all said she was ailing.—ROBERT BROWNING.


The young wife’s faith and hope were sinking under the pressure of
coldness and solitude; and only her undying love survived in all its
strength and beauty.

She was seriously ill, though she still kept up, moving about the house
to attend to her domestic affairs all day, and sitting up to receive her
husband half the night.

And these exhausting duties of course made her worse.

And oh, illness in woman is very repulsive to most men, and especially
to those of Alexander Lyon’s fastidious nature and self-indulgent
habits. Illness pales the cheeks and dims the eyes; and worse than all,
it frets the nerves and tries the temper.

So it was with Drusilla: weary and anxious, suffering in mind and body,
when Alexander came home near morning she could not always welcome him
with the happy glances he had been accustomed to receive from her.

And on these occasions her sad face and tearful eyes so displeased and
irritated him, that he would go off to his own room without touching the
refreshments that she had got ready for him, or even stopping to bestow
a kind word upon her.

He meant, by this conduct, to punish her for what, in his thoughts, he
called “her sulks.” But this sort of punishment nearly broke her loving
heart. He caused her depression and then blamed her for being depressed.
It was as if he had crushed a violet and then blamed it for withering.

It was a pity, too, that just at this time such a contrast should have
been exhibited between his brilliant, beautiful and imperious cousin and
his little, pale, drooping wife.

He would spend the evening with Anna at some fashionable assembly, where
he saw her, in all the splendor of beauty and pride of place, the
all-admired belle of the season, the reigning queen of society;—and
then, full of the intoxication of her new charms, he would return home
to find Drusilla, pale, weary and depressed, and he would start off to
his own room to curse the fate that had so long blinded him to the
transcendent attractions of his high-born cousin, and bound him for life
to the insignificant daughter of his housekeeper. And the very bitterest
element in his misery was the thought that, sooner or later, his old
rival, Richard Hammond, must win the priceless treasure that he himself
had so madly cast away.

It is to be feared that if at this time Alexander Lyon could possibly
have devised any means of secretly and legally repudiating his young
wife, he would not have hesitated to do so. As it was, he estranged
himself from her, and passed more nights in his rooms at the hotel than
in his home at Cedarwood. But he never gave the gentle creature a single
harsh word or look; with all his madness—and his mood was little less
than madness—he could not do either; he simply broke her spirit by
coldness, neglect and avoidance.

And yet, notwithstanding all this, if he had but known it, in his heart
of hearts it was Drusilla he loved and not Anna.

He had made no mistake in marrying this sweet girl; it had been a true
inspiration that had drawn him towards her when he was a youth and she a
child. She was the better half of his spirit, and the guardian angel of
his life, as well as the true love of his youth. And once he knew all
this to be true; but now he seemed to have forgotten.

Besides, Drusilla—soul and body, beyond all doubt or question—was his
own; and therefore was she undervalued and despised as something of
little worth; while Anna was unattainable by him, and likely to become
the wife of his rival; and therefore was Anna over-rated as a pearl
beyond price, and desired with passionate eagerness. But whatever this
phrenzy was, for the girl whom he had known from his boyhood up, and in
his thoughts rejected as a wife years before—it was not love; it was
probably a hallucination made up of pride, jealousy, admiration, and the
fascination of the unattainable. Alexander Lyon had fancied many a
beauty in his life; but he had never once loved any other than the
young, devoted wife whom he now so insanely wronged and grieved.

And ah! how severely she suffered in secret, how bitterly she wept over
the ever-increasing estrangement; never blaming him, however, even in
her thoughts; blaming herself, rather, for not being able to merit his
love and make him happy; never losing faith in him, but losing faith in
herself.

Her love was without a taint of selfishness; but it was not without sin,
for it was idolatrous.

She seemed to herself to have no life but in him. Failing as she
thought, to _merit_ his love, and failing to make him happy, she was
willing to die to set him free and give him peace.

“Poor Alick,” she said, in her heart, as she paced up and down her
forsaken chamber floor, wringing her hands and weeping bitterly; “Poor
Alick, it is not his fault that we are both so miserable, it is mine. I
am not a fit wife for him; I never was; but I loved him so! I loved him
so. Ah, but if I had loved him rightly I never would have let him
shipwreck his life upon me—so unfit to be his mate. He married me out of
pity, and I let him do it, and now I deserve to be wretched. But he is
wretched too, though he don’t deserve to be so. Ah! what can I do to
undo all this?”

And in the climax of her hysterical passion she was almost ready to lay
down her young life that her beloved might step over it into liberty and
light.

“Oh, why, oh, why did he ever ruin his hopes by wedding me? Why? Oh, I
know too well why. Poor Alick! it was out of the goodness of his heart
that he did it! He was always so good to me from my infancy up, calling
me his child, giving me everything I needed, doing all I asked. And when
he saw me a poor little motherless and homeless girl, he took pity on
me, and raised me up and put me on his bosom and comforted me and tried
to love me; but he cannot, because I am not lovable; and now, even now,
he never gives me an unkind word or look, only stays away from me
because he cannot love me, and he is too honest to feign a love he
cannot feel. Oh, Alick! I would die to make you free and happy again, if
it were not a sin! I would, dear, I would!”

Such was the burden of her lamentations in her hours of secret
suffering.

No word of these sad plaints reached his ears. Her paroxysms of anguish
would have exhausted themselves, or she would have obtained some degree
of self-command before his late return home; so that though pale and
sad, and bearing the traces of recent tears, she met him with composure;
for she remembered, poor child, his abhorrence of an ugly, weeping face.

But now he had no mercy on her; she seemed to him a fetter that galled
him, and he pitied himself and not her.

Sometimes, when she looked even more than usually pale and ill, he
wondered whether she was going to die; but he wondered without alarm,
and even without pity.

Drusilla spent the long winter evenings in reading. She read a great
number of books, but they were not always the most judiciously chosen,
or the best calculated to cheer her spirits or strengthen her mind.

Among the new works that Alexander brought home one night and threw
carelessly upon the table, was Mrs. Crowe’s “Night Side of Nature.”

And this book subsequently fell into Drusilla’s hands, and she seized
and read it with avidity. And worse than all, she read it in her lonely
night watches in that isolated country house.

The work, written with great power to prove the reality of the
re-appearance of departed spirits in this world, and filled with
accredited stories of apparitions, haunted houses, marvellous visions,
presentiments, omens, warnings, dreams, et cetera, had a great
fascination for Drusilla, and night after night she pored over its dark
pages with a morbid fervor.

There was another book that came in her way about the same time, and
exercised the same fatal spell over her impressible imagination. It was
that volume of De Quincy’s works containing the “Three Memorable
Murders,” and worked up with all the fearful intensity of the Opium
Eater.

The effect of these books upon her excitable nervous system was
terrible.

This was owing very much to the circumstances under which they were
read. In a solitary house, in a deep wood, in the dead of night, and in
the depth of winter. And often, her imagination would be so wrought
upon, that she would not dare to lift her eyes to the looking-glass over
the mantle-piece, lest she should meet there the reflection of some face
other than her own, nor venture to glance at the windows on her left,
for fear she should see some spectral form peering in through the
darkness.

And so, in the appalling solitude and silence of the scene, and of the
hour, imaginary terrors were added to real troubles, and between them
both her nervous system was nearly broken down.

It is true that she might have ameliorated her condition in more than
one way, but that she had too much consideration for others and too
little for herself.

She might have gone to bed early each night but that Alexander had no
night key, and there was no one to let him in whenever he pleased to
return, except herself.

Also, she might have made Pina sit up to keep her company; but she would
not deprive the girl of rest.

Lastly, she could at least have closed the window shutters against that
imaginary spectral form she always feared to see; but she chose to leave
them open that the light from her drawing-room might cheer her beloved
in his late approach to the house—whenever he chose to come home; which
was not often at this period.

But this state of things could not last forever; and a crisis was at
hand.

One dark, still, winter night, when not a star was to be seen in the
sky, and the very air, as well as the earth and the water seemed
frozen—between two and three o’clock after midnight, Drusilla sat alone
in her drawing-room.

To while away the tedious hours she had read until her eyes filmed and
her brain reeled. And then she had been compelled to lay aside her book,
and sink back in her resting chair.

In the excited state of her nervous system she could not sleep, for she
was listening through the dead stillness of deep night, hoping to hear
the sound of the horse’s feet, that was always the warning of her
husband’s approach.

And yet she had no means of knowing whether he would return that night
or not.

As she sat there waiting and listening, she could but remember the
possible dangers of her position.

The house contained much of the sort of property that tempt
burglars—property at once very valuable and very portable—such as silver
and gold plate, jewels and money.

She had been living in it now some months, and secludedly as she lived,
her abode there, and the richness and defencelessness of the premises
might well have come to the knowledge of the professional burglars,
whose acuteness in discovering such rich mines of unprotected treasure
is much finer than that of the detectives who are always supposed to be
on their track.

How easy—how perfectly easy it would be, she thought, for even one
resolute villain to break through those unprotected glass windows, and
murder her, and rob the house, in safety and at leisure.

The cottage was half a mile from any other dwelling house, and a quarter
of a mile from any public road. The wildest shriek that might ever rise
from dying victim in its rooms, could never be heard by human ears
without.

As Drusilla remembered these circumstances her very soul grew sick with
terror. And was it any wonder?

She was a young, delicate, impressible woman. And on this dark night,
and in this isolated house she was quite alone. Her man-servant was in
his loft over the stables, where he slept, with pistols by his side, to
guard the valuable horses. And her maid-servant was in her attic over
the kitchen, in a distant part of the dwelling.

Any determined thief could easily have entered the house and worked his
will upon the poor young neglected wife and the property.

“Oh Alick, dear Alick, if you could know how much I suffer, you would
not leave me so,” she groaned, wringing her hands and rising in her
restlessness to walk the floor.

But almost immediately her worshipping heart rebuked her for having cast
even a shadow of reproach upon her husband, and she hastened to add,

“But it is my own fault. He has done everything for my comfort here;
given me a beautiful home, and attentive servants. And I ought to be
happy and courageous. Instead of that, I am sad and timid, and
altogether unworthy to be called his wife. I do not wonder that he
wearies of me.”

So weeping and wringing her hands she paced up and down the floor, until
in turning around she faced the front, unclosed windows, and suddenly
uttered a piercing shriek and fell upon her face in a deadly swoon.

And well she might. For peering in at the window, from the darkness
without was a livid white face—a man’s stern face.




                             CHAPTER XXIV.
                           THE SPECTRAL FACE.

           I felt my senses slackened with the fright
           And a cold sweat shrilled down, o’er all my limbs,
           As if I’d been dissolving into water.—DRYDEN.

               And now the morning sky resumes her light,
               And nature stands recovered of her night,
               My fear, the last of ills, remains behind,
               And horror heavy sick upon my mind.—IBID.


When Drusilla recovered from her deathly swoon, the cold gray light of
the winter morning was stealing through the unshuttered windows.

She lifted herself upon her elbow and gazed around her in utter
bewilderment. Slowly, slowly came memory back to her. And with it the
sense of fear and the instinct of flight. But before she could command
her chilled and benumbed limbs, observation and reflection both assured
her that there was now no cause for alarm.

The windows were still closed although the shutters were open.
Everything in the room was in its usual place. Nothing had been
disturbed. No intruder had been there. Whose ever the face had been that
had looked in upon her through the window in the dead of night, it had
done no harm.

The feeling of relief with which Drusilla acknowledged all this was
speedily followed by one of extreme depression; for by all the signs
around her, she perceived that Alexander had not yet come home.

The lamps were still burning brightly in the face of the broadening day.
And the untasted supper sat in its covered dishes on the hearth. But the
fire had burned out and the room was cold.

Very drearily Drusilla arose; put out the lamps and then went up to her
own chamber, and rang the bell for her servant, to make her a fire.

“Good patience, ma’am!” exclaimed the girl when she entered the chamber
and found the bed undisturbed, and her mistress in the dress of the
evening before. “Surely ma’am, you have never been sitting up all
night?”

“I have not been in bed, as you see, Pina. Make me a fire as quickly as
you can, for I am very cold. And then bring me some warm water and get
me a cup of tea,” said Drusilla.

When all these orders had been obeyed, and the unhappy young wife had
refreshed herself with a wash, a change of dress and a cup of hyson, and
reclined at rest in her easy chair, she said to her handmaid:

“Pina—go and bring your brother here, I wish to question him in your
presence.”

The girl started at this unusual order, and looked alarmed, as if she
supposed that herself and her brother were to be arraigned upon some
grave charge.

But her mistress perceived her fears and hastened to relieve them by
saying:

“Don’t be afraid, Pina; there is nobody in fault that I know of. I only
wish to question your brother upon a circumstance that occurred last
night. Now go at once and fetch him here.”

The girl left the room and went to find her fellow servant, who was in
the kitchen eating his breakfast.

“You must just leave off gormandizing this minute and come up to _her_
directly. Something’s up; but I don’t know what it is. She says she
wants to question you about what happened last night, whatever that was,
if you know, for I don’t. I hope you’ve not been having unproper
company, and misbehaving of yourself up there in the stable loft,” said
Pina, breathlessly, as she stood before her brother.

Leo, with his mouth full and his eyes starting, stared at his sister in
stupefaction.

“Come, I say; come along with me up to the mistress,” repeated Pina.

“What for? I haven’t been a doing of nothing!” exclaimed the boy.

“Well, tell her so, then, and get her to believe it; but come along.”

Leo reluctantly left his tea and muffins and bacon, and hesitatingly
followed Pina to the presence of his mistress, where he also expected to
be arraigned upon some charge of misconduct.

But the first worst words of the little lady set him at ease.

“Leo, have you seen any suspicious persons or any strangers lurking
about here lately?” she inquired.

“Lor, no ma’am, no person at all, not a soul, except ’twas master and
you, ma’am, and Pina and me. The place is so out of the way, you know,
ma’am. And so lonesome! Awful lonesome I calls it,” answered the boy.

“No sportsmen after birds or other such small game?”

“Not a one, ma’am.”

“Nor boys setting traps for snow-birds?”

“No, ma’am. Bless you, ma’am, hasn’t I just told you how I’ve never seen
a human face about the place, except it is you and master’s and me and
Pina’s.”

“Well, _I_ saw a man’s face between two and three o’clock after
midnight, peeping in at the drawing-room windows,” said the little lady
very gravely.

“Indeed, ma’am!—whose could it a been?” inquired the boy in
astonishment.

“That is what I do not know, and what I wished to ascertain.”

The boy scratched his head and looked confounded.

“A face a peeping in at the windows in the dead o’ night! Bless us and
save us!” he muttered to himself.

“I shall be feared to stay in the house nights when the master’s not
in,” said Pina, turning as pale as one of her color could.

“I hope there is nothing to fear. I shall speak to your master as soon
as he comes home,” said Drusilla, to reassure her domestics.

“But there’s so many bugglers about,” said Pina, with a shudder.

“And to be sure, the house is very unprotected like and lonesome, and
there’s a deal of silver and gold into it,” added Leo.

“I don’t think the face was that of a burglar. If it had been, he might
have entered the house and killed me, and taken what he wanted. There
was nothing to prevent him,” said Drusilla.

“Ah-h-h!” screamed Pina, “I shall never dare to sleep in the house when
master is away.”

“I shall ask your master to allow Leo to sleep in the house when he
himself means to be absent,” said Drusilla.

“But then they would steal the horses,” objected Leo.

“Well, and if they do? Ain’t the mistress’s life, to say nothing of the
gold and silver plate, and money and jewels, a deal more vallearble than
the hosses, you——”

Pina stopped her tongue in time not to call her brother bad names in her
mistress’s presence.

“You may both go now. And, Pina, say nothing of what has happened. And
you, Leo, keep your faculties on the alert and try to discover this
mystery,” said the little lady.

“What—what is it I am to do with my factories, ma’am?” inquired the boy,
doubtingly.

“You are to keep your eyes and ears open and try to find out who it was
that looked into my window,” said Drusilla, smiling even in the midst of
her sadness.

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” answered the boy, as he bowed himself out, followed by
his sister.

That day, owing to the alarm of the previous night and the long swoon,
and the awakening in the cold room, Drusilla was unusually ill, both in
mind and body; she remained in her chamber, wrapped in her dressing gown
and reclining in her easy chair.

But when evening came, from sheer force of habit, she roused herself and
gave orders for a fire to be kindled and lamps to be lighted in the
drawing-room, and supper to be prepared in case her husband should
return.

And she dressed herself with care and went down and seated herself in
her usual place to be ready to receive him.

But another long and lonely evening was before her, with an unusual
trial at its close.

At ten o’clock, as usual, Pina came in to ask her mistress if there were
any more orders and to bid her good night.

“No, Pina, I want nothing more this evening. You may go,” said Drusilla.

“Won’t you let me close the shutters, ma’am, for fear that gashly face
will look in again?”

“No, Pina, they must be left open to guide your master home. The night
is very dark, and here are no gas-lighted streets, you know,” smiled the
little lady, determined not to yield to her fears.

“Well, ma’am,” said the girl, hesitatingly—“Brother Leo, ma’am, he says
if you would take the ’sponsibility to give him an order so to do, he
would stay in the house until master comes home. Shall I tell him to do
it, ma’am?”

“Certainly not. Leo must not disobey his master; nor can I interfere
with Mr. Lyon’s arrangements,” answered the faithful wife.

Pina looked distressed; and raising and rolling her apron and casting
down her eyes, she ventured to say:

“Beg pardon, ma’am, but won’t you please be coaxed to let Brother Leo
stay in the house to take care of us instead of the horses to-night?”

“By no means, Pina. Say no more about it, my good girl,” answered the
little matron, firmly.

The girl looked up at her mistress to see if she was really in earnest,
and then burst into tears and sobbed forth the broken words:

“Well, ma’am, if you won’t let Brother Leo stay in here to take care of
the house an’ us, plea—plea—please let me go long of him to the stable;
becau—cau—cause I should die of fright to stay here with nobody but you,
ma’am, please.”

Drusilla looked at the maid in surprise and displeasure for a minute,
and then her beautiful benevolence got the ascendancy over every other
emotion, and she answered:

“You poor, timid girl, go if you wish.”

“And you won’t be ang—ang—angry long of me, ma’am, I hope?” inquired
Pina, half ashamed of herself.

“No more than I should be angry with a hare for running away. It is your
nature, as it is the hare’s, to be cowardly.”

“Well, then, ma’am, as Brother Leo is a waiting to know what he is to
do, I may go now, mayn’t I?”

“Yes, go.”

“Good night, ma’am, please; and I hope the Lord will take care of you.”

“I do not doubt that He will, Pina. Good night.”

And so the girl retired.

And Drusilla was left quite alone, not only in the room but in the
house. At first she felt very desolate and depressed and inclined to
cry. But presently she reasoned with herself:

“That timid girl was really no protection. I am quite as safe without
her as with her. I must trust in the Lord without whom ‘the watchman
watcheth in vain.’ One of our wisest sages said, to become heroic, we
must be sure to do that which we most fear to do. And I suppose his
words must be received in their spirit rather than in the letter. I fear
to jump into the fire, and I will not do so. And I fear, oh, how I fear,
to stay in this house alone to-night! And all the more because I fear to
do it, I _will_ do it, rather than break up my husband’s arrangements by
calling Leo from the stables to guard me, and rather than torture that
poor cowardly girl by making her stay here to keep me company. But I
will not touch De Quincey’s or Mrs. Crowe’s works to-night to add to my
morbid terrors. I will read the book of comfort.”

And so saying, Drusilla took the Bible from its stand, and opened at the
Psalms of David, those inspired outpourings of the soul, that have
consoled and strengthened—how many millions of suffering and fainting
hearts, for how many thousand years!

We must now leave Drusilla to meet the events of the night, and we must
turn to Alexander, and relate the circumstances that had kept him away
from his home these three days past—circumstances more ominous of evil
to his gentle wife than anything which had as yet happened at Cedarwood.




                              CHAPTER XXV.
                                CAUGHT.

       There’s danger in that dazzling eye,
         That woos thee with its witching smile;
       Another when thou art not by,
         Those beaming looks would fain beguile.—FRANCES OSGOOD.


This was the short session of Congress, which would close on the fourth
of March. The fashionable season, therefore, was nearly over, and it was
ending in true carnival style.

There were morning concerts, theatricals, receptions, etc., all day; and
there were evening concerts, theatricals, receptions, dinners, balls and
parties all night. And “everybody who was anybody” was expected to
“show” at all.

The belle of the season went everywhere; and often appeared at half a
dozen different scenes of festivity or revelry in one night.

Her constant escort, Alexander Lyon, had no sinecure. He went with her
everywhere; partly because his uncle willed that he should go with her,
and he could not well refuse without explaining his reasons for doing
so, and he could not explain, without acknowledging his secret marriage
with Drusilla; partly because he imagined himself in love with his
brilliant cousin; but mostly because he determined that Richard Hammond
should not supplant him in his office of escort.

For two days during which he had not appeared at his home, he had been
on a “perpetual” round of pleasure with Anna. The first day he attended
her to a breakfast given at the Executive Mansion; to a _matinèe
musicale_ at the French minister’s; to an afternoon debate in the Senate
Chamber; to a dinner party at General Stott’s; and to the theatre to see
a celebrated comedienne; and, lastly, to a supper at General Lyon’s
room; all this in one day and evening; so, of course, he could not get
home that night. The next day he went with her, first to a wedding at
St. John’s church, and to the wedding-breakfast at the house of the
bride’s mother; then to hear part of a very interesting case at the
Supreme Court; next to the reception of a cabinet minister; then to an
exhibition of paintings; from that to a dinner party at the Brazilian
minister’s; and, finally, to the very grandest hall of the carnival,
given by the wife of a millionaire, who had taken a furnished house for
the season, and reserved herself for this final magnificent affair.

It was considered a great distinction to get an invitation to this ball.
Only the “elite” were invited, and all the “elite” were there.

Anna, restricted by her mourning to a certain style of dress was still,
as always, the most beautiful and the most admired woman of the
assembly. And Alexander was proud of her as his reputed betrothed.

In all the success of the season Anna had never had such a dazzling
triumph as upon this evening. She seemed to turn all heads with her
bewitching beauty, until at length her own brain seem dizzied with her
conquests. She grew capricious and exasperating. Alexander hovered
around her; and he would not have left her for a moment that evening if
she had not, with a furtive and angry flash of her blazing blue eyes,
peremptorily ordered him to leave her. And to complete his mortification
and despair, she beckoned Richard Hammond to come to her, and she
retained him in her suite for the rest of the evening.

Alexander was half maddened by this conduct of his cousin. His blood
boiled when he saw her smiling upon his rival; and when he saw that
rival basking in those smiles; and he would have liked to have throttled
Richard then and there; but he knew that it would never do to make a
scene in that place; so he stood scowling and muttering curses, and
planning vengeance.

General Lyon, who for once had been tempted to come out in the evening
for the sake of being present at this great ball, and meeting many of
his old friends whom he knew would be there, saw the provoking behavior
of the young pair and resolved that as soon as he should have them at
home he would favor the coquette and the rival with a good sound
reprimanding lecture. But the festivities were kept up all night; and so
the old soldier, who broke down at about one o’clock, was forced to
retire and leave the beauty and her rival lovers to their own devices.

Not, however, without whispering to each of the delinquents in turn:

“I shall want to see you at my rooms to-morrow at twelve noon.”

It was broad daylight when the ball broke up.

Anna was at length under the necessity of giving Richard his congee, and
resigning herself to the charge of Alexander, who, having escorted her
to the ball, was of course obliged to take her home.

On reaching her lodgings, Anna went to bed to sleep off her fatigue. And
Alexander, who had hardly spoken during the drive home, hurried off to
his rooms at the Blank House, to procure what rest he could before the
hour at which he was to wait upon his uncle.

At twelve o’clock precisely, the old soldier, having breakfasted, was
seated in his private parlor waiting for his fractious young people.

Anna was the first to come in. And her grandfather was just clearing his
throat to begin upon her when the door was opened and Mr. Richard
Hammond was announced.

“Ah! very well, it is just as easy to speak to you both at the same
time,” said the old gentleman, turning around in his chair and facing
the culprits.

And very imposing looked the veteran as he sat there with his majestic
person, grave countenance and silver hair and beard.

And the young cousins were certainly awed by the dignity of his aspect
as well as abashed by a sense of their own follies.

“Come and stand before me, sir and madam.” (This gentleman of the old
school, always on ceremonious occasions, addressed ladies, whether
married or single, by the title of “madam,” which in its true meaning is
simply _ma dame_, or my lady, and applies with equal propriety to maids
or matrons.)

“Sir and madam, come and stand before me,” he said.

And the young people, with the reverence they had been educated to show
to age, approached and stood before the old man.

Their ready obedience mollified him to a certain extent; for when he
spoke again it was in a milder manner.

“My daughter and my nephew,” he said, “your conduct lately, and
especially your deportment last evening, has shamed and grieved me. It
might be said of our ancient house, as it has been said of another noble
line, that all the men were brave and all the women pure. Let me not see
in you two the first exceptions to that proud rule.”

The cheeks of the young lady and the brow of the young gentleman flushed
crimson with mortification; but neither spoke, and the old gentleman
continued:

“No brave man ever tries to supplant an accepted suitor. And no pure
woman ever encourages the rival of her betrothed.”

The flush deepened on the cheeks of Anna and on the brow of Richard, and
both cast down their eyes, but neither opened their lips.

“And,” proceeded the veteran hero, “I should blush for the daughter of
my house who should prove a coquette, as I should blush for the son who
should prove a coward. My children, I hope I have said enough. Be brave
as all the men of our line, and pure as all its women.”

“Richard,” said Anna, with eyes flashing through their tears, “Cousin
Richard, you must bid me farewell here, now, and forever.”

He took the hand she extended to him, and holding it within his own,
turned to his uncle and said:

“Sir, you _have_ said enough, and so has my cousin. What it costs me to
leave her, only heaven knows. But you have made an appeal that cannot be
resisted, and I bow before it. Farewell, sir! And Anna, my cousin,
good-bye! Good-bye! God bless you.”

And after wringing Anna’s hand, he dropped it, bowed to his uncle, and
hastened away to conceal the tears that rushed to his eyes.

Anna threw herself down upon the sofa, buried her head in its pillows,
and sobbed convulsively.

The old man, with his hands clasped behind his back, and his
silver-haired head bowed upon his bosom, walked slowly up and down the
floor. At length, he came to his sobbing daughter, and laying his hand
tenderly upon her head, said:

“I am sorry, Anna. I am sorry, my child. I would I could bear all pain
in your stead. But, Anna, I cannot bear this pang for you. And you know
that faith must be kept, though hearts be grieved—aye, or——”

Before he could finish his sentence, the door was opened, and Mr. Lyon
was announced.

On seeing Alexander enter, Anna started up from the sofa, and hurried
from the room.

“Good morning, sir. I hope I have not disturbed my cousin?” said Mr.
Lyon, bowing, and shaking hands with his uncle.

“Sit down, Alick,” said the old man, without replying to his
observation. “I wish to speak to you.”

Alexander seated himself, and looked attentive.

“Alick, I saw how much annoyed you were last night by Richard’s marked
attentions to Anna, and her seeming encouragement of them.”

“‘Seeming,’ sir! It was more than seeming; and much more than mere
‘encouragement.’ Sir, she solicited those attentions,” said Alexander,
with scarcely suppressed indignation, and entirely forgetting that _he_
certainly had no right to object to all this.

“Tut, tut, tut, tut, boy, that is very strong language. However, I can
overlook it, as the provocation was very great. But, Alick, it was only
the mischievous spirit of a spoiled beauty on her part, and the vanity
of a coxcomb on his. I have had them both up before me this morning, and
spoken some words to them that they will not readily forget. Anna has
dismissed Richard once for all. And he has bid us good-bye, and is gone
for good.”

Alexander looked up in surprise and pleasure.

“Yes, it is so,” said the general.

“Excuse me, sir, was that the reason why my cousin was so very much
overcome, and ran from the room as soon as I came in?” questioned
Alexander, his jealous doubts again awakening.

“Um-m, well, you see I had said some pretty severe words to her and made
her cry. But it is well she is gone, as I have something to say to you
in private.”

“Yes sir?” said Alexander, hesitatingly and with a guilty twinge, for
his conscience immediately awakened his fears. What was it his uncle
wanted to say to him? Had the old man got an inkling of the cottage at
Cedarwood and its inmates? Scarcely likely he thought, but still he felt
uneasy until the general said:

“Alexander my boy, it is now nearly five months since the lamented death
of your dear mother, my esteemed sister-in-law. And I do not for my
part, see why your marriage with Anna should be longer deferred. Long
engagements are very injudicious indeed; and your engagement has been an
exceedingly prolonged one. And I think now that it should terminate in
marriage. Come, what do you say?”

Alexander turned hot and cold; attempted to speak and failed.

The old gentleman ascribed all his emotion to excess of love, surprise
and joy.

“Yes, my boy, I really mean it,” he said, smiling. “To defer the affair
longer would not be so much of a respectful tribute to the memory of
your dear mother, as a superstitious observance. Come! find your tongue,
man! find your tongue!”

“The question must be referred to my beautiful betrothed sir. It will be
for her to decide it,” said Alexander.

“Oh, aye, certainly, to be sure; it will be for her to decide it; but it
will be for _you_ to induce her to decide it in your favor, my lad,”
chuckled the old gentleman. “And as you are to take her to see Saviola’s
new picture to-day, you will have a fine opportunity of doing so,” he
added.

At that moment the door was again opened, and Commodore Staughton was
announced.

And as the old naval hero entered the room, Alexander arose and bowed
and made his escape.

But Mr. Lyon did not attend his cousin to the picture gallery that
afternoon. Anna pleaded excessive fatigue, and with good reason, and
kept her room until evening, when she went, attended by Alexander, to a
reception at the Executive Mansion, that was the last and greatest of
the season.




                             CHAPTER XXVI.
                           A MEMORABLE NIGHT.

               ’Tis only the obscure is terrible;
               Imagination frames events unknown,
               In wild fantastic shapes of hideous ruin,
               And what it fears, creates.—HANNAH MORE.


It was two hours after midnight, on a keen March morning, when Alexander
Lyon, in the face of a fierce northwest wind, rode on towards his almost
forsaken home.

His frame of mind was not enviable.

Never since he had entered upon his life of deception had his
double-dealing so much disturbed him. The discovery of his duplicity was
now impending. His uncle had proposed his immediate marriage with his
betrothed; and should the obstinate old gentleman persist in pushing on
the project, and should Anna raise no objection to it, there would be no
other course for Alexander to pursue but frankly to confess his secret
marriage with Drusilla, and so brave the old soldier’s roused wrath, and
bear the young beauty’s bitter scorn.

Yet, still Mr. Lyon resolved to delay the degradation of such a
disclosure, and the shame of such a scene as long as possible, for still
he hoped, “out of this nettle danger to pluck the flower safety.”

It was possible, he thought, that his uncle might not persevere in his
purpose, and it was probable that Anna herself would be the first to
object to a precipitated wedding, and would insist that the programme
should be followed, and that the full year of mourning for his mother
should elapse before Alexander should claim her hand.

There yet remained nearly eight months to the end of this probation. In
this time, how much, he reflected, might happen to deliver him from his
disagreeable dilemma.

_Drusilla might die._

He felt a pang of shame and sorrow as this idea entered his mind. Yet
still he entertained it. Drusilla was now declining in health, and she
might die. And in such a case he should be free from the trammels of his
reckless marriage, and from the necessity of making the humiliating
confession that he had ever worn them.

Agitated by these evil thoughts, he rode rapidly onward towards
Cedarwood.

As he entered the private road leading through the dark wood he saw the
beacon lights of his home in the drawing-room windows, shining out to
guide him on his way.

“She is waiting for me, poor child,” he said, half in compassion, half
in contempt. “Still waiting and watching as she has been doing no doubt,
for the last three nights—the last three nights! Ah! and how many nights
behind them! Poor little miserable! I wish I had never seen her!”

So muttering to himself Alexander rode around to the stable and put up
his horse, and then walked back to the house and knocked at the front
door.

It did not fly open as usual at his summons, so he knocked again, louder
than before; but there was no response.

Then he sounded an alarm upon the knocker, and waited for the result.

But when the noise he made died away, all remained silent in the house.

“What the deuce is the meaning of this, I should like to know?” he
inquired of himself, as he went down the steps and climbed up to the
sill of the front windows, and looked into the drawing-room.

The room was brilliantly lighted up, but the fire in the grate had
burned low; the untasted supper covered up on the hearth had probably
grown cold; and the little guardian angel of the place was no where to
be seen.

“Where the mischief can she be?” he asked himself; and having frequently
expressed annoyance that she should sit up late to let him in, he now
felt vexation that she should have gone to rest, and left him to get in
as he could.

There was nothing now for him to do but to go back to the stable and
rouse up his man-servant, and get the key of the kitchen door, by which
that functionary always let himself in in the morning to make the fires.

Leo slept in the loft over the carriage-room, which was shut off from
the horse stalls, and locked within.

And it required considerable knocking and calling before the man could
be awakened.

When at last he aroused he started up in terror shouting;

“Who’s there? Thieves! murder! fire!—go away, or I’ll shoot!”

“Coward, and fool!—come down and open the door!” loudly and angrily
exclaimed his master.

But before Mr. Lyon had fairly got the words out of his mouth Leo put
his pistol out of the window, and pulled the trigger and blazed away.

The ball whizzed past within an inch of the ear of Alexander, who
instinctively dodged and shrank out of the range of fire, as he shouted:

“Stop that, you villain! What do you mean, you poltroon? It is I, your
master.”

But the man was mad with terror; and even while his master spoke, fired
again and again, until he had discharged six shots from his revolver;
and then he retired from the window.

“And now, you scoundrel!” again shouted Mr. Lyon, as soon as silence was
restored. “Do you hear me—do you know me now? I am your master. Come
down and open the door; I want you.”

A minute passed, and then the voice of Leo was heard from above, calling
cautiously:

“Marse Alick, Marse Alick! Is it you, sir?”

“Of course it is I, you cursed idiot! who else should it be? And it is
very well for you that I am living to answer, and you are not a
murderer. Come down instantly, I say, and open the door.”

“Lor, Leo, chile, it is marster; I knows his speech. So let him in,”
spoke another low voice, which Mr. Lyon, in astonishment, recognized as
belonging to Pina.

Another minute passed, and then Leo came down, with his teeth chattering
from cold and fright, and opened the door.

“And now, you villain! what have you got to say for yourself, that I
shall not have you committed to jail to-morrow on charge of assault with
intent to kill?” angrily demanded Mr. Lyon.

“Oh, Marse Alick! I’m as much mortified at the mistake as ever I can be.
Indeed, sir, I thought it was horse thieves, and I was duty bounden to
’fend the hosses, you know, sir,” pleaded Leo.

“Umph; well, you must be more careful another time, my man. Your mistake
might have cost you your neck, you know.”

“’Deed, sir, I—if I had been so misfortunate as to hurt you I shouldn’t
a cared _that_ for my neck! I should a wanted to a’ hanged myself ’dout
waitin’ for the judge to do it,” said the boy, so earnestly that he at
once disarmed his master.

“Very well, I dare say you speak truly. And now let me have the key of
the back door; I wish to get in the house and go to bed. Your mistress
has shut up the place and retired. I suppose she has given up all
thoughts of seeing me to-night. Where is the key?”

“Here it is, sir; shall I go on to the house with you?”

“No, there is no need. Oh, by the way—was not that Pina’s voice I heard
speaking to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And pray how comes she to be sleeping down here in the stable loft,
when she should be in the house with her mistress? And now I think of
it, how _is_ your mistress?”

“Ah, purty much the same as usual, sir,” said Leo, trying to evade the
‘previous question.’

“I am glad to hear it. But about Pina; how comes she to be sleeping
here?”

“Well, sir, you see there’s been a ’larm at the house; and Pina, she was
feared—”

“‘An alarm at the house?’ What sort of an alarm?” anxiously inquired Mr.
Lyon.

“Well, sir, if you will please to let me walk along home with you I
could tell you as I go along.”

“Come then and be quick.”

“Oh lor, Brother Leo, ask master to wait for me, please. I don’t dare to
stay here all alone by myself!” exclaimed Pina, scuttling down from the
loft as fast as she could come.

“Hurry then, you provoking fool; and mind, I have an account to settle
with you when you come,” said Mr. Lyon, as he stamped his feet and
clapped his hands to keep his almost congealed blood in circulation,
while the fierce wind whirled his riding-coat round and round.

Meantime Leo quickly took down his own overcoat from its peg in the
coach-room, and put it on.

“Now then! How dared you to leave your mistress and come down here to
sleep, eh?” angrily demanded Mr. Lyon, as Pina came to the side of her
brother.

“Please, sir, it was along of the fright. And mistress said I might. And
no more wasn’t she angry long o’ me for it,” whimpered the girl.

“Your kind mistress is never angry with anybody for anything,” answered
Mr. Lyon, doing justice to his neglected young wife, on this occasion at
least. “And,” he added, “I will hear what she has to say about the
matter before I excuse you. And now, Leo,” he inquired, turning to the
boy, “what about this alarm at the house? I hope it was a false one. Was
it of thieves?”

“Well, sir, I don’t rightly know whether it was a false alarm or not,
nor likewise whether it was thieves.”

“Tell me all you know of it.”

“If you please, I don’t know anything about it personably myself. It was
not me as seen the face at the window, in the dead hour of the night, it
was my mistress.”

“‘A face at the window in the dead of night?’” echoed Mr. Lyon, in
astonishment.

“Yes, sir.”

“What night?”

“Last night, sir, about this hour, as I understand.”

“Give me the particulars.”

Leo began and related the story, as he had received it from his
mistress.

“That is most extraordinary and it must be investigated,” said Mr. Lyon,
in a musing and anxious manner, as the boy finished the tale. “But,” he
added, turning sternly to the two servants, “how came you, you cowardly
brutes, to leave your young mistress alone in the house to-night after
such an alarm? I feel inclined to part with you both.”

“Oh, sir,” said Leo, “I begged my mistress to allow me to stay in the
house to keep guard, I did, indeed, sir; but she wouldn’t so much as
hear of it. She said how she wouldn’t interfere long of your
arrangements, sir; and so she ordered me to go back to the stables and
take care o’ the hosses.”

“And indeed, master, indeed, sir,” put in Pina, “I did say to my
mist’ess wasn’t her safety of more ’count than the dumb brutes; but she
wouldn’t hear to me, no more’r to Brother Leo.”

“And so she sent you both out of the house!” exclaimed Mr. Lyon,
frowning darkly.

“Indeed she did, sir,” answered Pina.

“And remained in it alone?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Leo.

“Humph!” growled Mr. Lyon, and his anger was diverted from his offending
servants to his neglected wife. An insane suspicion took possession of
him, and he mentally connected the mysterious face at the window, with
the circumstance of Drusilla’s sending her servants from the house, and
he drew an inference which nothing but the madness of jealousy could
have inspired, and he hurried on at a pace which even his agile young
servants found it hard to keep up with.

They went around to the back door and opened it, and Mr. Lyon, calling
his servants to follow him through the house, groped his way along the
dark back passages to the octagon hall and up the stairs to his wife’s
chamber, which was dimly lighted by a night-taper on the mantle-piece
and a smouldering fire in the grate. The room was vacant and evidently
had not been occupied since the morning.

“Where can she be?” he inquired, and in an accession of anxiety he
hurried through the other rooms of the upper story; but found them all
empty.

Then, still attended by his servants, he went below stairs and searched
the library and the bird room. But neither Drusilla nor any one else
could be found.

“I looked into the drawing-room before I entered the house—looked in
through the unshuttered front windows and I saw that no one was in
there. But I will look again,” muttered Mr. Lyon, in extreme
astonishment and anxiety, as he passed into the apartment in question.

It was still brilliantly lighted up and he could see into every corner
of it; but he saw, besides the usual furniture, only the neatly spread
little supper table; the untasted supper covered up on the hearth; and
the easy chair and slippers near the blackened fire that had quite gone
out.

But his wife was nowhere to be seen in the room.

“This is most inexplicable!” he exclaimed, in consternation, as he
turned and looked at his servants, who stood near him aghast with
terror. “At what hour did your mistress dismiss you?”

“At ten o’clock, sir; but we didn’t go out of the house till nearly
half-past, as it took us some little time to rake out the kitchen fire
and fasten up the place,” answered Leo, while Pina fell to sobbing.

“Stop that noise, will you, and follow me. I will search the rooms over
the kitchen; though I suppose it will be quite in vain,” said Mr. Lyon,
grimly, as there entered his mind the cruel suspicion that his neglected
and lonely young wife had actually left her home.

They searched first the kitchen, pantry and laundry, on the first floor
of the back building. Then they went up and searched the servants’ rooms
on the second floor. But without success.

“She is gone,” said Mr. Lyon to himself, as he led the way back to the
drawing-room. And in the strangely blended emotions of astonishment and
mortification, there was also a delusive feeling of satisfaction and
hope. If she was gone, he should be free. Her departure was his
deliverance.

As he re-entered the drawing-room, still attended by his servants, he
saw the broad morning light streaming in at the front windows. He
ordered Leo to take away the lamps and to clear out the grate and kindle
a new fire. And he directed Pina to remove the supper service and
prepare his breakfast; for, under all the circumstances, he felt too
much excited to think of lying down to sleep.

He walked up and down the room, while his servants quickly executed his
orders. And soon every vestige of the evening’s untasted repast and
extinguished fire was removed. And the clean hearth and glowing grate
invited Alexander to repose himself in his easy chair.

After a while Pina appeared with the table linen in her hand, and
inquired, respectfully:

“If you please, sir, will you have the breakfast laid here, or in the
dining-room?”

“In the dining-room, of course,” answered Mr. Lyon.

“The dining-room,” as the reader knows, was but a cozy, elegant, little
recess, curtained off from the drawing-room, and only large enough to
hold a small table and two chairs, for the young couple’s tête-à-tête
dinners.

As Pina now drew aside the crimson curtain, she uttered a wild scream,
and stood transfixed and gazing down upon some object near her feet.

Alexander sprang up to see what had frightened her; but as he put aside
the curtain, and saw what was under it, he started back with an
irrepressible cry of horror.




                             CHAPTER XXVII
                           A GREAT DISCOVERY.

                             Oh, fatal opportunity!
   That work’st our thoughts into desires, desires
   To resolutions; and these being ripe and ready,
   Then giv’st them birth and brings’t them forth to action.—DENHAM.

         The means that fortune yields must be embraced
         And not neglected; else if fortune would,
         And we will not, her offers we refuse,
         And miss the means of action and success.—SHAKSPEARE.


She whom they had sought so vainly, lay there, doubled up, on the floor,
and partly covered by the dropping folds of the curtain.

“Oh, master! Oh, sir! She is dead! She is murdered! She is, indeed, sir,
and the thieves have been in and done it!” cried Pina, recovering her
voice and wringing her hands in grief and terror.

And her dreadful words seemed to be true.

Mr. Lyon could not speak. He silently lifted the lifeless form, and
shuddering to see how helplessly the head and limbs fell over his arms,
he bore it into the drawing-room, and laid it on the sofa.

Pina followed him, and stood sobbing and wringing her hands.

He knelt down by the body and gazed on the marble face, the half-open
eyes, and the rigid lips drawn tightly from the white and glistening
teeth.

He hastily unfastened the front of her dress, and put his hand in her
bosom to feel if her heart yet beat. It seemed still.

He put his ear down to listen if her lungs yet moved. They were
motionless.

He felt her hands and feet. They were cold and stiff.

Then he arose and stood gazing upon the body.

“Oh, is she dead? Is you sure?” inquired Pina, with tears streaming down
her face.

“Yes. She seems to have been dead some hours;” groaned Alexander, with
his own face as white as that of the lifeless form before him.

“Oh, master! Oh, sir! The thieves broke in and done it, didn’t they?
Didn’t they?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Lyon, speaking slowly and softly. “There is no
evidence of the late presence of thieves in the house. Nothing as yet is
missing. And there is no sign of blood upon her clothing.”

“Oh, master, but her dress is black, and wouldn’t show it plain.”

Alexander knew this to be true, and he also knew that some wounds bleed
only inwardly. So he began to examine her body. First he unloosed her
beautiful hair, and ran his fingers through its tresses, and felt all
over her head. But apparently she had received no sort of injury there.

While he was proceeding with this inspection, Pina suddenly started up
and ran out of the room.

He made a most careful examination, but found no mark of violence upon
her person.

And yet he thought she must have come to her death suddenly and
violently; since she had been alive and in her usual health between ten
and eleven o’clock on the preceding evening, and now was dead, and
apparently had been so for several hours.

He had scarcely finished his examination, when Pina rushed back into the
room, holding a fragment of looking-glass in her hand, and exclaiming
eagerly:

“Try this! Oh, dear master, try this! Lay it to her lips and hold it
there a minute or so, and if there’s any moisture on it, it is a sign
that there’s a little life left, and where there’s life, you know, if
there’s ever so little, there’s hope.”

Mr. Lyon silently took the piece of glass, and laid it flat with the
bright side to the cold lips, and stood watching the result.

“Oh, sir, I’m glad I happened to think of it! I know’d a woman, I did,
who fell down into a fit, and lay for dead all day long; for her breath
had stopped, and her heart had stopped, and she was cold and stiff; and
they were going to lay her out, when somebody said ‘try a glass,’ and so
they tried it, and sure enough, after they held it over her lips a
little while, there was a moisture on it, and so they knew she still
breathed ever so little, though they couldn’t perceive it in any other
way but by the glass—and so—”

“Hush, stop,” said Mr. Lyon, interrupting the garrulous girl, and
examining the glass.

There was a dimness on its bright surface.

“You are right. Life is not yet quite extinct. She still breathes
slightly.”

“Oh, sir, I’m so glad! I feel as glad as if—”

“Hurry and make a fire in her bed-chamber, while I carry her up stairs,”
said Mr. Lyon, again interrupting the stream of the girl’s talk.

Pina flew down stairs to get kindling wood, and to startle her brother
with the news that their mistress had been found in a fainting fit so
deep that she seemed dead, or dying, at the last gasp, and it was
doubtful whether she would ever come out of it.

Meanwhile, Alexander lifted the insensible form and carried it up
stairs, to the bed-chamber, and laid it on the bed.

Pina soon came in with the kindling wood and rapidly revived the fire
that had not yet gone out.

Then, while her master ran down stairs and searched for restoratives,
she undressed her mistress and put her between soft, warm blankets, in
the bed, and began to rub her hands and feet in the hope of restoring
the arrested circulation.

Mr. Lyon returned with brandy and ammonia, and then master and maid used
the most vigorous means for recovering the unconscious sufferer.

For nearly two hours they worked over her; but their efforts seemed
utterly unavailing.

At length when they were almost ready to give over in despair, Alexander
perceived a slight fluttering near the heart of his wife. With revived
hope, he redoubled his efforts and soon had the satisfaction of seeing
further signs of returning life. Her chest labored and heaved; her lips
trembled and parted; and then she gasped and opened her eyes.

“Drusa, Drusa, my darling, do you know me?” he inquired, looking
anxiously in her face.

But she only gazed at him, with wide open, soft inexpressive eyes,
without replying.

He hastily mixed a little ammonia and water and raised her head and put
the cordial to her lips. She drank it mechanically; but it immediately
revived her.

“Drusa, my little Drusa, do you know me now?” he inquired, setting the
glass aside and bending over her.

She looked at him with infinite love, put her arms up around his neck,
drew his head down to hers and kissed him tenderly.

He returned her soft caresses, for while he gazed on her sweet, patient,
loving face, and reflected that she was just rescued, as it were, from
the jaws of death, he felt all his compassion, if not his affection for
her, revived.

“What caused your swoon, my little Drusa?” he inquired.

But a spasm of pain, or fear, passed over her face and form, and she
shuddered and closed her eyes.

“Beg your pardon, sir, but if I was you, I wouldn’t ask no questions
yet,” said Pina in a low respectful voice.

“You are right again,” he answered.

And he contented himself with sitting by his wife’s bed and holding her
hand, and occasionally bending down and kissing her forehead.

“If you please sir, to let me go down and bring my mistress up a cup of
strong tea and a bit of dry toast, I think if she could be got to take
it, it would do her good,” said Pina.

“Go then,” replied Mr. Lyon.

And as the girl left the room, he stooped and whispered to his wife.

“I hope you are better, love.”

“Yes,” she answered.

“I will not try your strength with questions, now; but as soon as you
are able, you will tell me what caused your deep swoon.”

She drew his head down to hers and answered in a low, faint voice:

“_It was the face at the window._”

“The face at the window! again last night.”

She nodded; and her lips grew so white and her eyes so wild with terror,
that he hastened to soothe her.

“There, there is no danger now, my little Drusa! I am here by your side.
Compose yourself for the present, and when you have quite recovered you
shall tell me all about it, and the affair shall be investigated.”

He laid his hand upon her brow; and she with a sigh of relief, closed
her eyes.

Presently Pina came in with a little tray upon which stood a cup of tea
and a small piece of dried toast.

At Alexander’s entreaty and with his assistance, Drusilla sat up and
drank the tea and ate the toast, and then sank back upon her pillow and
after a while, with her hand in his, fell into a natural and refreshing
sleep.

Alexander still watched her for five or ten minutes longer, and then
after glancing up at the time-piece on the mantle shelf and seeing that
it was nearly eleven o’clock he slipped his hand from hers, told Pina to
take his place by the bedside, and then left the chamber.

He went down stairs into the drawing-room and rang the bell.

Leo answered it.

“Serve my breakfast immediately and then go and saddle my horse and
bring him around to the door,” were Mr. Lyon’s directions.

Leo, much wondering that his master should leave his mistress at such a
time, went out of the room to obey his orders.

Breakfast was soon served. Alexander dispatched it in haste, and then
went up stairs to change his dress for his ride into town.

When he found himself alone in his dressing-room, all the embarrassments
of his false position—forgotten during the exciting events that had
followed his late arrival at home—were now recalled to mind.

In an hour or two he should meet his uncle and his cousin. The former
would expect that he should make his proposal for immediate marriage
with Anna, and the latter would be ready to meet it.

He might either make the anticipated proposal or omit to do it.

If he should make it, and his cousin should meet it favorably, the
embarrassments of his position would be multiplied a thousand fold, for
certainly he could not marry two wives; neither could he, after having
committed himself by his proposal, confess his prior marriage.

If he should omit to make the proposal at all, such omission would
subject him to suspicion and severe cross-examination by his uncle and
the grandfather of his betrothed.

His first hope, then, was in being able to evade the dilemma by
procrastination; and his second hope was that Anna herself might take
the responsibility of insisting upon a further delay of the wedding.

As for his secret marriage with Drusilla, he was now resolved, come what
might, that he would never reveal it; because he felt sure, if he should
do so, that his uncle and cousin would both discard him, and she would
become the wife of his rival.

But even in the midst of these evil thoughts, he started as an
absent-minded walker might at seeing himself on the brink of a dreadful
precipice,—yes, started with a sudden consciousness of what a villain he
was growing to be—he who up to this time had been a man of stainless
honor.

While agitated by these emotions, he was mechanically dressing himself.
He went to his wardrobe to search for a thick coat, for the morning was
still bitterly cold, and the overcoat that he had worn on the previous
day and night had received some damage from Leo’s frantic pistol shots.

He took down coat after coat, but they were all too thin.

At length, far back in the wardrobe, he found one that he had not worn
for many months. It belonged to the travelling suit that he had worn
when he went to Alexandria to meet Drusilla and went to the parson to
marry her.

With feelings of sadness, regret and compunction, he turned the garment
about and looked at it. Then he carefully brushed it and put it on,
buttoned it closely, and thrust both hands in his pockets to push them
down. In doing so, he felt a folded paper. And in listless curiosity he
took it out, opened it, and looked at it.

In an instant all his listlessness vanished. He held it from him, and
gazed, and gazed at it with his eyes dilating, his lips parting, and his
face blanching with what would have seemed at first view to be amazement
and horror, but which soon proved to be delight and triumph.

He could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses. He suspected that
he was dreaming. He pinched himself to prove that he was awake.

Then he suddenly dropped into a chair, waved the paper above his head,
and burst into a loud laugh.

“Well,” he said, “if I had been the most consummate schemer that ever
lived, I could not have plotted for myself better than fortune has
planned for me. Now, then, Mr. Richard Hammond! Let us see now what are
your prospects of ultimately winning the beauty and the heiress! But
little Drusa! poor little Drusa! patient, loving little Drusa! Thank
fortune that you neither know nor suspect anything of this matter! And
you _must_ neither know nor suspect it yet awhile! For the knowledge, or
even the very suspicion of this, would go near to kill you. Very, very
gradually must you be prepared for it, my darling; very, very gently
must the truth be broken to you, my poor little girl!”

He felt now no embarrassment as to his relations, present or
prospective, with his betrothed and her grandfather. He was ready to
propose to Anna the next day, and to marry her in a month after, if
expedient.

For the paper that he had found in the pocket of his wedding coat, and
now held in his hand, proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that his
marriage with poor Drusilla was informal, null and void; that it had
always been so, and that he was legally free to love and to wed
whomsoever he should please.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
                               HIS LOVE.

           His is the love that only lives,
             While the cheek is fresh and red;
           His is the love that only thrives,
             Where the pleasure feast is spread.—ELIZA COOK.


Although that little paper furnished a proof that Alexander Lyon was as
free from marriage-bonds as he wished to be, yet it would have been
better for his own purpose for him to have burned it at once.

But with that strange unwillingness which some people feel to destroy
even a dangerous document, he carefully folded it up and put it into his
little looking-glass drawer.

Then he went into the next chamber and spoke to Pina, who was still
watching by her mistress’s bed.

“Has she moved?” he asked.

“Oh no, sir, she sleeps very sound,” answered the girl.

“That is well. Keep her very still. Keep the room dark and quiet. Do not
leave her until my return. If she should wake in the meantime, tell her
that I was compelled to ride into town this morning; but that I shall be
back early. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir; and I will be very careful to do as you say.”

Alexander then drew on his gloves and left the room. When he got down
stairs he repeated to Leo his orders, that the house should be kept very
quiet. Then he mounted his horse and rode rapidly towards the city. He
was an hour behind his usual time, and it was noon when he reached his
room at the hotel. He was glad to find out by inquiry that no one had
called that morning to see him. So he went down stairs to call a cab, to
take him to his uncle’s lodgings. He found the hotel halls, as well as
the city streets, full of bustle. Yesterday had been the last day of the
session of Congress, and to-day there was a general evacuation of the
city, by members of the house and senate, and by the troops of friends
and strangers that attend or follow them to and from Washington.

Alick found it hard to get an empty cab, so he hailed an omnibus, and
rode on as far as it would take him to his uncle’s lodgings, and then
got out and walked the rest of the way.

The general had just left his bedroom; but he received his visitor very
cordially.

“I tell you what, Alick, these fashionable hours don’t suit an
old-fashioned fellow like myself. And I am heartily glad the season is
over. As soon as Anna comes down I shall tell her to give orders to pack
up; for we shall leave in a day or two—just as soon as the great crush
of travellers shall thin off, so that the steamboats and the railway
trains will not be so overcrowded. By the way, I hope you made it all
right with Anna last night?”

“Please to recollect, my dear sir, that I could not possibly get an
opportunity of speaking to her in private. But I shall make one to-day.”

“All right, my dear boy, and I will help you. And I hope you will make
up your mind to leave this babel when we do. What is to prevent you, eh?
You might go back with us to the old hall.”

“I should be very happy to do so, sir; and if I can make arrangements——”

“Oh, bosh about arrangements! What arrangements can an idle young man
like you have to make? None that could not be made in twenty-four hours.
And we shall not leave for at least forty-eight.”

“I will try to be ready, sir.”

As Alick spoke, Anna came in.

She wore an elegant morning robe of white cashmere lined and faced with
quilted white satin, and trimmed with black velvet and jet, and fastened
around the waist with a black silk cord and tassels. She seemed no worse
for her long season of fashionable dissipation, but looked stately,
blooming and beautiful as ever.

Alexander arose and greeted her with more than usual empressement, and
led her to a seat.

The breakfast was served. And the general telling Alexander that it
would do quite as well for a luncheon, invited him to sit down to the
table.

While lingering over the late morning meal, they talked of the just
closed session of Congress and season of fashion, and the general again
pressed Alick to join his party at old Lyon Hall. And in the presence of
his beautiful betrothed, Alick could neither refuse nor hesitate to
accept the invitation. So he gave his promise to accompany his uncle and
cousin to their home.

After the breakfast was finished, and the service was removed, the
general arose, saying that he would go down into the reading-room and
look over the morning papers, he left the parlor.

Alexander and Anna were alone.

“At last, then, I have the opportunity of speaking to you, that I have
so long desired,” whispered Alick, as he went and took a seat on the
sofa, by the side of his betrothed.

She received him very quietly, if not coldly.

He then went on to lament the repeated interruptions that had so long
delayed their union, and to press her to name an early day for the
wedding.

“Your great haste is of very late date, Alick. I saw no signs of such
impatience, until within the last few weeks,” she answered coolly.

He gave her a deprecating look, and pleaded:

“My love was chilled and my pride was hurt by your marked preference for
my rival.”

“Hush!” said Anna, quickly. “Let poor Dick alone. He is honest, if he is
wild. I have sent him away. Let him go in peace.”

“Just so! Let him go. But you will grant my request?”

“I have no wish to break off our engagement, Alick. I will not be the
first woman of my race to break my pledged word. I will give you my
promised hand; but not as soon as you ask. Let the year of mourning end
first.”

“That will be in November.”

“Yes; you must wait until then.”

Alexander heaved a deep sigh, and got up and walked the room, and looked
a great deal more disappointed than he felt.

In truth—now he knew that his hand was free from legal fetters to
Drusilla, he felt that his heart was more bound to her by affection than
he had lately believed. And now his hated rival was out of his way, he
found that he was not half so much in love with his beautiful cousin as
he had imagined.

And so he really had no more desire to hurry the wedding than had Anna
herself.

He wanted more time to break with her whom he had so long taken for his
wife. And as he walked up and down the floor, he was thinking most of
her.

“Poor little Drusa,” he thought. “Good little Drusa, from this hour she
must be to me, only as a dear little sister. But our parting must not he
abrupt. Such a shock would be her death-blow, poor child! Little by
little I must leave her. This trip to the old hall will be a good start.
She need not know where or why I go. I can tell her that this business
connected with my father’s will, takes me into Virginia for a while—and
this will be true, so far as it goes. After a few weeks I will return to
her, but only as a brother, and will stay with her but a few days. And
then the second absence shall be longer than the first, and the second
return to her, shorter. And so, gently, most gently will I loose the tie
that binds her to me, so that when the final parting comes, she shall
scarcely feel it.”

So, as falsely as wickedly, he reasoned. For it would have been more
merciful to have broken with her at once than to leave her by degrees.
Much kinder would be the quick, sharp death-blow that should end her woe
instantly, than the slow, cruel torture that would as surely if not as
swiftly destroy her life.

Something of this truth seemed to strike his mind. He groaned slightly.
Then he began to comfort his conscience.

“I will provide for her,” he said to himself. “I will buy that little
estate for her. She can live there as a young widow. She can——Oh, great
Heaven, what a villain I am growing to be! But I cannot help it. I
cannot remarry Drusilla because I am bound to Anna, and have been bound
to her for many years. So I cannot but do as I do. I wonder if murderers
can help killing, or thieves stealing? Or if really I can help being the
wretch I am?” And as he mentally asked himself this question his face
grew so dark with pain and remorse, that Anna, who had been watching him
and who quite mistook his mood, laughed and said:

“Why, Alick, one would really think, to see you, that you take this
matter to heart.”

“I take the matter to heart much more than you believe, Anna,” he
answered, speaking, as had been his frequent manner of late, true in the
letter and false in the spirit of his reply. Then lest his supposed
disappointment should cause her to relent and to fix an earlier day for
their marriage than would quite be convenient for him, he hastened to
add: “But let it be as you will, fair cousin. I will wait with what
patience I may until November.”

Anna pouted, for although she was in no haste to marry she felt
affronted that Alick should yield the point so readily.

Alick staid and dined with his uncle and cousin that day. And after
dinner he would have taken leave to go home, but his uncle stopped him,
saying:

“No, indeed, my boy. This is the first evening since we have been in
Washington that I have had you all to myself, and I mean to have the
good of you. Every other evening you have had to dance attendance on
Anna to some place of amusement. There is no place to go to this
evening, thank Heaven. And Anna is tired and is going to rest, so you
just sit down and play a game of chess with me. Come, I will let you off
at ten o’clock, but not a moment before.”

So Alexander sat down to the chess-board with his uncle and played until
ten o’clock; and then bade him good night, and started for home.




                             CHAPTER XXIX.
                               HER LOVE.

            Hers is the love which keeps
              A constant watch-fire light,
            With a flame that never sleeps
              Through the longest winter night.—ELIZA COOK.


Meanwhile, Drusilla slept long and deeply, like one much worn in mind
and body. It was afternoon when she opened her eyes. She saw Pina
sitting by her side. At first, she thought it was yet early in the
morning, and that she had awakened at her usual hour, and she wondered
why her maid should be watching by her bed; but in another moment,
memory returned and reminded her of all the events of the day. And she
thought of Alexander’s loving kindness to her, and she smiled with
delight. Then she asked:

“Where is Mr. Lyon?”

“He is gone to town, ma’am,” answered Pina.

The little lady’s face fell. Its gladness was all gone in an instant.

“Gone to town again, Pina?” she repeated in a sad tone.

“Yes, ma’am, which he told me to tell you, as he was unwillin’ compelled
for to go, and which he would be sure to come back very early,” said the
girl, in her good nature; adding a little to her master’s message.

“Oh! did he say that, Pina? Did he say he would come back very early?
Are you sure, Pina?” And the little face brightened up again.

“Sure as sure, ma’am; which ‘very early’ was his very words,” said Pina,
telling a little white lie.

“What time is it now?”

“Near five, ma’am.”

“Then he will soon be here,” she said. And strengthened by this hope,
she threw off the counterpane, and got out of bed.

With the help of her maid she dressed herself as carefully to please her
husband’s taste, as a maiden might to attract a lover’s eyes.

Then she went down stairs to see if the drawing-room was made
comfortable for the evening. She found that Leo had done his duty in the
matter. The fire in the grate was burning brightly; the hearth was
shining clearly; the deep sofa was drawn up on one side of the chimney,
and the easy chair on the other, and the round table was placed between
them. The front blinds were left as usual unclosed until the master’s
return; but the crimson curtains were drawn before the windows. The
chandelier was lighted, and its rays were reflected back by the pictured
walls, the gilded mirrors and the glowing draperies of the room, so that
the little retreat looked very cozy and home-like.

“Yes, this is all very well; but there are no flowers,” said this loving
little wife; (for wife we must call her, notwithstanding Mr. Alick’s
discovery;) and she went into her small conservatory and cut a few
fragrant tea roses and lemon geraniums, and arranged them in a beautiful
group, and placed them in a vase, and set them on the round table.

And then she opened her piano and selected from her music some of her
husband’s favorite pieces, and laid them in readiness.

“He is so fond of music, and he likes my voice and touch, and yet he so
seldom hears me sing or play now. Perhaps he will to-night, though,” she
said, as she sat down to try the tone of her long neglected instrument.

She had taken no food since morning, for in fact, her long sleep had
kept her from feeling the want of it; but soon she felt faint from
hunger, and she got up to ring the bell for a cup of tea.

But Pina, who had not forgotten her mistress’s needs, was even now on
her way to the drawing-room with the tea tray.

She brought it in and sat it down on the table, and stood waiting
orders.

“Did your master say he would be home to dinner, Pina?” the little lady
asked.

“No, ma’am; he said ‘very early’ to _me_. And when Leo asked him if
dinner should be prepared for him, he said ‘no,’ and that he should ‘be
home to an early tea,’” the girl replied.

“Then, here; I will only take half a cup of that oolong and half a
biscuit to keep me up till he comes, for I wish to take tea with him
this evening,” said the little wife, as she hastily took the bit and sup
she spoke of.

“Now, take this down, Pina; and listen,” she added, as she pushed away
the tray. “Have a very nice tea got ready—the oolong and the imperial,
mixed half and half as he likes it; and make some sweet muffins; and
slice that venison tongue; and open those West India sweetmeats,
especially the preserved green figs and the pineapples. Do you hear?”

“Yes, madam.”

“And will you remember all?”

“Yes, madam, I will be sure to.”

Pina left the room, and her mistress resumed her practising.

She went over all his favorite pieces in turn, stopping at the end of
each to go to the window, and watch and listen.

But hour after hour passed by, and still he for whom she looked came
not. As night deepened, her spirits sank.

“Perhaps he will not come at all,” she said, with a sigh. “Something
keeps him that he cannot help,” she added, in excuse for him.

When the clock struck ten she could hardly keep back her tears.

“He will not be home until very late, even if he comes to-night,” she
said, with a deep sob, as she closed the piano and sat down by the fire.

She waited then for her servants to come as usual for orders, before
bidding her good night. Then, as they did not appear, she rang for them.

And when Pina entered, her mistress said:

“It is long past your bed time.”

“I know it, madam; but master, he gave us such a rowing for leaving you
alone last night, after you had been frightened the night before, that
Leo and me, we daren’t go. We’ll sit in the kitchen, if you please,
ma’am, or wait in the hall, as you order, until the master returns.”

“He may not be able to get home to-night.”

“Then, please, ma’am, we’ll have to sit up and watch, or sleep anywhere
in the house as you’ll appoint.”

Drusilla reflected for a moment, and then said:

“You may sit up in the kitchen for an hour longer, and then come to me
for orders.”

The girl left the room, and her mistress sank back in her resting chair,
repeating to herself,

“He knows that I am ill and nervous, and almost unprotected here; and he
left me word he would be back early. Oh, surely he will keep his
promise, in part, at least, by coming back some time to-night. He will
if he can! I am sure he will, if he can!” she added, confidingly.

But as the next hour wore slowly on, her long tried courage utterly
broke down, and she bowed her head upon the table and wept bitterly.

The clock was striking eleven, when two sounds from opposite ways struck
her ear. One was the galloping of a horse’s feet coming to the house.
The other was the running of her servants up the back stairs.

Drusilla hastily wiped her eyes as Pina entered the room.

“Your master has come. Send Leo around to the stable to take his horse,
and do you bring up the supper-tray,” she said.

And the girl left the room to obey orders; but before going down stairs
she went and unlocked the front door, and set it slightly ajar, that her
master might enter at once when he should reach the house.

Drusilla meanwhile tried to still the spasmodic sobs that were yet
heaving her bosom, and to force back the tears that were yet wetting her
eyes, and to put on a pleasant face to meet her beloved. But it is not
so easy all at once to suppress nervous excitement.

So when Alexander hurried through the hall door, locking it as he
passed, and hurried into the drawing-room to see her, she was still
sobbing and weeping.

He stopped short in surprise and some anger.

“Why, Drusa! why, what is all this row about?”

“Oh, Alick, Alick!” she gasped, her nerves being all unstrung, “I did
not think you would have stayed away from me to-night! I have been
waiting for you so long, as I have waited for you so often! oh, so
often!”

“Is that meant for a reproach, Drusilla?” he asked, coldly, as he
dropped into a chair.

“Oh, no, Alick! no dear, no! but I can not—can not help it!”

And she cried harder than ever.

“Well, this is a pretty way to meet a man, upon my word, after he has
taken a long cold ride to see you,” said Mr. Lyon, angrily.

“I didn’t mean it, Alick! Indeed I didn’t, dear! I tried hard to help
it; but I couldn’t. I broke down,” she cried, sobbing heavily between
her words.

“Humph, this is pleasant, upon my soul,” he said, grimly, watching her
without making one attempt to soothe her.

“I know—I know how bad it is in me to do so, Alick dear, and I’m trying
to stop it; indeed I am. Bear with me a little, dear; I will stop soon,
indeed I will,” she sobbed.

“I hope it will be very soon. This looks very much as if you were
accusing me of misusing you, Drusilla; do you mean to say that I do?”

“Oh, no, no, no, Alick! I never even thought so! You are very good to
me. It is not your fault, dear; it is mine. I don’t know what ails me
that I cry so much at such little things. I feel like a baby that wants
its mother’s lap,” she said, with a still heaving bosom.

“That is very childish, Drusilla,” he answered, in a harsh,
unsympathizing manner.

“I know it is, dear. I am sorry I am so foolish; it is because I am so,
so lonely, Alick. Oh, so lonely, dear, you can’t think; it is like
death—like heart-break. But it is not your fault, dear; I don’t mean
that; don’t you think that. You are not to blame, Alick; it is I. But
then, dear, think of this, and bear with me a little. I have no one in
the wide world but only you; and when you are away all is so still, so
silent—oh, so dreary you don’t know. If I only had a mother to turn to
when I feel so weak and foolish, and so lonesome—if I could only lay my
head down on my mother’s shoulder when you are away, and cry a little I
should be better; I should be all right when you should return home. But
I have no mother to go to, Alick.”

“If you had she would box your ears for such nonsense; that is, if I
remember the old lady rightly,” said Alexander, brutally, as he arose
from his chair and walked the room.

But her nervous excitement was now subsiding. Her tears ceased to flow;
her sobs were softer. Presently she wiped her eyes, and, smiling like
sunshine through raindrops, she said:

“It is all over now, Alick dear, all quite over. It was only a summer
gust, dear, and it did me no harm; and you will excuse it this once,
Alick?”

“I shall hardly know how to do so if this exhibition is ever to be
repeated,” he growled.

“I hope it never will be, Alick,” she said, with a subsiding sigh, as
she arose and touched the bell.

“Drusilla, if you knew as much as I do you would very carefully avoid
giving me any annoyance,” he said, in so meaning a manner that her hand
dropped from the bell-pull, and she turned to him in dismay, and, gazing
on him, asked:

“What is it that you know, Alick, dear? Indeed I never wish to annoy
you. But what is it you mean, dear?”

“No matter! You will know some day; all too soon whenever that day shall
come,” he said, evasively.

“But, Alick dear, you frighten me. Please what is it?”

“No matter what. Let the subject drop, Drusilla,” he replied, repenting
the cruelty that made him allude to the guilty secret of his own breast.

“But, dear Alick——” she re-commenced.

“Let the subject drop, I say,” he interrupted her, in a tone so
peremptory that she immediately bowed her head and obeyed.

And Pina now entered the room with the tray, and laid the cloth for
supper. And having done so she retired.

When Mr. Lyon had supped to his satisfaction, and felt himself in a
better humor, he turned around to the blazing fire, and said:

“I have a mind to sit up and watch to-night for that face at the window”

“Do, dear Alick, if you are not too tired,” she answered.

“And I will sit with my revolver by my side.”

“Yes, do; and with me also.”

“But you are not able to sit up.”

“Oh, yes, I am. You know I slept nearly all day. And I do wish to watch
with you.”

“So be it then. But we must draw the curtains back from the windows, as
they were last night and all nights before. Who closed them to-night?”

“Leo did, I suppose, to keep the face from looking in and frightening me
again. And I did not change the arrangement, because I reflected that
you could see the light almost as well through these fine crimson
curtains as glass itself.”

“That is true. It is a pity you or one of your servants had not thought
of this before. It would have saved you a fright.”

“But, Alick, dear, if any dangerous person were lurking about the
premises, is it not better that I should have detected him, even at the
cost of a fright, than that he should be let to go on and do the
mischief he is plotting, whatever that is?”

“There is something in what you say, my brave little wi—woman,” he
answered.

She did not perceive how he caught and corrected his words, for she was
busy drawing back the curtains of one window, while he did the like with
those of the other.

Alexander went and got his small revolver from the pocket of his riding
coat and laid it on the table beside him. And then they sat down to wait
the issue.

At first they talked a little in low voices. Alexander would make
Drusilla tell him again and again the particulars of her two frights.
But she had so little to tell.

“Only a white stern face, looking in at me through the dark window.”

Alexander questioned her as to the hour of its appearance.

“It was at two o’clock on the first night. And at one o’clock on the
second night,” she answered.

“Exactly; and if it keeps on coming an hour later each night, it will
appear at twelve precisely to-night. And it now wants just ten minutes
to that time,” said Alexander, with a laugh.

Then he questioned her as to her thoughts, feelings and occupations at
the time she saw the face.

Drusilla replied that she was reading, and confessed that she was
thinking of supernatural beings and feeling a little afraid of looking
over her shoulder.

“Precisely; and now let me ask you _what_ were you reading?”

“I had been reading ‘The Night Side of Nature,’” replied Drusilla.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Alexander, “the secret is out! The face at the
window was an optical illusion created by your over-excited imagination.
Next time, my little love, read Scott’s ‘Demonology.’ It will be a
perfect antidote to the ‘Night Side of Nature.’ I don’t wonder, poor
child! that you were afraid to look over your shoulder, or that you saw
faces glaring at you through dark windows. I wonder you didn’t see a
spectral face grinning through every single pane of glass. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” echoed another voice—a strange, harsh, unearthly voice.

Alexander started and looked at his companion, who was pale as death.

“_Ha! ha! ha!_” shouted the voice again.

He then seized his revolver and turned quickly to the window whence the
voice seemed to come.

“HA! HA! HA!” it shrieked a third time, as Alexander caught a glimpse of
a ghastly, grinning face that showed itself for an instant at the
window, and he levelled his pistol. But as he fired it, it dropped and
disappeared.

“Stay here while I search the grounds,” whispered Mr. Lyon to his
panic-stricken companion.

And revolver still in hand, he ran out of the house.

Drusilla sat with her hands clasped tightly together, her face white as
a sheet and her heart half paralyzed with fright. She had not long to
wait. A pistol shot, followed by another and another in quick
succession, startled her. With a wild cry she sprang to her feet and
rushed out to the help of her husband.




                              CHAPTER XXX.
                               BREAKING.

               They’d met e’er yet the world had come,
                 To wither up the springs of truth;
               Amid the holy joys of home,
                 And in the first warm flush of youth.

               They parted, not as lovers part,
                 With earnest vows of constancy—
               She with her wronged and bleeding heart,
                 And he rejoicing to be free!—ANONYMOUS.


“Alick! Alick! Oh, Alick, where are you? Answer me! Speak to me, if you
can! Oh, give me some sign where to search for you,” Drusilla cried,
running wildly out into the wintry night, in the direction from which
she had heard the shots, and fearing at every point to find her husband
dead or wounded.

“Hush!” whispered a voice through the darkness. And the next moment her
husband stood by her side.

“Oh, Alick, thank Heaven you are alive and safe! You _are_ safe, are you
not, dear?” she eagerly inquired.

“Yes; but that infernal villain has got off!”

“Oh, never mind, so that you are not hurt. You are _not_ hurt, are you,
Alick?”

“No; I have not been in any danger; but that cursed caitiff! he has
escaped!”

“Oh dear, let him go; so you are sure you are not wounded? You _are_
sure, are you not, dear? You are quite sure neither of those shots
struck you?”

“The shots were fired by my own hand, and I’m only sorry they missed
their mark, and that diabolical scoundrel got off! He ran like a quarter
horse, Devil fly away with him! I would have given a thousand dollars to
have him here with my foot on his neck! By all I hold sacred, I would!”

“Oh Alick, do stop thinking about him, and think about yourself! You are
so excited I don’t believe you know whether you are wounded or not; you
may be bleeding to death now, somewhere under your coat! Oh Alick, dear,
come in the house and let me look.”

“It is you who are excited, little goose. You are shaking like an ague!
Come in the house yourself, and get warm and quiet,” he said, tucking
her under his arm and leading her towards the cottage.

“But Alick, dear, tell me, are you _very_ certain—”

“No, I’m not ‘_very_’ certain; I’m only just _certain_ that I have not a
single scratch. That—that—miserable miscreant was unarmed, I suppose,
Satan burn him!”

“Who was he, Alick, do you know?”

“How should I? I only know that he was some felon spy, who has doubtless
been hanging about the house, and peeping through the windows o’
nights.”

“A spy, Alick? Only a spy? Why I thought he was a robber and a
murderer.”

“My little love, a spy is the most dangerous character of the three. We
may defend ourselves against robbers and murderers; but not against
spies. The first are beasts of prey; but the last are venomous
serpents—snakes in the grass. No one knows how long that infamous wretch
has been lurking around our house, or how often he has been peeping in
at our windows, or how much he has seen.”

“Dear Alick, we have only seen _him_ three times.”

“But he may have seen us, three hundred times. Of course our eyes were
not always on the window.”

“That is true; but, after all, what of it, Alick? He could not harm us
by looking at us,” said the honest young creature, who knew she had
nothing to hide.

“Ugh! if I had him under my feet, I would not leave a whole bone in his
body!” cried the double-dealing man, who was conscious that he had a
great deal to conceal.

“Well, never mind, Alick, dear. For my part, I am well content that the
man got off, and you have no broken bones to account for. For, after
all, he committed no great crime in looking in at a lighted window at
night. Why, Alick, in walking through the streets of the city in the
evening you and I used to do the same thing, only for the harmless
pleasure of looking in to an interior, upon a pretty domestic picture of
a family circle around their tea-table, or something of the sort. And
this man might have had no worse purpose.”

“His purpose, whatever it might have been, should have cost him his life
if I had caught him!” said Mr. Lyon, grimly.

“Then I am truly glad you did not catch him. Oh, be content, Alick, for
you may be sure, now that the man has been seen and chased, he will
never come to trouble us again!”

“I don’t know that he will. But he didn’t seem to dread being seen,
however. It was his taunting laugh, you know, that drew my notice to
him. He seemed to try to catch my eye by mocking my laugh. I think he
had seen all he wished to see, and that this was to be his last visit;
so he let his presence be known, to annoy us. Ah! if I ever find out who
he is, he shall pay dearly for his frolic!” exclaimed Alick.

By this time they reached the house and entered it.

Alexander made Drusilla sit down in the easy chair before the fire, and
then he went and carefully closed and fastened the doors and windows,
and finally came and took a seat by her side.

And they sat there a little while to warm and rest themselves before
going up stairs to bed.

“Alick,” said Drusilla, “I hope if you ever do find out who that man is,
you will do him no harm.”

“I will be his death,” exclaimed Alexander, grinding his teeth.

“No, no, no; he may have been some poor forlorn creature, who having no
home of his own, looked in upon ours, as upon a paradise.”

“He was, more likely, some vulgar wretch, who in prowling about here at
night, after game, has found out that a very pretty little woman lives
here, often all alone, and has made up his mind to get as many peeps at
her as he can.”

“Oh, Alick!”

“That is the secret, now I come to think quietly over the matter, my
dear; and your brilliantly lighted windows were the beacons that first
drew him here to gaze on you at will; to feast his eyes on your beauty;
perhaps to fall in love with you! Come, what do you think of it all
now?” inquired Mr. Lyon, maliciously.

“Oh, Alick, Alick, don’t talk so to me. I am your wife. Such thoughts——”
She paused, and blushing deeply, turned away her head.

“What is the matter, little love?” he laughed.

“You should not breathe such thoughts to me, dear Alick. But—I shall
draw the curtains before the windows every evening in future.”

“I think it would be just as well you should do so. The light shining
through their crimson folds will be enough to guide me home at night,”
he said, as he arose and lighted the bedroom candles.

She set the guard up before the grate, and put out the lamps.

They left the drawing-room and went up stairs together; but when they
reached their chamber door, he put one of the candles in her hand,
saying kindly:

“Good night, my dear child. I hope you will have a good sleep.”

And before she could answer, he opened the door of an opposite chamber,
passed in and locked it behind him, leaving her standing still in
astonishment.

This was the first time, while at home, that he had ever slept out of
their mutual room. She could not imagine why he should do so now. If he
had not spoken so kindly to her, she might have supposed he was angry
with her. But his good night had been even unusually gentle and tender;
it had seemed almost plaintive and deprecating. But then he had not only
passed their chamber and gone into another room, but he had locked the
door behind him, thus securing himself against possible intrusion. Whose
intrusion? she asked herself—hers, his wife’s? Well, she was his wife,
she thought; but dearly as she loved him, scarcely living, except by his
side, she would never intrude upon his chosen solitude.

She stood there in perplexed and painful thought, inquiring and
wondering why he left her and locked her out. Perhaps, after all, she
said to herself, he was still a little angry with her, for having cried
so much that evening. She must find out. She could not go to rest, she
would never be able to sleep without knowing whether he was really
displeased with her, and reconciling him to herself. She would not
intrude upon him, she thought, no, never! But she would rap at his door
and ask if she had offended him, and if so, she would do all that she
could to atone for such offence. For she must make friends with him
before she left the spot, or—die!

So she went and rapped at his door and then waited.

She heard him moving about the room, but he made no response.

She thought he had not heard her, so she rapped again.

“Well! Who is there?” he inquired from within.

“It is I, your little Drusa, Alick,” she answered, in a low and
tremulous tone.

“What do you want, Drusilla?”

“Oh, Alick dear, my heart is breaking; please don’t be mad with me,” she
pleaded, in her most plaintive voice.

“I am not mad with you, child; why should you think so?”

“Oh, Alick, I thought—I thought you were displeased, because—because—”
She could not go on.

“What reason could I have for being angry with you, child?” he asked
again, putting his question in a form that he thought she could more
easily answer.

“Why, my crying so much this evening,” she said.

“Oh, bosh! that is all over now. No, little Drusa, I have no cause, no
just cause of complaint against you. If I am ever angry with you, it is
from my own quick temper, and by no fault of yours, my child. Now go to
bed like a good girl, or rather like a sweet little saint as you truly
are. Good night, my little Drusa,” he said.

“Good night, dear Alick,” she answered, turning sadly away.

She went to her own room and set the candle on the mantle-piece, sank
into her easy chair, and lapsed into sorrowful thought.

“He said he was not angry with me; yes, he said so; but he never told me
why he left my room, and he never even opened the door to speak to me,
nor yet kissed me good night. No, he is not angry with me; not angry,
but sick and tired of me, as I might have known he would be; for what am
I to please him who has been used to ladies of the highest rank and
culture? Yes, he is sick and tired of me, and it is not his fault—it is
mine; and I wish, oh, I wish, it were no sin to die!”

And she dropped her head upon the arm of her chair and wept bitterly;
wept till she was so exhausted that she slipped from the chair to the
carpet, and, grovelling there, wept on.

Her tears like her grief, seemed inexhaustible; for, when the daylight
dawned and the sun rose, she was still lying where she had sunk overcome
with sorrow.

At length when the morning was well advanced, she remembered her
housewifely duties, and slowly got up and rang the bell for her maid.

Then, lest her evening dress should excite the girl’s curiosity, as it
did on a former occasion, she quickly took it off and threw around her a
chamber wrapper.

Pina came in and put fresh logs on the fire, and filled the ewers, and
laid out clean towels, and then stood waiting.

“There is nothing more, Pina; you may go,” said her mistress.

And the maid left the room.

Drusilla bathed her eyes and face, and combed her hair, and dressed
herself as tastefully as if she had slept through a happy night and
waked to a gladsome morning.

And she went down stairs to see to the breakfast. The cozy drawing-room,
the bright fire, the clean hearth, the neat table, all the accessories
of her sweet home, and, above all, the clear sunshiny morning, early
harbinger of spring, cheered her spirits and inspired more hopeful
thoughts than had been hers on the evening previous.

“Alick loved me from my childhood,” she said, “and chose me freely for
his wife from all others that he might have had. And he is very good to
me. He spoke gently to me even last night. Perhaps he is not so weary of
me as I think. Perhaps he loves me still. And my doubts come only from
my own fancies. Oh, Heaven grant that it may be so. I will see how he
will meet me this morning. But, oh! if I should be so keen to note every
word and look that he gives me, or don’t give me, how ill I should
requite his love. Shall I turn jealous fool, and watch my Alick as if he
were a foe to be suspected, and not my dear husband to be loved and
trusted to the last? No, Alick, dear, no; I will do you no such wrong. I
know I’m a big little fool, but not such a one as that, either. What if
he did leave me last night. Perhaps he needed to be very quiet, after so
much excitement as he has had these two nights. I am sure, I am so
nervous sometimes that I cannot bear a movement or a ray of light in my
room, and why should he not be subject to the same moods, even if he is
a strong man? Come, I will trust my husband, as well as love him.”

This reaction of feeling, brought about mostly by the blessed sunshine
of morning and the benign influence of home, called back the color to
the young wife’s cheeks and the light to her eyes.

Alexander came down earlier than usual. And she arose from her seat to
receive his morning kiss.

But she did not get it. He passed her, and dropped into his chair, and
said:

“Ring for breakfast, Drusa. I must get off to town sooner by an hour
this morning.”

With a suppressed sigh, she pulled the bell; and when Pina appeared, she
ordered breakfast to be served immediately.

Alexander was thoughtful even to gloom. He had to break to Drusilla the
news of his intended sudden departure. And he dreaded to do it, and he
did not know how to begin.

The morning meal was served. They sat down to the table. Drusilla poured
out the coffee, and, in handing her husband his cup, she said:

“You are not feeling well this morning, Alick, dear?”

“No, Drusa, I am not well, in spirits at least. I have a very painful
duty before me, little Drusa,” he answered, catching at this opening for
his discourse.

“I am very sorry, Alick,” she replied, and then waited for his further
speech.

“I shall be obliged to leave home for a short time. I did not like to
tell you last night, lest it should disturb your rest,” he said, little
knowing how utterly his desertion had deprived her of that rest.

“Oh, Alick, dear, must you really go?”

“I must really go, Drusilla. That business connected with my father’s
will obliges me to do so,” he gravely said.

“Shall you take me with you, Alick?” she asked, in a low, timid voice.

“No, Drusa; of course not. If I could take you along I should not feel
so badly about going,” he answered.

“Oh, Alick, I am so sorry, dear.”

“I shall not stay very long, Drusa. I shall come back to you as soon as
I possibly can, my child.”

“I know you will, Alick. Where do you go?”

“Into Virginia, of course, where our estates lie.”

“Oh, what a troublesome business that is connected with your father’s
will, to be sure—to bother you so much as it has ever since we have been
married. Why cannot lawyers make wills so clear that there can be no
mistake about their meaning?”

“Ah, why indeed?” repeated Mr. Lyon, laughing in spite of his secret
self-reproach.

“When do you start, dear Alick?”

“To-morrow morning, my child.”

“So soon! Oh, that is very sudden!”

“These matters admit of no delay, Drusa. Now, my little woman, don’t
look so downcast. It is unpleasant enough for me to have to leave you.
Don’t add to my vexation by your looks.”

“No, Alick, I will not if I can help it. You will want your clothes got
ready,” she added, cheerfully, “and the time is short. Tell me at once,
please, what you would like to take with you, and I will pack them up
to-day.”

“Oh, a dozen of each sort of under-garment; one morning and one evening
suit; my dressing-case and writing-case; those are all, I think. Have
them put into the little black Russia leather trunk.”

“I will pack them myself, Alick dear, and then they will be sure to be
done right.”

“As you please, little woman.”

“How long shall you be gone, Alick? Can you tell me that?”

“Oh, not exactly. The length of my absence depends upon circumstances.
Not more than a week or ten days at most.”

“At least you will be sure to be back within the fortnight?”

“Yes, certainly. But you know we can talk over all this to-night, when I
get back from town. I shall certainly be home to tea,” said Mr. Lyon, as
he arose from the table.

“Then I shall hope to see you. And I know you will come if you _can_,
Alick,” she answered, as she thought of her constant disappointments in
this respect.

He understood her, and he answered, as he drew on his riding-coat:

“I _can_ be back this last evening, and I _will_. Good-bye until I see
you again, little Drusa.”

And he put on his hat and hurried out of the house, pulling on his
gloves as he passed.

And the next moment he mounted his horse and galloped away.




                             CHAPTER XXXI.
                             FIRST ABSENCE.

           I heard thy light, careless farewell, love,
             And patiently saw thee depart—
           Ay, patiently. But could words tell, love,
             The sorrow that swelled in my heart?
           Yet tearless and still though I stood, love,
             Thy last words are thrilling me yet,
           And my lips would now breathe if they could, love,
             The deep prayer—“Oh do not forget.”—ANON.


Drusilla went to her own room, wept a little, and blamed herself for
that weakness, and then she called her maid to help her, and she spent
the whole day in preparing her husband’s wardrobe for his journey.

It happened for once that Mr. Lyon could keep his word to his wife
without much personal inconvenience, and so he kept it.

When he reached the city that day he made a morning call upon his uncle
and his cousin. He found the General was engaged to dine that evening
with a veteran brother officer, and Miss Lyon would be occupied with the
preparations for her journey, so that neither the old gentleman nor the
young lady would be at liberty to entertain him longer than the morning.

After lunching with his relatives, and arranging to join them at nine
the next morning, he bade them good day.

He went to his own hotel where he called for his bill, settled it in
full, gave up the keys of his rooms, and so closed his connection with
the house.

From the hotel he went to the livery stable, mounted his horse and rode
homeward.

He reached Cedarwood at seven o’clock. He found his trunk ready packed,
corded and labelled for his journey, and standing in the hall. He found
the drawing-room as cozy and inviting as his wife always made it for his
reception; the fire burning brightly, and the tea-table standing before
it spread with all the dainties he most liked; and, above all, he found
_her_, pretty, well-dressed, and cheerful as she could command herself
to be.

This was the first time for many weeks that he had taken tea with his
wife, and she made it a festive occasion. He began again to realize that
he loved her; he felt like pressing her to his heart as in the first
days of their marriage, before the witchery of the world came between
them, or he had discovered what he supposed to be the illegality of
their marriage. Yes, he would have liked to have shown her these proofs
of reviving affection; but he did not. He had decided, in the secrecy of
his own insane mind, that she was henceforth to be only as a sister to
him until he should be able to part with her entirely; and so he treated
her now very gently but very coldly.

After tea, which he took care should be prolonged as far into the
evening as possible, he asked her to sing and play for him.

And she very gladly sat down to the piano, and executed some of his
favorite pieces in her very best style.

He purposely kept her there, playing piece after piece, until she was
really wearied.

And then when she rose from the instrument he took the lead in the
conversation, and would talk of nothing but music, musicians, and
composers until the clock struck eleven. Then he suddenly said:

“My little girl it is late, and you are tired; go to bed at once. I have
letters to write that will detain me an hour or so. When I have finished
them I will come up.”

“Alick, dear, letters to write so late to-night when you have to start
so early to-morrow?”

“Yes, little Drusa.”

“Why didn’t you write them earlier in the evening, then?”

“Because I wanted to enjoy every moment of your company while you sat
up, Drusa, and I knew I could write them after you had retired,” he
artfully replied.

“But I had rather not leave you at all this last evening, Alick. I will
sit very quietly near you and not interrupt you the least while you
write your letters.”

“But I will not permit you to do so, Drusa. You are pale with want of
rest even now; and you will make a point of getting up to-morrow morning
even sooner than I shall—I know you will.”

“I must, Alick dear, to see that you have a good breakfast ready in time
to eat it leisurely before you go.”

“Just so; therefore you must go to rest now. There, be a good girl, and
clear out, will you?”

“Yes, Alick,” she answered, in a depressed tone. “Good night;” and she
put up her lips to kiss him.

“Bosh! no good night in the case. Do you think I am going to sit up till
day writing letters?” he said, laughing and evading her caress.

Feeling that something was very wrong, yet trying not to think so, she
left the room and went up stairs to bed.

And after a little while, being almost worn out by so many nights’
watching, she fell asleep and slept until morning.

Meanwhile, Alexander wrote a couple of trifling letters, and then, not
to disturb her, he stole on tip-toes up to his newly chosen room and
went to rest.

Drusilla was the first up in the morning, before even her servants were
astir. She roused Pina and set her to work, and helped with her own
hands, and to such good purpose that a very nice breakfast was soon
ready and waiting for Alexander.

He came down, and greeted Drusilla kindly, but without his usual morning
kiss. And she felt the slight; but neither spoke nor looked her chagrin.

“You were so still that I thought you were asleep when I went up stairs
last night, so I took care not to wake you by entering your room; for
you needed rest very much, little Drusa,” he said, in explanation of his
second desertion.

“Yes, Alick,” she answered, quietly; and she went on to make his coffee.

When breakfast was over there came a hurried leave-taking.

Alexander pulled on his riding-coat in great haste; drew on his gloves
and then looked at Drusilla.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “she is henceforth only like my sister;
but I should embrace my sister before leaving her to go on a journey.”

“What are you saying, Alick dear?” inquired Drusilla, who caught the
sound, but not the import of his words.

“Nothing. Good-bye, my little Drusa, my darling little Drusa,” he said,
folding her to his bosom and kissing her as no man ever kissed his
sister yet, and as he had not kissed _her_ for many weeks.

“You do love me then, after all, don’t you, Alick?” she said, in
delight.

“Love you! I think I do, little darling! But now I must tear myself from
you, Drusa. You will find in my glass drawer a roll of bank-notes
amounting to between five and six hundred dollars, for your use while I
am gone.”

“Oh, Alick, I shall never want the tenth part in so short a time as a
fortnight; and you are to be home in a fortnight, are you not, Alick?”

“Yes, yes, surely. Now then, good-bye!” he hastily exclaimed, giving her
another tight hug and long kiss.

“You will write soon, Alick?” she said, following him to the front door.

“Very soon.”

“But I shall want to write to you every day, beginning this evening.
Where shall I direct the first letter, Alick?”

“To the post-office at Richmond.”

“Then you will find one from me in Richmond the day after you get
there.”

“Yes, yes, my darling! Thank you, pet! Good-bye! Good-bye! I have not an
instant to lose,” he hurriedly exclaimed, wringing her hand and jumping
into the carriage, upon which his luggage was already placed.

Leo, who was in the driver’s seat, cracked his whip and started his
horses.

Drusilla watched the carriage out of sight, and then turned sadly and
went into the house.

Alexander drove rapidly to the town, and first to a hack stand, where he
had his luggage taken and put upon a hack. Then he sent Leo back to
Cedarwood with his carriage, and he himself got into the hack and drove
to his uncle’s hotel, where he found the old gentleman impatiently
waiting for him.

And in an hour the whole family party had started on their voyage, and
were steaming down the Potomac on their way to Richmond, where early the
next morning they arrived safely.




                             CHAPTER XXXII.
                             BRIGHT HOPES.

             One precious pearl in sorrow’s cup
               Unmelted at the bottom lay,
             To shine again, when all drunk up
               The bitterness should pass away.

             And that was hope, a fair sweet hope;
               And oh, it woke such happy dreams,
             And gave her soul such tempting scope
               For all its dearest, fondest schemes.—MOORE.


The loving little wife, the zealous little housekeeper, did not sit down
in idleness and repining while her husband was absent. Occupation was
always her great resource against melancholy.

She was, besides, too much in sympathy with all nature not to feel the
influence of the vitalizing spring season, with the reviving world
around her.

The sun was shining with a more genial splendor; the air was soft and
warm; the ground was quickening with the springing grass and the trees
with the rising sap and budding leaves. Birds were building their nests.
All things inspired thoughts of renovation.

Little Drusilla resolved to refresh her pretty wildwood home with a
spring cleaning, so that it might possess new attractions for its truant
master, when he should please to return.

Not that her house required this—for it was already as clean and sweet
as it was possible for any dwelling to be; and the process to which she
subjected it was but the washing of what was already pure, and the
polishing of what was already bright. But it was her maxim, as it had
been her mother’s before her, that things should not be permitted to
become soiled before they were cleaned; but that they should be kept
clean.

In the course of this work Drusilla opened the drawer of the
looking-glass in Alexander’s dressing-room, and while putting its
contents in order she found that little piece of paper which had
produced so strange an effect upon his feelings and actions. Thinking it
to be only some little receipt, or memorandum, she opened it and read
it.

Its effect upon her was very different from what it had been upon her
husband. As she gathered its meaning her face softened with a sweet and
tender smile, and she sat down in a chair to contemplate it at more
leisure.

“I never saw this before; or any other of the sort. How it brings back
that day! that happy wedding-day! the happiest of my life! Dear Alick!
dear, dear Alick, how blest you made me that day, in making me your own
forever! forever and ever, my love! My joy seemed too much for earth,
too much to be real. Even now, even now, I can scarcely realize how
happy I am and ought to be! Oh, my love! my love! I hope I may never
give you an uneasy moment as long as I live in this world! that I may
never cease to please and serve you all my days! Dear little token!” she
said, fondly gazing on that fatal piece of paper—“I will keep you for
his sake. When I am sad and lonely I will look at you. I will cherish
you like my wedding-ring.”

And she went directly and made a little silk bag, put the paper in it,
attached it to a ribbon, hung it around her neck and hid it in her
bosom.

Then smilingly she resumed her work.

When she considered the house thoroughly cleansed and worthy of its
summer hangings, she told Pina that crimson satin curtains should not be
put up again until autumn.

And she ordered Leo to put the horses into the carriage to take her to
town.

This was the first occasion upon which she had left home for many weeks.
And she went now upon a shopping expedition, to purchase white lace
curtains for her windows, and white linen to make summer covers for her
crimson satin chair and sofa cushions.

She spent the whole forenoon in making her selections; and then, feeling
tired and hungry, she drove to a “Ladies’ Tea Room,” where she had once
been with Alexander.

She entered and sat down at one of the little tables and asked for a cup
of chocolate and some seed cakes, which were soon brought.

While she ate and drank she looked about her with the curiosity natural
to one who had lately led so secluded a life. The room was half full of
customers. At some of the tables small family parties of parents and
children were gathered. At others ladies and gentlemen were seated. And
at the table exactly opposite to her own there were two officers and two
young women who were dining and drinking wine, laughing and talking, and
conducting themselves generally in a manner not agreeable to quiet and
well-disposed people.

Drusilla glanced at this noisy party but once, and recognized the
officers as the same who had intruded into her box on the night she went
to hear the German opera troupe. Chiefly because the party were so
ill-behaved, she was afraid to look towards them again. So she drew her
veil around between the side of her face and her obnoxious neighbors,
and she looked down into her plate.

Natural as this action was, it caught the attention of the officers;
and, innocent as it was, it gave umbrage to their female companions.

“She sees that we recognize her,” said one of the men.

And a low, derisive laugh came from one of the women.

Very much abashed, and also a little alarmed, Drusilla left her luncheon
half consumed and went to the counter to pay her bill.

But one of the officers got up and followed her, and, as she turned to
leave the room, he placed himself before her, and, lifting his hat,
said:

“How do you do, Miss?”

Drusilla bowed in silence, and attempted to pass on.

“Excuse me, but when did you reach town?”

“I beg your pardon, sir; I have not the honor of your acquaintance,”
said Drusilla, coldly, passing him by and quickly leaving the house.

But he followed her out on the sidewalk, and joining her, said:

“You ‘have not the honor of my acquaintance,’ eh? Well, the ‘honor’ is
questionable, but the acquaintance is beyond a doubt, my dear! What!
don’t you remember the night I came into the box, to chaff my friend
Lyon on his pretty little acquisition, eh? By the way, how is Lyon?”

By this time Drusilla had beckoned her servant, who drove up with the
carriage, dismounted, opened the door, and let down the steps for his
mistress.

“But you didn’t tell me how my friend Lyon is. I hope he is well. I know
he has left his rooms at the hotel. But if you will favor me with your
address, Miss—”

“Leo,” said Drusilla to her coachman, as she entered her carriage, “this
person annoys me. If you see a policeman give him in charge, and—drive
on.”

“Yes, madam,” answered the man, heartily, cracking his whip and starting
his horses.

But the animals were not fresh, and they had not been fed or watered
since morning. So they did not move with their usual spirit. And
Drusilla had not gone far up Seventh street road, on her way home,
before she perceived that she was followed by a hack that was gaining
upon her every moment.

At first she supposed this following to be accidental; but when the hack
driving rapidly, caught up to her and might have passed her, yet did
not; but, on the contrary, slackened its pace and kept just behind her;
she suspected that there was something more than accident in the matter.

And her suspicions were confirmed when she heard loud laughing and
talking in the hack, and recognized the voices of the disreputable party
who had insulted her in the tea room.

She quickly let down the little window in front of her own carriage, and
spoke to her coachman:

“Leo—drive fast.”

“Yes, ma’am, which it is necessary so to do.”

“Who are those people behind, Leo?” she breathlessly inquired.

“A intoxified set, ma’am, which is unbeknown to me; being always too
well conducted to be acquainted with sich; which I think one of um is
the person you complained of, ma’am.”

“Yes! go on quickly, for Heaven’s sake, Leo; let us leave them behind as
soon as possible,” hastily urged Drusilla.

And the young coachman put his jaded horses to their utmost speed.

But the horses in the hack were the fresher of the two sets, and they
kept well up behind her carriage until they reached the gate of the
private road leading through Cedarwood.

Here Leo drew up his carriage, left his seat, opened the gate, propped
it back, and took the reins to lead his horses through.

They had but just cleared the gate, when Drusilla put her head from the
window and said, hastily:

“Leo, stop just where you are! stop the way! Those persons are preparing
to follow us in. Tell them that they can not be permitted to do so; that
this is a very private road leading to my own house, and no farther.”

At the first word Leo had stopped the carriage, thus barring the way,
and now he turned and spoke to the man who was the ringleader of the
party, and who had now left his seat and was mounted beside the driver
on the box.

“If you please, sir, this road leads to my mist’ess’s house and no
farther on,” he said.

“Oh, we know where it leads! We are going to make a call there!” laughed
the man.

“Leo, Leo, do not let them pass, whatever you do,” breathlessly
whispered Drusilla.

“But, sir, if you please, my mist’ess don’t receive no strangers,”
expostulated the servant.

“Oh, we are not strangers! We know her very well! And we know Lyon, too!
Come, clear the way, my man, and let us pass.”

“But, sir, my mist’ess don’t see no visitors of no sort, neither
strangers nor likewise acquaintances,” urged Leo.

“But she’ll see us!” laughed the man on the box. And his laugh was
loudly echoed by his companions inside the hack.

During this controversy Drusilla had sat back in her seat, keeping as
much out of sight as possible, and only leaning forward when obliged to
speak to her servant.

And Leo had been artfully manœuvering his horses, with a purpose that
the party behind were too much confused by intoxication to detect.

“Come, my man, get out of the way, will you?”

“Yes sir, immediate!” answered Leo.

And he suddenly wheeled round the carriage, clanged to the gate, and
secured it in the face of the baffled pursuers.

Then with a loud derisive laugh, the boy sprang up into his seat and
drove off through the woods towards home.

The discomfited party in the hack sent after him a volley of oaths, that
he continued to hear until distance made them inaudible.

When they reached Cedarwood, Drusilla got out of her carriage more dead
than alive.

Pina met her and supported her into the house, while Leo gave a hasty
account of their adventure.

“Try to compose yourself, ma’am. Lor! I wouldn’t let myself be upset by
them rubbish!” said Pina as she held a glass of water to her mistress’s
lips.

“Who were they, Leo, and why did they pursue me?” inquired Drusilla,
when she was somewhat restored.

“Please, ma’am, I don’t know who they were, not being beknown to sich.
But they were all intoxified, the whole lot of ’em.”

“But why did they pursue me?”

“Well, ma’am, they was on a lark, and seen you was afeard of ’em.”

“There was more in it than that, Leo! Do you think they can get through
the gate?”

“No, ma’am; I locked it.”

“But they can get out of the carriage and climb over it.”

“No, ma’am, they’re too tipsy. They can hardly sit in their seats. The
driver is the onliest sober one in the lot, and he’ll take them away,
you may be sure, ma’am.”

“Oh, what a horrible, what a revolting set! Oh, that such creatures
should live in this world!” exclaimed Drusilla, with a shudder. And she
seemed to have forgotten all her pretty, new purchases in which she had
been so much interested.

But neither of her young servants had done so. And Pina, in haste to
bring the treasures in that she might have a sight at them, and Leo in a
hurry to get rid of them, that he might take his horses round to the
stable, went out together.

Pina returned with her arms full of parcels.

And soon Drusilla, who had laid off her bonnet, lost sight of her late
disagreeable adventure, in the pleasing occupation of displaying her
beautiful lace curtains to the admiring eyes of her handmaid.

For the next few days, mistress and maid were agreeably employed in
making up the curtains, and in cutting and fitting the white linen chair
covers.

And by Saturday evening the curtains were put up, and the chair covers
put on, and the summer decoration of the pretty wild wood home was
complete.

This brought the end of the first week of Alexander’s absence. Drusilla
was counting the days, and she knew that if he should keep his word, he
would be home by the end of another week.

She had written to him every evening, and sent the letter to the city
post-office every morning by Leo, who was also instructed to inquire for
letters for her. But as yet she had had but one from Alick, and that one
only announced his safe arrival at Richmond, and acknowledged the
receipt of her first note. Since that she had not heard from him. But
she said to herself that he was very much engaged, and could not be
expected to write to her more than once or twice a week. And so she
comforted her longing heart.

In the two weeks of Alexander’s absence, Drusilla’s health improved very
much. The reasons were obvious.

In the first place, the very tender leave he had taken of her had
revived her fainting faith in his love, while the positive promise he
had made her to return within the fortnight had given her something
certain to anticipate.

In the second she no longer sat up night after night, watching, waiting
and weeping, in fatigue, suspense, and even terror, that wore her nerves
and wasted her strength and tried her temper. She went to bed early,
slept soundly, and rose refreshed.

And in the third, she had made a discovery that filled her soul with
joy. She knew now, for it was evident, even to her ignorance and
inexperience, that she was to be blessed with the crowning blessing of
woman’s life, maternity.

Once again, on the Monday of the second week of her husband’s absence,
she made a shopping expedition into the city. And on this occasion she
shut up the house and took both her servants along—Leo to drive the
carriage and Pina to sit inside with her. She took a luncheon basket
too, that she might not be obliged to go into a refreshment room at the
risk of meeting her disagreeable acquaintances—although reason assured
her that there was not one chance in a thousand of her seeing them under
the same circumstances again.

This time Drusilla bought a quantity of fine flannel, linen, cambric,
muslin and lace, and also flaxen and silken floss and Berlin wool for
embroideries.

And Pina, who had guessed the sweet domestic mystery long before her
child-like mistress had suspected it, was as much interested in the
purchase as their owner could be. Drusilla returned home without any
unpleasant adventure. And the next day she commenced her delightful
task. And seated in her pleasant chamber, surrounded by her pretty
working materials, devising dainty little garments, and anticipating the
joys in store for her, she felt happy.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.
                              A SURPRISE.

               One struggle more and I am free
                 From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
               One long last sigh to love and thee,
                 Then back to busy life again.—BYRON.


Drusilla received no second letter from Alexander. On the day after his
arrival in Richmond, he received and answered her first one. Then he
went with his uncle and cousin down to Old Lyon Hall, where he lived
very quietly with them for about ten days, all the party resting from
their fashionable Washington campaign.

At the end of that time, in order to keep the letter of his promise to
Drusilla, he pleaded urgent business, and went up to Richmond, “for a
day or two,” as he said.

On reaching that city, he hurried to the post-office, where he found
nearly a dozen letters from Cedarwood awaiting him. He did not stop to
answer them; but took the first train to Washington, and arrived in the
capital the same afternoon.

There was plenty of time for him to have gone out to Cedarwood that
evening. But, true to his plan of never sleeping under the same roof
with Drusilla again, if he could help it, he stayed at one of the city
hotels all night.

In the morning, however, he hired a horse from a livery stable and set
out to visit his home.

That day Drusilla had also risen very early, saying to herself:

“This is the last day of the fortnight, and Alick will be home to-night.
That is to say, if nothing happens to prevent him—and surely there is
nothing likely to happen—he will keep his pledged word with me and
return to-night.”

And so she busied herself with affectionate preparations for his
arrival.

There was nothing at all else that she could do to add to the
attractions of the lovely home she had renovated and decorated for his
comfort and pleasure. But there were certain dainty dishes that always
delighted his epicurean taste; and these she had carefully prepared for
him.

When they were ready, she went up to her chamber and sat down to the
liliputian dress-making that was now the sweetest task in the world to
her.

It was still early in the forenoon, being only ten o’clock, and she was
intently engaged upon a miniature embroidered robe, when she heard the
sound of horses’ feet approaching the house.

Not expecting that Alexander would return at this unusual hour of the
day, or in this manner, and supposing that the noise arose from Leo
exercising one of the horses from the stable, she paid no attention to
the matter.

But the next moment she heard the sound of a man’s footsteps on the
stairs, and the instant after the door was thrown open and Alexander
entered the room.

With a cry of joy, she sprang up to meet him and fell upon his bosom.

“Why are you so glad to see me as all this comes to, my little Drusa?”
he asked, remorsefully.

She could not answer him. In her excess of feeling, she could not speak.
But if he had come back from an absence of two years instead of two
weeks, her delight and excitement could not have been greater.

He kissed and embraced her very fondly—“as I should if she were my
sister,” perhaps he said to himself. And then with gentle force he put
her back in her chair, and seated himself in another one near her, and
put his arm around her.

“Oh, Alick dear, I’m so glad—so glad to see you!” she cried, as soon as
she recovered her voice.

“So am I to see you, little darling, especially when I see you looking
so well. How pretty you are; how much you have improved!” he said,
running his fingers through her glossy tresses, and gazing admiringly
upon her bright face, with its flushed cheeks, parted lips, and eyes
sparkling through tears of joy.

“Oh, Alick, I am so happy to have you back again!” she eagerly repeated.

“And yet it is very plain that you haven’t moped during my absence; have
you now, little one?”

“Oh, no indeed, Alick; I have been so cheerfully busy fixing up the
place against you should come. The house looks so fresh and pretty in
its spring dress, Alick dear, I am sure you will enjoy it.”

“Not fresher or prettier than the house’s mistress, and I’m sure I shall
like both,” he said.

“Shall you, Alick? Are you sure that I shall be able to please you?”

“It will be my fault if you are not.”

“Now that the winter is over and the summer at hand, it will be
pleasanter here in the country, Alick. And the grounds around this
little place can be made very beautiful. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, little Drusa. And I intend to spare neither trouble nor expense in
making this little estate a paradise for my peri. An ideal spot it shall
be; everything shall be arranged according to your taste. The woods,
since you love them, shall environ the ornamented grounds.”

“Oh, Alick, dear! how good you are to me! But don’t sacrifice utility to
beauty for my sake, Alick.”

“Ah, Drusa! I would sacrifice a much greater thing for your sake,” he
said, with a very deep sigh.

She looked up at him suddenly.

“You are well, Alick? quite well, I hope?” were the next words she
addressed to him, as she gazed anxiously in his care-worn face.

“Not very well, little Drusa,” he answered.

And ah! who could be well with an evil conscience!

“It is—nothing serious, dear Alick?” she inquired, growing pale with
fear for his health.

“No, little goose! only spring languor and the fatigue of my journey,”
he answered, with a laugh that reassured her.

“Oh; and perhaps you have not had breakfast,” she exclaimed, hastily
rising.

“Yes, yes, I have,” he said, gayly, pushing her back in her seat. “I had
breakfast two hours ago. I don’t want that, nor do I want lunch yet, so
you need give yourself no trouble about me for awhile.”

“But would you like to go to your dressing-room? All is ready for you
there.”

“I’ll warrant; but I made my toilet where I got my breakfast, so I need
not leave you even for that purpose.”

“Your luggage, Alick, have they brought it up?”

“I have no luggage; I came out on horseback.”

“Oh, was that your horse I heard?” she inquired in surprise.

“Yes; didn’t you know it?”

“No; I thought you came in a cab.”

“I preferred the saddle.”

“But—how about your luggage, Alick dear? Shall I call Leo and order him
to take the carriage and go after it? Where did you leave it? At the
hotel where you breakfasted?”

“Oh, you inquisitive little imp! Sit down and be quiet while I tell you.
I brought very little luggage to Washington, and that I left, as you
surmise, at the hotel where I breakfasted.”

“Then let me send Leo for it. He can go and return in two hours,” she
said, again starting up.

“What a little fidget you are, to be sure! There is not the least need
to send for my things from the hotel. And if you did but know what a
little time I have to spend with you, you would not be so eager to run
away from me.”

These words had the desired effect. They prepared her to hear his cruel
announcement. She dropped into her chair, and looking at him uneasily
said:

“Oh, Alick, dear, you are not going away again, are you?”

“Yes, my child; I shall be compelled to leave you again, and very soon.
Now listen to me and be reasonable, my good little girl. I have kept my
word and come back at the time I said I would. Have I not?”

“Yes, Alick,” she answered, in a low, meek voice.

“Well, in order to keep my word with you, Drusa, I had to leave my
business and come off in a great hurry. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Alick.”

“And the state in which I left my affairs makes it absolutely necessary
for me to go back to Richmond immediately.”

“Yes, Alick dear; but you will stay with me a day or two, at least?”

“No; I came only to keep my word with you. I must go back this evening.”

“Oh, Alick!” she exclaimed in a tone full of grief, as she let her work
fall from her hands and gazed at him with a look of despair that she
could not control.

“Come, come, little Drusa, do be rational, little girl! See what an
effort I have made to keep my word with you—dropping my most important
business at a critical juncture, just to come home and see you. Now,
really, I do everything in the world I can to please you,” he said, so
earnestly that he almost persuaded even himself that he did.

“Oh, yes, Alick, you do indeed; and you always have done so. What should
I be, but for your loving kindness? A poor, desolate orphan, with no one
to care for me! You are very good to me, Alick, and you always have been
so; and I ought to be cheerful, as well as grateful, only I—cannot
always—and——”

She could say no more; her voice broke into sobs, and she dropped her
face upon her hands and wept.

“Humph, this is the thanks I get for travelling several hundred miles
express to see you. I have but a few hours to spend with you, and you
entertain me with tears! Very encouraging to me to come again, I must
say!” he angrily exclaimed.

She could not reply; her whole form was shaking with her convulsive
sobs.

He got up and walked about the room with his hands in his pockets, and
whistled an opera tune.

She tried hard to suppress her sobs and to command her voice, and when
at length she succeeded in doing so, she held out her hands imploringly
towards him, and pleaded:

“Forgive me, Alick. I could not help it, dear; indeed I could not. It
was because I loved you so. I love you so, Alick!”

“Then I wish to the Lord you didn’t love me ‘so!’ that’s all,” he
brutally exclaimed.

“Oh, Alick!” she said, still holding out her hands.

“It is a cursed bore to be loved ‘so!’” he repeated.

“Oh, Alick, you did not use to say so!”

“Perhaps I thought so, though! It’s an infernal nuisance to be loved so,
I tell you, and I’m tired of it!”

“Alick, Alick, you used to make me tell you over and over again how much
I loved you. You used to say I couldn’t love you too much, I couldn’t
even love you enough,” she murmured, dropping her pleading hands upon
her lap.

“Bosh! I must have been a great spoon in those days!”

She did not reply to this, but again covered her face and wept softly.

“Besides,” continued this moral philosopher, “such love as yours is—what
do they call it in the prayer-books?—‘inordinate affection.’ And
inordinate affection is very sinful, let me tell you, and will bring its
own punishment. Sooner or later you will suffer for it.”

“Oh, I have, I have suffered for it, have I not?”

This wail came from her unawares, and the next moment she was sorry for
having let it escape her, sorry for the feeling that prompted it; for
she could not bear even in her thoughts to blame one whom she worshipped
so madly.

“Well, if you have suffered, it is your own fault.”

“I know it, Alick—I know it; and I never meant to say that it was
yours.”

“Then what in this world is the matter with you? What do you need more
than you have? Of what do you complain?”

“Of nothing, Alick—I complain of nothing. I am out of my senses, I
think.”

“I think so too. Here you are in a position that would be envied by
hundreds—yes, by thousands, by millions of your sex, as the height of
woman’s happiness. You have a comfortable and even an elegant home; and
I mean to settle it on you also. You have a luxurious table, a splendid
wardrobe, attentive servants, horses, carriages—what in the world _can_
you want in addition to these?”

“Only a little more of my husband’s company, Alick,” she pathetically
answered.

“Bosh! You are a Christian, or you profess to be one. You read your
Bible. Why don’t you go by it? St. Paul says, ‘Having food and raiment,
be therewith content,’ or words to that effect. You have not only food
and raiment, but every comfort and luxury that money can buy. Why cannot
you be content?”

“Oh, Alick, dear, ye! I have all _money_ can buy. But there are
blessings that money cannot purchase. Oh, Alick, I could be content with
very much less of this world’s goods than your wealth has given me; I
could be happy with very little food and raiment, if only I had more of
your society.”

She was weeping softly, with her head bowed upon her hands.

He was still walking up and down the floor.

Presently she got up and met him with her hands held out.

“Do not leave me, Alick, dear—oh, do not leave again so soon. You have
made me your wife, and I have no life but in you—none, Alick, none! If
you tear me from your heart, I shall wither and die like a plant pulled
up by the roots. Oh, take me to your bosom again, for I have no life out
of you Alick—Alick—”

It was not in human nature, at least not in a young man’s nature, to
resist her beauty, her pleading; and he folded her to his heart, covered
her face with kisses, and then said:

“Little Drusa! little Drusa! oh, my dear, dear child! what a misery for
you that you should love me, wretch that I am!”

“But why, Alick? Why? It is my life—my very life! and I have no other!”

“Oh, Drusa! Drusa! Good Heaven! How is this to end! I wish from my soul
you had never had the misfortune of meeting me!”

“Oh, Alick, why do you say that?”

“I don’t know!” he groaned. Then he answered evasively—“I am utterly
unworthy of you. I cause you so much suffering.”

“But that comes of my weakness, not of your fault, dear Alick. Besides I
am happy now, very happy now that I see you love me.”

“Little Drusa, did you ever doubt that?”

“I never doubted your faith, Alick. When you have kept away from me, I
have doubted my own worthiness of your love.”

“My darling, if you were sure, entirely sure of my affection, could you
then bear that I should be absent from you a great deal?”

“No,” she answered, honestly; “I couldn’t even live, Alick. I couldn’t
live away from you, any more than a flower broken off.”

“Oh, my soul! what will become of you, child? Better with your strong
affections, better you had died in your infancy!” he muttered to
himself.

“What is the matter, Alick? What are you saying?”

“I am thinking of you. Poor child! With your nature you can never be
happy in this world.”

“Oh yes, I can, dear Alick! It takes so little to make me happy. Only
let me live with you and I ask no more of earth, or Heaven.”

“My darling, I do believe, I do believe, if all other things were
conforming, you could also make me very happy,” he said gravely and
tenderly.

“I should try so zealously to do it, Alick. I would never vex you with
weeping or moping. Because you know I never did weep for anything but
your absence; and if I might be with you I should never have cause to
weep again. If you must go back to Richmond, Alick, can’t you take me
with you? I could get ready in half an hour, or in less time. And I
wouldn’t be troublesome to you on the journey, indeed I wouldn’t, dear.
Say, will you take me?”

“My little Drusa, it is impossible. I should not be able to stop in
Richmond over twenty-four hours. I should have to go into the country
and travel from place to place, on this vexatious business. But don’t
look so despairing, darling! I will not stay a day longer than I can
help,” he said, putting her gently from his arms, and throwing himself
down into a chair beside her work-table.

She also resumed her seat. And she took up her needle-work.

“What are you amusing yourself with, little Drusa? Dressing dolls?” he
inquired, taking up and inspecting the little, embroidered robe that lay
upon her lap. “Is this for a great doll!”

“No, Alick,” she answered, while a rosy blush and tender smile of joy
and embarrassment brightened her face. “It is not for a great doll, it
is for a little angel who is coming to us soon.”

“The d—l!” exclaimed Alexander, invoking his master and guide.

She heard him and looked up hastily in surprise and pain.

“I thought you would be glad, Alick,” she said.

“Well, hem, so I——If I’m not glad, it is for your sake, Drusa,” he said,
confusedly. Then, gathering more self-control, he added: “You are very
young, little Drusa, to have the cares of maternity thrust upon you.”

“Such sweet cares, Alick—not to be known from joys.”

“But you are scarcely sixteen years old!—too young, too young, Drusa.”

“But if I was old enough to be a wife, dear, I am old enough to be a
mother.”

“You are too young to be either, little Drusa.”

“You didn’t use to think so. Oh, Alick, I thought you would be glad. I
am sorry you are not.”

And she folded her little robe up, and put it out of sight.

“It seems I cannot open my lips without wounding you, Drusa,” he
muttered, moodily.

“Don’t say that, Alick. Come, let us go down. I want to show you how
pretty the drawing-room looks. And I want to show you the young birds—I
mean the new broods of canaries, hatched since you left,” she said,
cheerfully, rising.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
                             GONE FOR GOOD.

      One hurried kiss, one last, one long embrace,
      One yearning look upon her tearful face.
      And he was gone, and like a funeral knell
      The winds still sighed—Beloved, fare thee well!—MRS. ESLING.


Suppressing all her mortification and sorrow at the cold reception her
husband had given her sweet news, Drusilla took him through the
renovated house and showed him all its new improvements.

As if to make up for the previous surliness, he admired everything he
saw and praised his little housekeeper for her taste.

Then he said he would go to the stable and look at the horses; and he
asked her to get her bonnet and come with him.

She ran up stairs, calling Pina to follow her. And while she was putting
on her thick shoes and her bonnet and mantle, she gave the girl
particular directions about the dinner. For as Mr. Lyon had so short a
time to stay, Drusilla did not wish to leave him long enough to pay a
visit to the kitchen.

Then she went down stairs and joined her husband. And they walked
together to the stable.

Everything there was found in a satisfactory condition and the horses
were in fine order. Evidently Leo had done his duty, as well as, or
better than, so young a groom could be expected to do it.

Then Drusilla invited Alexander to walk through the ground, that she
might show him the new garden she had laid out. And, as before, he
expressed delight in all he saw, and approbation of her skill as a
landscape gardener.

“You take so much pains to beautify this place, and find so much
pleasure in the task, that I hope you will be very happy here, little
Drusa,” he said, as they turned to go back to the house.

“I shall be very happy here, or anywhere else, dear Alick, when you have
got through that troublesome business and can come and stay at home with
me,” she replied.

He shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. She did not see his
questionable gesture, so she continued:

“For indeed, Alick, you and I live now more like mere acquaintances than
like a married couple. And you seem less the master of the house than
the occasional guest of the mistress.”

He laughed at this conceit, and then sighed as he replied:

“I don’t see how it can be helped, little Drusa. I wish it could be, in
some way. Heaven knows how it pains me to part with you.”

And Mr. Alick thought of Joe Smith and the Mormon Bible and wished that
one had been a true prophet and the other a divine revelation.

“Oh, dear Alick, it is selfish in me, I know, but I am glad it pains you
to part with me; and I hope it may hurt you so badly that you may not be
able to stay away,” said Drusilla, with a sweet smile.

“Ah, little Drusa! however distressing it may be to me to absent myself
from you, I must do so when duty requires the sacrifice,” sighed
Alexander, piously. Then, to change the subject, he inquired—“You have
seen nothing more of the face at the window, little Drusa?”

“No, nothing at all. But then the windows, since you left, have always
at nightfall been closed and curtained,” she answered.

“Nor heard anything of the man lurking about here?”

“No, not a word.”

“Nor gained any clue to his identity?”

“No, none.”

“Then you have not been annoyed by any such intrusion since I left you?”

“No, not by any.”

“I am very glad to hear it, little Drusa.”

As he spoke she recollected the disorderly party who had followed her
carriage from the city; and thought that truth required her to mention
the circumstance, so she added:

“Oh, Alick, yes. I didn’t write to you about it, because I knew it would
only make you anxious to no good purpose, and besides I only wished to
write you good news——”

“What now, Drusa? What is it? What have you been keeping from me, it is
very wrong for you to keep any secret from me, let me tell you,”
anxiously exclaimed Alexander, looking searchingly in her face.

“Oh, Alick, it was no secret at all. It was only a little rudeness I was
made to bear.”

“Rudeness! From whom?”

“From people who were scarcely responsible for their actions, Alick.”

“Who were they? What rudeness did they offer you?”

“You remember those officers that came into our box at the opera?”

“Yes—vagabonds! vulgar wretches! what about them?”

“They saw me in at a Ladies’ Tea Room in the city, one day when I went
shopping.”

“In a Ladies’ Tea Room! Drusilla, I am shocked that you should have gone
into such a place unattended. I am annoyed beyond measure that you
should have done so! No modest young woman, not to say lady, ever goes
alone to such a place!”

“Alick dear, it was the very room you used to take me to, whenever you
took me to the city in the first days of our marriage. And I saw ladies
there and young ladies and little girls, and even babies and nurses—and
one always feels right and safe where there are babies, you know.”

“No; I don’t know it. And besides the ladies and children you speak of
were family parties; you went _alone;_ no wonder you were insulted.
Which of the villains insulted you—or did both?”

“Neither did, Alick dear. Please don’t be angry. One of the officers
came up and spoke to me, calling me ‘Miss’ and claiming my acquaintance.
But as you had not introduced him to me I would not know him.”

“And—then?”

“I left the Tea Room and got into the carriage and drove home.”

“And was that all?”

“No; the two officers and the two women that were with them jumped into
a hack and followed me.”

“Ten thousand demons!—_Home?_” burst forth Mr. Lyon.

“Ah Alick dear, no; don’t be so violent. There was no harm done. I
wouldn’t even have mentioned the matter, only you asked me a question
that I was bound to answer truthfully,” pleaded the gentle creature.

“How far did they follow you?”

“Only to the gate of the road leading through the woods to our house—”

“To our—” Here Alexander burst into an explosion of oaths and expletives
that caused his wife to shudder with horror.

“Oh, Alick, Alick, don’t, dear! don’t! It is a sin! Oh, Alick, hush! You
frighten me so!” she pleaded almost breathlessly, clinging to his arm.

“If I catch one of those villains I will blow his brains out. If I
don’t, may the—” And here Alexander sealed his oath by invoking a
terrible imprecation on his own soul if he failed to keep it.

“Oh, my love, my dear, don’t, don’t. Heaven will never forgive you!”
wept Drusilla.

“Stop whimpering, you provoking little fool, and tell me. Did they
attempt to follow you through the gate?”

“Yes, Alick, but they couldn’t do it, because Leo closed it and locked
it—”

“Oh! let me only lay my eyes on them—that is all! If they get off with
life may I be——”

“_Hsh-sh!_ Oh, Alick, dear, this is awful!”

“Hold your tongue, and take your hand from my lips! And now, if you can
speak to some purpose, do so! How long was this ago that they dared to
pursue you?”

“About nine days since, Alick. But they scarcely knew what they were
about. Indeed they did not, Alick love!”

“Have they troubled you since?”

“No, not once. I have neither seen nor heard of them since, nor has any
one else annoyed me.”

“That is well so far. But now I am convinced that one of those villains
was identical with the spy who frightened you by looking through the
window. I wish I had not to hurry back to Richmond to-night. If I could
only remain in the city one day, I might settle accounts with these
gentlemen!”

“Oh, Alick, then for the first time I am—what I never thought I should
be—glad that you are going away so soon! Ah, my own dear husband,
absence is bitter, but not so bitter as sin and its consequences! Oh, my
dear, dear Alick, I shall pray day and night that Heaven may keep you
from blood guiltiness.”

By this time they had reached the house, which they soon entered.

But Alick did not get over his fit of fury until some hours later, when
dinner was served and he had eaten a hearty meal, and drank several
glasses of fine wine, and was luxuriating in the sedative vapors of a
real Havana.

The fragrant fumes of the good cigar did not drive Drusilla away. She
sat near him with a little piece of crochet work in her fingers.

“I want you to promise me one thing, Drusa,” said Alick, taking the weed
from his lips.

“I will promise you anything in the world,” she answered.

“I dare say! But would you perform it?”

“Yes, indeed, Alick.”

“If you could.”

“Oh, of course that is understood! Providence permitting, I will do
whatever you wish.”

“Well, the promises I wish you to make me will not be very hard to keep.
In the first place, I want you to give me your word that you will not go
into Washington unless in case of necessity.”

“You have my word for that, Alick.”

“And when obliged to go, that you will show yourself as little as
possible; that you will never recognize or speak with any acquaintance,
old or new, whom you may happen to meet.”

“I give you my word for these also, Alick.”

“And that you will never under any circumstances whatever, or to any
person whoever, give your name or address, or mine.”

“Take my word for that, too. I promise—solemnly promise to remember and
obey all your directions, Alick.”

“That is right,” he said. And he resumed his cigar, and smoked in
comfort for some minutes, and then threw away the stump, and got up,
saying:

“I must see about going.”

“Oh, Alick! So soon, dear!” she exclaimed, in dismay.

“So soon? Why, it is seven o’clock now, and the boat leaves at nine. I
have but two hours to get it.”

“Leo can drive you there easily in one hour, Alick. The horses are quite
fresh, and will go like the wind. And besides, I want you to take tea
with me before you leave,” she said, touching the bell.

“Well, I can take a cup of tea while Leo is putting the horses to the
carriage, I suppose,” he admitted, resuming his seat.

Pina came in to answer the bell.

Drusilla told her to set the table for tea. And Mr. Lyon directed her to
tell Leo to put the horses to the carriage and bring it around to the
door, and to get himself ready to drive to town.

Pina went out to obey both her orders.

“You will not be long absent this time, will you, Alick?” inquired
Drusilla.

“I do not know, Drusa; but not a day longer than is necessary,” he
evasively replied.

“But—can’t you give me some little idea, Alick, just to comfort me while
you are away? Will you be gone a week, ten days, a fortnight—or how long
do you think, dear Alick?”

“Now, Drusa, my child, you must not seek to bind me by any promise to
return at any fixed time. See how it has inconvenienced me on this
occasion, and without giving you much gratification either. Here,
because I felt bound by the promise I had given you, I was compelled to
drop my business at a most important crisis, and hurry on here just to
see you for a few hours, and then hurry back. If you had not bound me by
that promise, I _might_ possibly, by staying a few days longer in
Richmond, and putting my business in a better state of progress, have
been enabled to come and stay longer with you. But as it is, I must be
off at once. So you see the evil of binding a man to any fixed time.”

“Yes, Alick. I don’t wish to bind you to anything, dear. I will only
trust that you will come back to me as soon as you can,” she meekly
replied.

“As soon as it shall be proper to do so, I will come back,” he answered
evasively.

Pina came in and set the table, and brought in the tea service and
arranged it.

They—the faithful wife and faithless husband sat down together for the
last time at that table.

She filled his cup and handed it to him, and urged upon him the delicate
dainties that she had prepared for him.

And Alick, whose appetite seldom suffered under any circumstances,
enjoyed the luxuries of the tea-table as much as if he had not dined
sumptuously a few hours previous.

But as soon as he heard the carriage approaching the door, he got up,
went into the hall, followed by Drusilla.

Here he put on his overcoat and gloves, snatched his wife to his bosom
for one hasty embrace and adieu; then took his hat, ran out of the
house, jumped into the carriage, and ordered the coachman to drive fast
towards town.

The carriage started.

And this time Alexander was gone for good.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.
                            CRUEL TREACHERY.

             And be these juggling fiends no more believed,
             That palter with us in a double sense;
             That keep the word of promise to the ear
             And break it to the hope.—SHAKSPEARE.


Alexander had come and gone like a dream. And, in truth, his flying
visit had given his young wife little comfort. He had spent more than
half the few hours he had passed at home in grumbling.

As usual, she could not find it in her heart to blame him. To keep up
her spirits, she set about putting in order her little house that had
been somewhat disarranged by his sudden arrival and departure. In the
words of another wronged woman, she was “resigned, but not happy.”

Her days passed quietly, if not cheerfully. She occupied herself with
her small household affairs; with making up the pretty liliputian
wardrobe upon which she was engaged; with taking care of her birds; and
with gardening, walking and riding during the day.

She spent her evenings in reading and writing, or singing and playing.

She was comforted with three sweet hopes: the first was for his letters,
the second his return, and the third the arrival of the little stranger.

She arose with the earliest dawn of day, and she retired early in the
evening, and so her health continued to improve.

But day succeeded day, until a week had passed away, and still she
received no letter from her absent husband. Then she grew weary and sad.

The truth is that Alexander, with a false mercy in keeping with his
false course at this time, was putting into practice his sapient plan of
“breaking with her gradually,” which was just distilling to her, drop by
drop, the bitterness of “despised love;” inflicting on her the
intolerable torture of a slow heart-breaking.

After ten days had gone by she received a note from him; it was short,
cool and dry. He said that he had reached Richmond in safety, but had
been too busy to write before; that he was well and hoped she was; and
that he remained her affectionate—“A.” There were not half a dozen lines
in the whole letter, and Drusilla thought the writing did not look like
Alexander’s hand. But she read it over and over again, and her tears
dropped slowly down upon it as she murmured:

“‘Too busy to write’ to me—‘too busy to write.’ Oh, Alick, dear, what
sort of business would it be that could keep me from writing to you for
ten whole days? But, then, I am a woman and you are a man, and that
makes all the difference, I suppose. But, oh, my heart is so weak—so
weak, my Heavenly Father!” she cried, suddenly, in her sorrow, appealing
to the All Compassionate.

And then again she betook herself to work as an antidote to despair.

After this a heart-sickening month of silence passed away, in which she
heard no word from him. And then she got a second note, dated from some
distant village in New England, from which he wrote to tell her that he
had been travelling for the last four weeks, and he was travelling still
upon that business growing out of his father’s will; that it would be
useless for her to write to him, as he was continually moving rapidly
from place to place, and could not wait to receive her letters. His
health continued good, and he hoped that hers did. And he was ever her
friend—“A.”

This letter filled less than half a page, and the writing was even less
like Alexander’s than that of the other one had been. And Drusilla wept
bitterly over it.

“If I were not his wife, I should think he was deserting me by degrees,”
she sobbed, hitting at last the very truth.

In addition to all her other causes of distress, she had the bitterness
of knowing that he had not waited to get one of the affectionate daily
letters she had directed to him at Richmond; that they were all wasted,
like her love, because he had not even taken the trouble to tell her
that he was going to travel.

And now one word about Alexander’s duplicity, which he called
discretion. (If people could be got to call crimes by their right names,
perhaps they would not commit them.) When Alexander was at home, having
access to all Drusilla’s boxes, he secretly got possession of all the
letters he had ever written to her and he destroyed them. His first
subsequent letter was written from Richmond, to which he had come with
his uncle and cousin for a sojourn of a few days previous to setting out
with them on a tour of pleasure. His second one was from a hamlet in the
Green Mountains, where he was staying with the General and Miss Anna, in
these first warm days of July. Both letters were written in a disguised
hand, and signed only with his initial, lest they should ever be brought
up against him.

Some suspicion of his bad faith was forcing its way even into the
confiding bosom of his wife. But the heart-wasting weariness of the next
few weeks, who can tell? To keep her heart from breaking, she kept
steadily at work. Ah, work! How great is the love of our Heavenly Father
in commuting the very curse laid upon man at his fall into blessings; in
infusing into the very punishment of his sins consolation for his
suffering. For surely, in addition to its creative and productive force,
work has consoling power, since, next after religion, it is to the
desolate and wearyhearted the greatest comfort on earth.

Drusilla found it so; for, if occupation did not give her happiness, it
certainty kept her from despair. The months rolled slowly on. One of the
most distressing elements in her misery was the fact she could not even
write to her husband, not knowing where to direct her letters; and this
was farther embittered by the knowledge that he himself had cut off all
such communication between them.

Still she continued to send Leo daily to the post-office in the hope of
getting a letter from him; but week after week wore away without
bringing news of Alexander.

In the hope of hearing of him, if she could not hear from him, she wrote
and ordered the principal daily papers from all the great cities in the
north. And huge was the bundle that Leo brought every day from the news
agent in Washington.

And when she was disappointed in getting a letter, as she was always
sure to be, she would, with a morbid eagerness, carefully con over the
names in the list of arrivals at the various hotels in all the cities,
in the faint hope of seeing his name in some one of them.

But this was worse than “hunting for a needle in a haystack,” for it was
hunting for what was lost somewhere else.

Sometimes in fear and trembling she would even look over the deaths and
the casualties, in the dread of seeing his name among the victims. But
she never saw it anywhere. We could have told her, “Naught is never in
danger.” If she did not see the name of her truant husband, she saw
something else that startled her, and it was this:

  NEXT OF KIN.—If the heirs of the late Reverend Malcomb Sterling should
  see this advertisement they will please to communicate immediately
  with the undersigned, from whom they will hear something to their
  advantage.

                                                   KENT & HENEAGE,
                                   Solicitors, 33 Bar street, Baltimore.

Drusilla stared at this notice in astonishment. And then she read it
over again two or three times. _She_ was the only living representative
of the late Malcomb Sterling. Her father’s last pastoral charge had been
in Baltimore. This advertisement appeared in a Baltimore paper, and the
firm to be communicated with were Baltimore lawyers. Clearly the notice
originated with some one who had taken pains to trace her poor father’s
last abiding place, in order to advertise there for his heirs. It must,
therefore, be of considerable importance.

Her first impulse was to cut out the piece and enclose it in a letter to
her husband, that he might deal with it as he should deem proper. But
then she instantly recollected that she was ignorant of Mr. Lyon’s
address.

After a little reflection she concluded that it was her own duty to
communicate with the advertising parties.

So she sat down and wrote to the firm of Kent & Heneage, and told them
that she was the only child of the late Reverend Malcomb Sterling, by
his wife Anna.

She sent off this letter; and soon forgot all about the matter in her
all-engrossing anxiety to hear from her husband.

As before, she every day sent Leo to the post office, with orders if he
should find a letter by the first mail to hasten home with it
immediately; if not, to wait for the second mail.

On a fresh and brilliant morning of the third day after she had written
to the lawyers, Drusilla was at work in her flower-garden, when she saw
Leo galloping toward the house, and holding out at arm’s length a
letter.

The face of the boy, who had seen and understood his mistress’s daily
disappointment, was beaming with delight, as he drew rein before her,
sprang from his saddle, and handed her the letter.

She seized it eagerly, believing it to be from her husband, and
exclaimed in her joy:

“Oh, thank you, Leo! At last—at last! Oh, I’m so glad!”

“’Deed, so am I, ma’am—glad as if I’d had a fortin left me,” answered
the boy, showing in every tone and look as much sympathy as he could
combine with very much respect, “which it is from master, ma’am, and I
hope he is well?”

But the little lady’s face had fallen. The letter was not from her
beloved husband, announcing his speedy arrival. It was only from the
firm of Kent & Heneage, and it _only_ informed her of her inheritance of
a vast estate, by the decease of a bachelor great-uncle, who was a
merchant of San Francisco with a corresponding house in Baltimore, and
who had recently died intestate in the first mentioned city.

This news would have made some women very happy. But not Drusilla. The
reaction with her was great. Tears of disappointment swelled her
eyelids, and dropped upon the open page.

Leo, who was watching her in reverential interest, seeing her tears, now
spoke:

“I hope nothing is amiss with master, ma’am!”

“No—I don’t know. Oh, Leo! it is not from your master; it is nothing but
a mere business letter from a lawyer!” said the little lady, with a
sigh.

“Is that all, ma’am?” responded the boy in a disappointed tone.

“All, Leo,” his mistress answered, as she turned sadly towards the
house.

She did not care a farthing for the death or the inheritance of the old
bachelor uncle, of whom she had not heard mention made more than three
times in her life, and who, while he was rolling in wealth, had left her
dying father, her mother and herself to suffer the bitterest pains of
poverty.

She neglected to answer the lawyer’s letter, and gave herself up to
grief and anxiety about her careless but still beloved husband, until a
week had passed away, when she received another, and a very urgent
letter from Messrs. Kent & Heneage, asking to hear from her by return
mail.

This one she immediately answered. And this was the beginning of a long
epistolary correspondence between Drusilla and Kent & Heneage of
Baltimore, and Speight & Wright of San Francisco. In the course of this
correspondence the heiress learned that both those legal firms had been
the solicitors of her uncle, the millionaire, and that the first had
managed his business in Baltimore, and the last in San Francisco; that
the whole estate, comprising the property in both cities, was estimated
at three millions of dollars, and consisted in warehouses, shipping
goods, and bank stock. But she was also advised that she would be
required to prove her identity, and establish every link in the chain of
evidence that connected her with her uncle before she could take
possession of the property. And Messrs. Kent & Heneage tendered her the
help of all their legal skill, learning and experience, in establishing
her claims.

Young as she was, Drusilla saw at once that there would be no difficulty
in proving herself the lawful heiress of the deceased Crœsus. So she
wrote to the lawyers that the genealogical line to be traced was very
plain, short and straight; that every point in its progress could be
proved by church registers, court records, private letters, and personal
friends.

Then the firm wrote to her requesting a personal interview, and offering
either to receive her at their office in Baltimore, or to visit her at
her own home in Washington.

And here arose Drusilla’s first difficulty. She had dated her letters,
not from Cedarwood, but simply from Washington City, and though she had
signed them Drusilla Sterling Lyon, she had not said one word about her
state as a married woman, thus unconsciously leaving it to be assumed
that she was a widow, acting upon her own responsibility. She could not
write of her marriage, because it had been her husband’s will that it
should be kept secret from all but the faithful servants who were in
their confidence. And for this cause, also, she could neither visit the
lawyers at their office, nor receive them at her house. She was puzzled
how to act.

“Oh, Alick, Alick, dear,” she sighed, as she read over again the
lawyer’s letter; “Oh, Alick, darling, how your long absence and this
forced secrecy does constantly compromise me. I find myself in a cruelly
false position. What shall I do now? Wait till I see you before I take
another step in this matter? That is what I must do.”

And she sat down and wrote to Messrs. Kent & Heneage, telling them that
it was not just at present convenient for her to leave home, or to
receive visitors, but that she hoped it might be so in a few weeks.

“And this looks very like a subterfuge,” she said to herself as she
revised her own lines. “And what will they think of me for putting them
off in this foolish way? Think me an impostor as likely as not. And who
can wonder if they do? Oh, Alick! Alick!”

She sent her letter off, and for a week or ten days, she heard no more
of her legal friends. This correspondence, embarrassing as it was to
her, and difficult as it was for her to manage, upon account of her
false position as a secretly wedded wife, had nevertheless done her
good, in distracting her thoughts from the intense grief and anxiety she
had suffered from the long absence and total silence of her husband.

Meanwhile, the summer wore wearily away. On the first of September, she
received another letter from her new legal acquaintances, praying her no
longer to neglect so important a manner as the establishment of her
claims to the heirship of the great Sterling property.

Amid painful feelings of shame that she might not speak out plainly,
that she must be secretive and seem deceitful, she penned a reply,
asking the lawyer’s pardon for having appeared neglectful; beseeching
them yet to have a little patience with her; telling them that
circumstances which she could not at present command, precluded her from
proceeding farther in this matter; but expressing an earnest hope that
in a short time she might be able to do so. She begged to assure them
that as she was truly the lawful heiress of her deceased uncle, Charles
Sterling, being the only surviving descendant of his only brother, and
he having left no other kindred, so her claim to the estate could not
fail to be established; and that when it should be, she begged them to
believe, that they should find that their time and labor, and kind
interest in her affairs, had not been thrown away.

There was a simple, earnest truthfulness and good feeling in this other
mystifying letter, that must have carried conviction of the writer’s
good faith even to the unbelieving legal mind. For within three days,
Drusilla received an answer from the firm, saying that they regretted
the delay upon her own account, but would wait her pleasure and
convenience.

And so this correspondence ceased for the time being.

September passed slowly away, without bringing any letter from Mr. Lyon.
And oh, in what weariness, heaviness, sorrow and soreness of heart, it
passed with the young neglected wife, who can describe, or even imagine?
She was almost dying of hope deferred. A fatal suspicion of her
husband’s falsehood was slowly, but surely, eating its way into her
heart and life. And still the bitterest element in her sorrow was the
fact that she could make no appeal to any remaining tenderness he might
have for her, not even knowing where to write to him.

October came, and then,—

            “When hope was coldest, and despair most deep,”

a letter arrived from Alexander. She was that evening sitting and
shivering, not from cold, but from nervousness, over a bright little
fire in her dressing-room, when Pina ran in, without the ceremony of
rapping, and exclaimed, breathlessly:

“It’s Leo, ma’am, which he’s just brung a letter from the post-office,
as he says must be from master, because it’s got Richmond printed onto
it, and he can read print, though not writing. And he says how he’ll
bring the letter in and put it into your hands himself, and here he is—”

Before Pina had finished half her speech, Drusilla had jumped up and run
to meet Leo.

As he entered the room, with his face beaming with pleasure, she
snatched the letter from his grasp, tore it open and devoured its
contents.

Ah! poor child! little comfort that long-looked for letter brought her.
It was shorter, drier and colder than any that had gone before it.
Alexander vouchsafed not one word of excuse for his long silence. He
announced his arrival at Richmond; and told her that he could not with
propriety pay her a visit that autumn, for reasons that he would explain
to her in a subsequent letter; he hoped that she was in as good health
and spirits as he begged to assure her that he himself was; and he
subscribed himself her friend and well-wisher, “A.”

Drusilla dropped the letter, and burst into a passion of sobs and tears,
that much alarmed her loving servants.

They thought no less than that their master had met with a fatal
accident, or was smitten with a deathly disorder, if he was not already
dead and buried.

They tried to help and comfort her.

Leo went and brought her a glass of ice-water.

Pina poured some Florida water upon a handkerchief and offered her,
saying caressingly:

“Oh, mist’ess, dear, don’t take on so. It’s the Lord’s will, you know.”

“It is NOT, Pina! The sin of man is NOT the will of God!” passionately
broke forth the long-suffering soul.

“Oh, mist’ess, dear, ’scuse me. I didn’t know ’twas sin. I thought ’twas
only sickness, or something.”

“I—hush!—I spoke hastily—I spoke without thinking. There, Pina, that
will do. Thank you, child. Go, leave me now; I am better by myself; _do_
go. Leo, take her away,” with difficulty gasped Drusilla.

And when she had got her servants out of the room and bolted the door,
she threw herself into her chair and gave free vent to the suppressed
sobs and tears that had been nearly choking her.

“Oh, what a letter to write me! After such a long and cruel silence too!
Cannot pay me a visit this autumn! ‘_Pay me a visit!_’ What does he mean
by that? This is his home and I am his wife. And he signs himself my
friend and well-wisher. ‘_Friend and well-wisher!_’ And no more than
that? Why he is my husband! Oh, _what_ does he mean by this cruel
letter?” she cried, with streaming eyes and heaving breast.

Then she drew from her bosom the small black silk bag, took from it the
piece of paper of which mention has already made, read it through her
tear-dimmed eyes, then kissed and replaced it, saying:

“If it was not for this precious little document, I should think he
meant to abandon me. I should fear that I was not his wife. I should
fear I had been fooled by a false marriage. But this bit of paper proves
that I am truly his lawful wife—though he treats me more like a—Ah,
Heaven forgive him! I am very glad I found this little document. It
reassures me when I doubt. And this great grief so clouds my mind that I
suppose I can’t help doubting, even when such doubt is mere madness. But
I have the paper, and ‘seeing is believing,’” she sighed.

Ah! how little the poor young creature knew that the document upon which
she founded her faith in the indissoluble legality of her marriage was
the very same upon which Alexander Lyon, her husband, based his belief
in his freedom from matrimonial bonds.

But this is a mystery.

As soon as she had recovered some degree of composure, she availed
herself of her knowledge of his address to write to him the first letter
she had been able to send him in some months. In this letter so entirely
was she taken up by her love and her sorrow, that she utterly forgot to
mention the enormous fortune that had been left her. She wrote him a
long, earnest, impassioned appeal, praying him by the love he once bore
her, and by the love that she must ever bear him, since it was the life
of her life, to come to her, if only for a little while; she said,
pathetically, that she would never ask it again.

“Oh, these words are cold and lifeless,” she wrote. “But if you were
here, my soul would find some means of reaching yours. My lips and my
eyes and my hands would show you that they only live when they meet
yours. Oh, come home! I die, Alick! I die! Come and save me! Come, if
only for a little while. Oh, my beloved, my whole heart and soul and
life goes out in this cry—_Come home!_”




                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
                                 AGONY.

           _The peace that others seek they find;
           The heaviest storms not longest last;
           Heaven grants even to the guilty mind,
           An amnesty for what is past.
           I only pray to know the worst,
           And wish, as if my heart would burst._—WORDSWORTH.


As before, day after day passed slowly and sadly over the head of the
young forsaken wife. The golden month of October was declining towards
its close, and still she received no letter from her husband in answer
to her last impassioned appeal.

She wrote again and again; but with no better success. How he must have
steeled his breast against her to resist the pleading of her letters,
where every word seemed a tear of blood wrung from her crushed and
bleeding heart. But most likely he did not even trust himself to read
them.

In this agony of suspense, she must have either maddened or died, but
for the “little angel” she expected; for it is scarcely possible for the
mother of an unborn babe, even under the greatest trials and heaviest
sorrows, either to lose her reason, or break her heart. In making ready
for the little one, and in looking for its coming, she found an antidote
against despair.

But her moods, of course, varied with the state of her nerves. There
were times in which she hoped, when her hour should come, that both she
and her babe might be permitted to die, and go to their eternal rest.

“Where I shall never trouble him more; or, perhaps regret him, either,
though this is doubtful. Oh, Alick! Alick!” she would exclaim, with a
burst of tears and sobs.

But these miserable spells of despondency she always repented as sins.
And she, afterwards, prayed that her babe might live, and that she might
be forgiven, and spared and strengthened to raise it.

She was so young and inexperienced that she did not know when to count
upon the advent of the little stranger; but she felt sure that the time
could not be far off.

It was in the last days of October, that she received another letter
from her recreant husband. She was standing at the window of her
bed-chamber, watching for the arrival of Leo from the post-office, as
she had watched for so many days, when she saw the boy riding towards
the house.

She tapped on the glass panes to attract his attention; and he heard
her, and he pulled a letter from his pocket, and held it up to view as
he struck the spurs to his horse’s flanks and dashed rapidly up to the
door.

She rushed down to meet him, and snatched the letter.

“From Richmond, madam,” he said; “which I hope master is well, and is
coming home.”

“Yes, from Richmond,” she said, tearing the envelope open, and beginning
to run her eyes over it, as she went back to her room and sank into her
resting chair. For the poor young wife and expectant mother could not
now rush about and excite herself with impunity.

She sank, faint, dizzy and breathless, into her chair, and tried to read
her letter; but the words ran together, and the lines reeled before her
eyes; and some minutes passed before she was sufficiently recovered and
calmed to do so. And as she gathered the meaning of this most cruel of
all his heartless letters, her pale face grew paler still, her breath
came in short gasps, and her frame shook as with an ague fit.

Before she had quite finished reading it, she let it drop from her
hands, threw up her arms, and, with a piercing shriek, fell forward to
the floor.

And well she might.

This murderous letter Alexander had sent to his wronged wife as a _coup
de grace_.

In it he told her that humanity had induced him to prepare her, by a
long abstinence from her society, for the painful communication he was
about to make. He dared to hope that by this time she must have seen
that there was something wrong in their union, and some good cause other
than he had before stated for his keeping away from her. He said that
now he believed she was ready to learn, without a great shock, which he
had studied to spare her, the true cause of his parting from her. He
then went on to tell her that early in the month of March he had
discovered, to his own great astonishment, that their union was utterly
null, void, and illegal; that he could not find it in his heart at that
time to shock her with the fatal news; but he made up his mind to
prepare her for it by degrees, and finally to break it to her very
slowly. He begged to remind her that since the day upon which he had
made the discovery of the unlawfulness of their connection he had never
wronged her by intruding into her private apartments, or treating her
otherwise than with the reserve due to a lady and the affection owed to
a sister. He repeated that he had tried to spare her pain in the
breaking of this tie, the severance of which was as distressing to him
as it could possibly be to her. He assured her that, though duty forbade
him ever to see her face again, he should provide for her future
welfare, by securing to her the little estate upon which she lived. He
concluded by telling her, that as propriety required all possible
intercourse, even by writing, to cease between them, and as he himself
was about to leave town for the country, it would be useless for her to
reply to his letter.

It is to be noted that in this cruel communication he took care to say
no more than was absolutely necessary to quell and quiet her claims on
him. He did not even call her by name, but addressed her as “my poor
little friend.” He did not acknowledge the receipt of any of her
letters. And, worse than all, he failed to specify the cause of the
alleged illegality of their marriage—whether it had chanced in any
informality of the ceremony, which might be remedied by a second and
more careful solemnization of the rites; or whether it existed in the
shape of some insurmountable impediment that must forbid their union.
Nor did he venture to allude to his former betrothal and his approaching
wedding with his cousin Anna. Indeed, all proper names of persons and
places seemed studiously left out. The writing also, was in a disguised
hand, and without date or signature.

Altogether it was a careful work of a cautious man, who would have been
an astute villain and a successful schemer if he had not, in the
blindness of his selfishness, overreached even himself.

It bore no internal signs of the writer or of the person to whom it was
written. It might have been sent by another man to another woman. It
could never be successfully produced in evidence against any one in any
court.

But if he took this precaution with the idea that his deeply wronged
wife could ever drag her domestic sorrows before a public tribunal, and
expose his private letters for her own vindication, he had studied her
character to very little purpose.

The blow he had dealt had well nigh proved her death stroke. It struck
her to the floor. Her cry and her fall aroused her servants, who came
running to her room in haste. They found her stretched in a swoon on the
carpet, with the open letter beside her.

“Master’s dead now, for sure!” exclaimed Leo, in consternation.

“And no harm done if he is!” cried Pina, who had, with her woman’s wit,
long ago detected the bad faith.

“But it’s killed mist’ess!” groaned the boy.

“It hain’t! it’s only overcome her like! Help me to get her up, and
don’t stand there blubbering!” said the girl.

Between them they tenderly lifted their mistress and laid her on her
bed.

“Now, Leo, you go out and stop in the passage, so as to be in calling
distance if I want anything. And leave me alone with my madam. I’ve seen
her in these here fainty fits before, and I know what to do with her.
Come, now!” impatiently exclaimed Pina, seeing that her brother still
lingered, “be off with you, will you? It ain’t no ways proper for you to
be looking on while I’m unloosening of her clothes!”

This hint drove the boy in haste from the room.

Pina proceeded to undress her mistress, turning her about very gently on
the bed, until she had freed all her fastenings so as to give her lungs
the fullest play. Then she applied the usual potent stimulants, and
after much patient effort, she had the pleasure of seeing the little
lady open her eyes.

But Drusilla recovered her senses only to fall into the most violent
paroxysms of grief and despair. Convulsive sobs shook her whole frame;
bitter groans burst from her lips; tears gushed in torrents from her
eyes. As her passion of grief arose, she wrung her hands, and writhed,
and threw herself from side to side, moaning piteously. Then in her
frenzy of despair, she sprang up and began walking about the room,
striking her hands together, and uttering piercing cries.

In truth, hers was not a mute grief. Your “silent sorrow” belongs to a
little later period of life, when years have taught the sufferer such
resignation that she will “die and make no sign.” But on this stricken
young wife a blow had fallen, heavy enough to crush the strongest woman,
while she was yet little more than a child. And she felt it with all a
child’s intense sensibility, and she grieved with a child’s excessive
vehemence.

Vainly her maid tried to restrain her or to comfort her, Pina followed
her mistress up and down the room, weeping for company, and pleading
with her—

“Oh, mist’ess darling, don’t take on so dreadful! Don’t mist’ess, that’s
a dear! Oh, what has happened? Tell your true servant, who never left
you but only once, and never will do so wicked an act again, never, if
there’s twenty robbers in the house. Oh, mist’ess, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, girl, girl, he has left me, he has left me forever,” cried the poor
young wife, with another gush of tears.

And it showed how utterly abject and self-abandoned she was in her
profound and terrible sorrow, when she could forget her dignity, and
make complaint in the presence of her youthful servant.

“He has left me, Pina! Oh, he has left me forever!” she repeated,
wringing her hands and sobbing violently. “He has gone, he has gone for
good!”

“Blest if I don’t think it _is_ for good! and a good riddance of
uncommon bad rubbish!” grumbled the girl in a low voice; but she did not
dare to let her words be heard.

“Oh, what shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?” cried the wretched wife,
walking wildly about the room and wringing her hands. “He has left me
forever! forever and ever!”

“Don’t you believe one word of that, ma’am, now, don’t, that’s a dear
lady! Lors, he wouldn’t have the heart! he couldn’t stay away from you
forever, no, not if he was to try to ever so hard,” said Pina,
soothingly, as she followed her mistress.

“But he says so himself! he says so!” exclaimed Drusilla, with a
passionate burst of weeping.

“Well, he says so, and maybe he thinks so, but he can’t do it. It’s only
because some wicked woman has got the whip hand of him now. But lor
bless you, _that_ can’t last. All men is fools, ma’am. I know that much,
if I don’t know any more. But lor! the foolishest of ’em knows gold from
brass, and is sure to come back to the old love and the true love, for
their _own_ interests. Goodness knows they never does anything for ours!
He’ll come back, ma’am! Bad pennies always does.”

“Oh,” moaned Drusilla, “how low I have fallen! how low, to say what I
have said, and to hear what I have heard! Pina, my girl, hush. You must
not speak of your master in this manner, especially in my presence. It
is untrue of him and disrespectful to us both,” she added, as calmly as
she could force herself to speak, as she dropped into her resting chair.

This was but a short lull in the storm of her grief; for presently, the
keen sense of her husband’s desertion and her own desolation, pierced
her heart, and she fell into a fresh paroxysm of sobs and tears, and
leaving her chair, walked distractedly about the room, raving and
wringing her hands as before.

Pina went to her and threw her arms around her, saying:

“Oh, mist’ess, mist’ess, don’t do so! You’ll kill yourself and kill your
child!”

“Better I were dead! better my child should never be born!” cried the
frantic woman, abandoning herself to the wildest excesses of despair.

“Oh, mist’ess, don’t say so! and don’t rave so! If you have no pity for
yourself, have some for the poor little blind and breathless baby that
depends on you for its life; and don’t kill it before it has even a soul
to be saved!” pleaded Pina, touching the most sensitive chord in the
mother’s heart and in the Christian conscience.

“Give me something! Give me something to benumb this keen pang, then.
Give me opium! Give me anything that will dull my heart and brain
without doing harm,” she demanded, sitting down in her chair, and making
a great effort to control the violence of her emotions.

Pina mixed a composing draught of tincture of valerian and water and
brought it to her mistress.

Drusilla drank it, and its effect upon her sensitive system was
instantaneous and powerful. Though her eyes still streamed with tears,
the convulsive heavings of her bosom subsided, and she became
comparatively calm.

“Now, mist’ess, darlin’, you just let me help you to bed and you lay
still and keep quiet. And I will darken the room and sit by you. And may
be you will go to sleep and then you will be better.”

And Drusilla, docile as a child now, suffered her maid to put her to
bed.

While the girl was smoothing the white counterpane and making everything
tidy about the dainty couch, Drusilla suddenly put her hand to her
throat and with a frightened look cried out:

“Where—where is—?”

“Oh, you mean the little black silk bag, ma’am, that was tied around you
neck?” inquired Pina.

“Yes! yes! where is it?”

“I took it off when I undressed you, while you were in your fainty fit.”

“Where did you put it?”

“In your upper bureau drawer, ma’am, where it is quite safe.”

“Oh, Pina, bring it back to me directly.”

The girl obeyed.

“Is it a relic, ma’am?” inquired Pina.

“Yes,” answered her mistress. And so it was, though not of the sort Pina
was thinking of.

“Oh, I beg pardon—I didn’t know, ma’am.”

“And now, Pina, no matter how ill I may become, you must never let this
be removed from my bosom again. It is more precious to me than anything
I have in the world except my Bible and my wedding-ring,” said Drusilla,
as she fastened the treasure around her neck.

“Indeed, ma’am! Then I will be very careful not to have it removed. Now
try to compose yourself, ma’am,” said Pina, as she proceeded to close
the shutters and draw the curtains to darken the room.

Drusilla complied with this good advice, and folding her hands as if in
prayer, lay very quietly.

Pina went to the chamber door and spoke to Leo, who had remained on duty
in the passage for some hours. She told him that their mistress was now
better, and that he might go down stairs and look after his own affairs,
and that she would call him if his services should be needed.

Leo, glad to hear of the little lady’s improvement, glad also to be
relieved from duty, hurried down into the kitchen to look for something
to eat, of which he stood greatly in need, not having broken his fast
since he went to the post-office in the morning.

Pina took her place by her mistress’s bed, and patiently watched there.

Night deepened; but the girl lighted no lamp, finding the subdued glow
of the low wood-fire on the hearth sufficient to see by.

Drusilla lay so motionless that Pina thought she slept. But by bending
down and looking attentively at the supposed sleeper, the watcher saw
that her lips were moving as in silent prayer. And soon deep sighs arose
from the sufferer’s bosom, and large tears rolled down her face. She was
awake and weeping.

Pina silently arose and mixed another dose of the beneficial composing
draught, and brought it to the bedside.

Drusilla drank it. And soon after she fell asleep. And the youthful
watcher, with her heavy head dropped upon the side of the bed, also
slept well.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
                               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.




                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
                          HOPING AGAINST HOPE.

             ’Tis hard, so young—so young as I am still,
               To feel forevermore from life depart
             All that can flatter the poor human will,
                   Or fill the heart.

             Yet there was nothing in that sweet and brief.
               And perished intercourse, now closed to me,
             To add one thought unto my bitterest grief
                   Upbraiding thee.      —OWEN MEREDITH.


It would be too painful to follow the young and deeply wronged wife
through the first weeks of her great trouble.

They were passed in paroxysms of vehement and inconsolable sorrow,
alternating with periods of dull stupor, partly the result of reaction
from high excitement, and partly the influence of the nervine sedative
administered by her nurse.

The course pursued by this woman in the treatment of her young patient
was upon the whole very judicious. She did not lecture her on the
subject of her inordinate abandonment to grief and despair. But she
artfully drew her attention away from the contemplation of her troubles,
to the consideration of those last and most important preparations for
the arrival of the little expected stranger, in which mothers and nurses
usually find such absorbing interest.

She amused the youthful matron with certain necessary alterations in the
arrangements of her chamber, with fitting up of an adjoining room as a
nursery, with the decorating and furnishing of an infant’s basket, and a
berceaunette or wicker cradle, and with the arranging of the liliputian
wardrobe in a beautiful miniature bureau.

In these natural and pleasing occupations, Drusilla found some relief
from her heavy sorrow.

The late October weather was glorious with all the gorgeous splendor of
the Indian summer, glowing through the heavens and the earth, and
kindling up the foliage around the wildwood home with a beauty and
refulgence of color, richer and brighter than those of spring or summer.

With the advice of the nurse, Drusilla every morning took a short drive
through the woods, and every afternoon a slow saunter into the flower
garden.

Under happier auspices, this child of nature would have derived much
enjoyment from the season and the scene. Even in her misery she felt
something of their soothing and cheering influence.

And the beneficial effect of this course was soon apparent in her. Her
paroxysms of grief became less frequent and violent. Her nerves grew
calmer, and her brain clearer. With this healthy reaction came
reflection. She thought upon the fixed past, the troubled present, and
the doubtful future.

She now exonerated Alexander of all blame in his cruel neglect of her.
He thought, she mused, that their marriage was illegal, and therefore he
was just in his avoidance of her. He knew that the separation would go
near to kill her, and therefore he was merciful in gently loosening the
tie, instead of suddenly wrenching it apart. He felt that loving and
tender letters would but melt and weaken her heart, and therefore he was
wise in writing shortly and coldly. No doubt he suffered—poor Alick! as
much as she did, though he would not add to her distress by telling her
so. He had loved her so much! so much! and now he was heroic in his
self-restraint for her sake! So she justified him to her own heart. For
to honor him was with her even a greater necessity than to love him.

But she wondered that he did not tell her the reason why he thought his
marriage with her was illegal. And more than all she wondered what that
untold reason could be. Her conjectures wandered over every possible and
impossible theory of the case:

First, that Alexander while at college, or while in Europe, had
contracted a secret marriage; that when he wedded her he believed
himself a widower; and that he had recently discovered the existence of
his first wife. But this theory was no sooner conceived than rejected;
for she remembered that he had been solemnly betrothed to his Cousin
Anna from her earliest youth, and that upon his return from Europe he
had been about to marry her, when the wedding was arrested by the death
of his father.

Secondly, that this very pre-contract to Anna Lyon, might have rendered
his marriage with her (Drusilla) illegal. But this was also set aside as
unreasonable, for she recollected that the contract had been broken by
Miss Lyon, as he himself had assured his bride.

Thirdly, that Alexander had discovered some very near blood relationship
between himself and his wife that made their union unlawful. But this
was at once repudiated as quite impossible, for she knew his genealogy,
as well as her own, could be too distinctly and too far traced to admit
of such an idea.

So imagination traversed the whole field of possibility and
impossibility, and found nothing to invalidate her marriage.

Then she came to this conclusion: (and in it her instinct sided with her
reason)—that there never had existed any sort of impediment to her union
with her husband, and her marriage was perfectly lawful and righteous.

And _now_ did she blame him?

Oh no! she ascribed his whole conduct to——

MONOMANIA!

And when she found this answer to her inexplicable riddle, she could
have sung and danced for joy!

Her marriage was not illegal; it was only private. And her adored
husband was not faithless; he was only mistaken.

She had been told of monomania—she had heard how men might be a little
insane for a time upon one single subject, while perfectly sane upon all
others. She knew also that this was not a dangerous type of madness, but
was often only the transient effects of fever, passing off with
returning health. She wondered whether he had been ill.

Under this view of the case, she resolved to write to him. True, he had
forbidden her to do so; and even assured her it would be useless for her
to write, as he was about to leave Richmond for a tour through the
counties.

But she reflected he must have left directions at the Richmond
post-office to have his letters forwarded to him wherever he should be,
and her letter directed to Richmond would be sent after him with the
rest of his correspondents’.

So she sat down and wrote him a letter—patient, loving, pitiful, and
even cheerful; gravely reasoning with him upon the fallacy of his idea
that their marriage could possibly be unlawful; playfully inviting him
to return that she might convince him how very righteous and legal their
union was; then tenderly pleading with him to come and be with her in
her approaching hour of trial and danger. She said no word, dropped no
hint of the bitter anguish his letter had inflicted upon her, of how
nearly her brain had been crazed, her heart broken, and her life lost in
despair. Nothing that could possibly distress him did she write; but all
she could think of to convince, comfort and cheer him. And she prayed
Heaven to bless him; and she signed herself his true wife, for time and
for eternity.

When she had sent off this letter, which she did early on a splendid
morning of the last days of Indian summer, she felt so hopeful and so
light-hearted, that she longed for a pleasant gossip with some one. So
she rang for her old nurse.

“Well, honey! gracious knows it does me good to see you so chirping!”
said the old woman, dropping cozily into a soft, low chair by the fire.

“Nurse,” said Drusilla, cautiously approaching the subject that now
occupied her thoughts—for she was determined to keep her husband’s name
out of the question—“nurse, in all your professional experience did you
ever encounter monomaniacs?”

“’Count—_which_, honey? ‘Many money knacks?’ What’s that? tricks to make
money? No, child, I can’t say as I ever did.”

“I meant to ask,” said Drusilla, smiling, “if in all your tending of the
sick in these many years you ever met with anybody who was mad on one
subject only and sane on all others.”

“Cracked in one place? Yes, child, many and many a one.”

“Tell me about them.”

“There was young Rowse Jordan—I mean young Mr. Rowsby Jordan. He had
typhoid fever, and after he got well for ever so long he fancyfied
himself to be a coffee-pot and sat roosted upon the top of the table
with one arm curved around for a handle and the other stuck out straight
for a spout.”

“How long did the hallucination last?”

“The—hally—which, honey?”

“Tut! How long did he fancy himself a tea-pot?”

“Coffee-pot, honey—it was coffee-pot.—Oh, for days and days.”

“Did he get quite well again?”

“Oh yes, honey, and laughs now at his mad notion, for he ’members all
about it.”

“Tell me some more.”

“Well, there was a lady patient of my own who would have it her legs was
made of glass, and she kept them propped up against the wall behind the
bed and wouldn’t let anybody come near for fear of breaking of ’em.”

“Was her head right on other things?”

“As right as yours or mine.”

“And she got over it?”

“Yes, when she got well.”

“Nurse, tell me—When a person is mad upon one subject, it is no sign
that his mind is unsound, is it?”

“When his brain pan is cracked in one place, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Hi, honey, if a bowl leaks anywheres you can’t call it whole, can you?”

“Certainly not.”

“Well, then, no more can’t you call a man’s brain pan sound if it’s
cracked ever so little,” argued the old woman.

“But they get over it. You have proved to me that they get over it,”
said Drusilla, anxiously.

“Oh yes, they get over it. Bowls and brain pans both may be mended.”

“Nurse, such a monomania is only a temporary affair, like the delirium
of fever, is it not? It leaves no after ill effects upon the mind, does
it?” she eagerly inquired.

Mammy, who did not quite understand the question, but perceived that her
patient was, for some reason or other unknown to her, troubled upon this
subject, hastened to soothe her by replying:

“Lors, no, indeed, honey—not the leastest bit in the world. ’Taint
nothink, honey, only somethink to laugh at when it’s all over.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that,” said Drusilla, with a sigh of relief.

“And now, honey, if you’ll scuse me, I’ll go down in the kitchen and see
arter the chicking jelly for your dinner. I know as how that gal, Pina
’ll spile it if I leaves it to her.”

“Very well, nurse, go.”

“And I ’vises of you, ma’am, to put on your hat and go for a walk in the
garden. It’s right to go out and joy these fine days, which few of ’em
will be left for this season, and if there was you wouldn’t be likely to
get the good of ’em.”

“Thanks, nurse, I think I will take your advice.”

And mammy went down to her fancy cooking.

And mammy’s young patient put on her hat and cloak, caught up a little
hand-basket and went out and took a turn in the garden among the broad
parterres of gorgeous autumn flowers that studded the spacious lawn in
front of the house. She amused herself with carefully gathering the
falling seed and tying up each sort in a separate paper, and putting it
in her little basket, for future use.




                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
                      DICK HAMMOND IS ASTONISHED.

  A party of friends, all light-hearted and gay,
    At a certain French cafe, where every one goes,
  Are met in a well-curtained, warm CABINET,
    Overlooking a street there, which every one knows.

  The dinner is done, the Lafitte in its basket,
    The champagne in its cooler is passed in gay haste;
  Whatever you wish for, you have but to ask it;
    Here are coffee, cigars and liqueurs, to your taste.—O. MEREDITH.


While the young, forsaken wife was occupying her lonely hours with these
simple pursuits, and waiting from day to day to hear from her faithless
husband, and hoping against hope to see him, events were transpiring in
Washington calculated to have an important influence on her destiny.
They were but trifles in themselves, however momentous in their effects.
They were only a few bachelors’ wine suppers, card parties, and such
like means of ruin. But that fate hangs upon trifles, is a truth as old
as the history of Eden lost for an apple.

This was the way of it:

After Mr. Richard Hammond had received his final dismissal from Miss
Anna Lyon, “that unlucky dog,” as his uncle called him, “fell among
thieves.”

FELL AMONG THIEVES. That is the best way to characterize his misfortune
in sinking again into the society of that dissipated set of men who ate
his dinners, drank his wines, won his money, demoralized his habits and
destroyed his reputation.

On a certain evening about this time, poor Dick entertained a few of his
“friends” at supper in his rooms, at one of our fashionable hotels.

Among his guests were Captain Reding and Lieutenant Harpe, those two
gallant officers of the Loafers’ Guard, who had once affronted Alexander
Lyon by obtruding themselves into his opera box, and afterwards insulted
Drusilla by following her home.

A lady friend, whose husband, in his profane bachelor days, had been
present at this orgie, told me something of what passed there.

When the cloth was removed, and wines, liquors, olives, hookahs, tobacco
and cigars were placed upon the table, the “gentlemen” became more than
ever at ease.

The conversation, that had wandered over the general subjects of
politics, field sports, operas, singers’ throats, dancers’ feet and
beauties’ points, now became personal.

“By the way, Hammond,” said Captain Reding, taking the mouth-piece of
his hookah from between his lips, and speaking through a cloud of smoke,
“I see by the ‘Valley Courier,’ which I found upon your table, that Miss
Lyon is really going to marry that prig Alexander. Is it quite true?”

“I believe so, sir,” said Dick, changing color, and helping himself to a
deep draught of cognac.

“How the deuce was it that you let the heiress escape you?”

“The heiress, sir? I am not a fortune hunter.”

“Oh, bosh! you know what I mean, well enough. Who the deuce would ever
accuse _you_ of being a fortune hunter?”

“Who, indeed? Fortune lavisher would fit you better! Eh, my boy?” put in
the gentleman who afterwards reported this conversation, and who must
therefore be nameless.

“But to return to the previous question,” said Reding, “the previous
question with an amendment. How was it that you let the beauty elude
you?”

“The beauty, sir? I fail to comprehend you,” said Dick, coldly.

“Ah, bah!” exclaimed young Lieutenant Harpe, rushing recklessly into the
subject, for he was very much the worse for wine. “Why the deuce can’t
you speak out plainly, Cap’, and call people by their names?— Miss Lyon!
the beautiful Miss Lyon! the elegant Miss Lyon! the accomplished Miss
Lyon! the belle of the season! the queen of the haut ton! the adored of
Dick Hammond, whom she also adores! the betrothed of Alick Lyon, whom
she abhors! And here’s to her!” And with this, he tossed off a big
bumper of brandy.

“Yes, that’s so!” said Reding, “and that being so, why the mischief
don’t you run off with the girl, eh, Hammy, my boy?”

Now if Dick had not been drinking a great deal more than was good for
him, he would never have let his cousin’s name come up in such a
company. Even as it was, he rather resented its introduction now, by
keeping silence.

“Did you hear me, Hammy, my boy?” persisted Reding. “I asked you
why—seeing she liked you so much better than she did that rum curse she
was engaged to marry—why you didn’t cut him out and run off with the
girl?”

“In the first place,” answered Dick, coldly, looking down into his empty
glass, “it is not to be presumed possible that the ‘girl,’ as you
ventured to call the lady, would have consented to run off with me.”

“Then I’d be blown to atoms if I hadn’t kidnapped her!” burst forth
young Harpe, who was very far gone in inebriation.

“That would scarcely be practicable in the nineteenth century and in
Washington city, Lieutenant,” answered Dick.

“No,” laughed Reding; “telegraph wires and detective policemen have been
the death and destruction of all gallant enterprises of that sort.
Neither do I think such a violent measure would have been necessary in
this instance. He could have carried her off with her own consent, and
nobody on earth could have prevented _that_, as they were both of age.
Why didn’t you do it, my boy, eh? You haven’t answered that question
satisfactorily yet.”

“Because he didn’t dare to!” recklessly interrupted Harpe. “He’s one of
the ‘faint hearts’ that will never ‘win fair lady.’ He didn’t dare to.”

“I will answer you in the words of another weak wretch who was stung by
sarcasm into crime:

                ‘I dare do _all_ that may become a man;
                Who dares do _more_ is none.’

In other words, Messieurs, I am quite as incapable of running off with
another man’s betrothed as I should be in making love to another man’s
wife,” said Dick, very gravely.

“Hear! hear! hear!” shouted Harpe; “he wouldn’t run off with another
man’s betrothed! oh, no, not he! even when he knows he loves her, and
she him! oh, no! no! sooner than he’d make love to another man’s wife.
As for me, I’d do either, as often as I could get a chance.”

“Why, man alive,” said Reding to Dick, “we are not in Spain, nor France,
nor Germany, nor any other country where betrothal is held to be almost
as sacred as marriage; we are in America, where betrothal means simply a
conditional engagement between a young man and young woman to marry each
other at a definite or indefinite time, _provided_ in the meanwhile
neither party should happen to meet with any one he or she likes better.
Bosh! such engagements don’t end in marriage once in ten times! Under
the circumstances, I don’t think you were bound to respect the
betrothal.”

“I differ with you,” said Dick.

“As for me,” put in Harpe, defiantly, “I never in all my life fell
desperately in love with a woman, until some other man called my
attention to her merits by getting possession of her himself.”

“You’ll end in getting the sausage meat you call your brains blown out,
some of these days, my fine fellow, if you don’t take care of yourself,”
laughed the nameless gentleman.

“I’d like to know who’s going to do it!” swaggered Harpe.

“Some indignant husband or lover, of course.”

“Let ’em try it,” crowed Harpe.

“I think, Hammond,” continued Captain Reding, “common gallantry required
you to try your fortune with that young lady.”

“I wish, Reding, that you would drop the subject here,” said Dick.

“As she never took the least trouble to conceal her preference for you
over Lyon, I do not see why we may not discuss the subject here. Why,
Dick, it was evident to everybody who saw you three together, that she
loathed Lyon and liked you. The thing was clear, it was patent, it was
_flagrant_, under the circumstances! Now, come, Dick, honor bright! Why
_didn’t_ you marry her?”

“I have answered that question already.”

“Humph! Well! we all thought you would certainly carry off the prize.
Why, you were always following her, hovering over her, waiting on her,
and even apparently making love to her, which, by the way, was not very
consistent with your present declaration that you would be incapable of
marrying another man’s betrothed.”

“Hear! hear! hear!” shouted young Harpe.

“That is so,” frankly confessed Dick. “It is true that I sunned myself
too much in the light of that bright lady’s smiles. It was the old, old
story of the moth and the flame. But no one was hurt except myself. I
was smartly singed. I should, perhaps, have been entirely consumed but
for a mercifully severe hand that took me away from the fatal light and
warmth of the flame, and put me out in the cold and dark. And so—saved
me.”

And, saying this, Dick lighted his hookah and withdrew into a cloud of
incense.

“Come, Dick, talk prose, not poetry. We’re a practical party here, we
are! The mercifully severe hand that took you away from the fire and put
you out in the cold, was no other than the fair lady’s hand that
tendered you the traditional mitten. I thought so!” laughed Reding.

“No; it was the war-worn hand of a veteran soldier. My uncle had me up
before him one morning; actually arraigned me in the most magisterial
manner; set Alick’s rights, Anna’s duties, and my own trespasses
squarely before me, and then appealed to my honor; to which, I need not
say, Messieurs, no one ever yet appealed in vain. I have never seen my
fair cousin since that day.”

“Quite right, Hammond. I honor your principles,” said the nameless
gentleman.

“Ume-me-me!” groaned young Harpe, rising sanctimoniously. “My brethren,
let us _awle_ unite in prayer.”

“Hold your profane tongue, sir,” said Captain Reding, pushing the mocker
down into his seat. “And don’t drink any more brandy! You’re crazy now.
You’ll be under the table presently.”

“Sober as any man here,” laughed Harpe, dropping into his chair.

“Appealed to your honor, did he, Hammond?” said Reding, turning to Dick.
“Well, I suppose the word has some meaning for you and for the gallant
old gentleman. But I wonder how Alick Lyon understands honor, and how he
reconciles it with his present course.”

“His present course. What do you mean?” inquired Dick.

“I should have said the course he has pursued the whole winter.”

“What was that? I don’t like Lyon. I can not now. I all but hate him.
But, still, I do not think him capable of doing anything dishonorable.
He is too proud to do so, for one thing,” said Alick’s generous foe.

“Well, may be so. But I’d like to know what his ideas of honor are; or
how he can _honorably_ reconcile his position in respect to Miss Lyon
with his relations to the little beauty at Cedarwood.”

“‘The little beauty at Cedarwood!’” echoed Dick, in astonishment.

“Yes, little Drusa!”

“Little Drusa—”

“Come, now, Dick, don’t you be Forestic, Murdochic, Wallackic, or tragic
after any of these schools. They’re not in your line. So leave off
echoing my words and staring at me.”

“But you said something about a girl that he has got hidden away at
Cedarwood?”

“Yes, I did.”

“I don’t believe it!” said Dick, bluntly. Then remembering that he was
the host speaking to his guest, he courteously added: “You are mistaken,
sir. Lyon, with all his faults, is not a villain.”

“Who said he was? I didn’t. All I say is, that he has got just the
sweetest little beauty you ever saw in your life cozily concealed in a
pretty cottage orneé at Cedarwood. And he is very fond of her, and she
is entirely devoted to him; and he calls her sweet love, and little
Drusa. And she is just the loveliest little creature the sun ever shone
upon, with a clear pale face, and lustrous dark hair and eyes, of such
unfathomable depths of passion and of thought that she might well be
supposed to be from the East, and be a daughter of the Druses.”

“Are you _sure_ of this?” asked Dick, with emphasis.

“I’ll swear to it.”

“_Who_ is she then?”

“Ah! that I don’t know.”

“_What_ is she to him?”

“Can’t undertake to say. I’ll swear that this little beauty is living
under his protection in his house at Cedarwood. But whether she is his
wife, or his sister, or his mother, or his maiden aunt, of course, I
can’t tell. Doubtless it is some highly respectable connection of that
sort, Mr. Alexander Lyon being master of the house. If it was _you_,
Dick, you see we should all know what to think!” laughed Captain Reding.

Dick Hammond had been gazing steadily into the face of the speaker, and
rubbing his own brows very thoughtfully and occasionally frowning
painfully. But now he suddenly started up, struck his hand upon his
forehead, and exclaimed:

“Good Heaven! It must be Drusilla Sterling!”

“Humph! Forestic again! You know her then?” said Captain Reding.

“Know her? I’ve known her from childhood. Poor little thing! So this is
what became of her!” said Dick, in a voice of great pain, as he dropped
dejectedly into his seat again.

“How look here, you know; none of that! Don’t you be gettin’ up any
interest in her; because, you see, I’ve made up my own mind that way.
And when Lyon marries I mean to take the pretty cottage and the pretty
girl both off his hands,” drawled Harpe, very drowsily, for he was in
the last stage of intoxication, and almost asleep.

“You can so well afford that sort of thing, with your lieutenant’s pay!”
laughed “nameless.”

“Who is this girl, Dick, since you know her?” inquired Reding.

“She is as pure and good a girl as lives in this world. And, gentlemen,
if she is at Cedarwood, as you say, under Alick’s protection, my life
and soul on it, she is his wife, or she believes herself to be such!”
said Dick, earnestly and almost angrily, as if he challenged even the
thoughts of men if they wronged the friendless girl.

No one seemed disposed to contradict him in words, no matter how much
they may have differed from him in opinion.

“But who is she then, Hammond?” persisted Captain Reding, who never, if
he could help it, left a point unsettled.

“Drusilla Sterling, a clergyman’s orphan; brought up in Alexander Lyon’s
family; a protegée of his mother, a pet of his father. Little less than
a year ago she disappeared from her home, and could never be traced by
her friends. So she is with him, the hypocritical scoundrel! But she is
his wife, or thinks herself so! My life and soul on it, she does, for
she could not fall—she could not. I have known her from her earliest
childhood—the sweetest child that ever lived—a little saint!”

“But are you sure she is the same with Alick’s girl?” inquired Reding.

“I fear there is no doubt of it. The coincidence of name and
circumstance is so complete. I can’t think why I didn’t recognize her
when you first mentioned her; though in truth I never heard her called
Drusa, but Drusilla; and I never thought of her as a woman, but merely
as a child, and most certainly couldn’t associate her memory with any
thoughts of license, but always with the most sacred sanctities of
home.”

“Were you her lover in the past as you are her champion in the present,
Hammond?” laughed Reding.

“No—yes—I don’t know.”

“Clear, to the point, and satisfactory, that answer!” laughed the
captain.

“I mean to say that I loved her, but not in the sense you mean. I loved
her only as a great New Foundland dog might love a baby; as a big brute
like myself might love such a little angel as she was,” said Dick,
gravely.

“Oh, yes, all women are angels until they are—found out!” mused
Lieutenant Harpe, rousing himself.

“What did you say, sir?” coolly inquired Dick.

“I say,” defiantly answered Harpe, “that all women are angels until they
are found out, and then they are fallen angels, every one of ’em!”

“Speak for the women you know best, sir! for those you have been brought
up with; for those you associate with; for those nearest and dearest to
you. For, _of course_, of them only _can_ you speak from knowledge! As
for me, I judge a man and his family by his judgment of women. He who
traduces the sex defames his own mother—and his sisters, wife, and
daughters if he has them!” said Dick, indignantly.

Instead of attempting a reply to this scathing rebuke, the weak traducer
of woman looked around on his companions, with a tipsy smile, and
winking knowingly, said: “_I_ don’t mind _him_, bless you! _He_ don’t
know what he’s talking about; he’s _tight_—tight as ever he can be! He
wants to quarrel now; he’s always quarrelsome in his cups!”

And having delivered himself of this opinion, he crossed his arms upon
the table, dropped his head upon them, and resigned himself to sleep.

“Poor Harpe, he has a very weak brain,” said Captain Reding.

No one else made any comment.

“Reding,” said Dick Hammond, turning to the captain, “I want you to tell
me how you discovered the residence of this poor girl at Cedarwood.”

“Why, you see we first saw her with him at the opera. It was quite early
in the season, and they were in a private box. Harpe and I were in the
orchestra seats. When the curtain fell on the first act we went around
there to get a nearer view of the pretty creature, hoping also to get an
introduction to her. But Lord bless you, Lyon scowled at us as if he
thought we had come to pick his pockets. We wouldn’t take notice of his
black looks, but by being perfectly civil and self-possessed ourselves
we compelled him to treat us with something like courtesy. But it was
_only_ something-like; it wasn’t the genuine article itself; for he
wouldn’t ask us to sit down, nor he wouldn’t present us to the pretty
girl. And from that day I don’t think he ever brought her into the city
again.”

“Then how did you discover her residence and her relations to him?”

“I am going to tell you. Some days after that we met Lyon in the
reading-room of the Brown House. We chaffed him about the mysterious
little beauty, you may be sure. But he stopped us by telling us that she
was the daughter of a clergyman, and was only passing through the city
under his escort, and that she had returned to her home in the country.”

“A mere evasion, of course.”

“Yes; but we did not question the fact at the time; although we did
wonder how Alick come to be trusted with the escort of a young lady.”

“I should think so. Pray go on.”

“A little later we discovered the truth by chance. I went to spend a few
days with an acquaintance I have living about a mile from Cedarwood. And
while there, guided by some negroes, I went on a coon-hunt by
torch-light. Did you ever see a coon-hunt by torch-light?”

“Often, when I was a boy; never since.”

“Well, the sport was quite new to me, and as a natural consequence I got
separated from the dogs and darkies, and got lost in the woods.”

“A good beginning for an adventure,” said the nameless gentleman.

“Yes. Well, to resume—while I was trying to find a path, I saw a bright,
indeed a brilliant light, shining through the trees at some distance. I
went towards it, and found a beautiful cottage ornée, with its front
windows splendidly illuminated.

“There was a party,” said one of the guests.

“No; though as it was now between two and three o’clock in the morning,
on seeing the lighted windows I was struck with the same thought. They
are having a blow out in there, I said to myself. But it was nothing of
the kind, my friends!”

“What was it, then?” inquired Dick, anxiously.

“Wait till I tell you. I pushed on towards the house, and when I came up
to it, I saw no carriages, no servants, no life, no motion. Everything
was as still as death. In fact, the whole house was closed up except the
two brilliantly illumined windows, from which the light streamed far
across the lawn, and deep into the woods.”

“Go on! go on!” said Reding’s companions, speaking in a chorus. And the
captain, who had only paused to take a drink, continued:

“‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘this is rum go, anyway!’ And after walking
around and around the pretty place, without seeing or hearing anything,
I just climbed up to the window-sill and peeped through the lighted
window.”

Here the captain paused for pure aggravation.

“Well! well! what did you see?” exclaimed several voices.

“What did I see? Ah, my friends, I had a full view of a small
terrestrial paradise! and a beautiful mortal houri! a little domestic
Eden, with a sweet little Eve within it! an enchanted bower, with a
sleeping beauty!”

“Do speak plainly, Reding! that’s a good fellow!” said the nameless
gentleman.

“Well, then, I saw a nice, cozy drawing-room, the very picture of
elegance and comfort; a fine fire of sea coal in the grate; a luxurious
little supper set forth in a splendid service on a round marble table;
by its side an easy chair, and a pair of slippers; at a short distance
and nearer the chimney corner a little stand, with an astral lamp and
some books; and near it a lovely young creature, reclining in a resting
chair, fast asleep, with the book she had been reading fallen upon her
lap.”

“What a beautiful picture,” said one of the company, while the others
listened in silence.

“I immediately recognized the beauty of the opera box; but as I live,
gentlemen, I did not then connect her in my thoughts with Alexander
Lyon. On the contrary, I believed his account of her, and I said to
myself—‘There is the little darling waiting up for her clerical papa,
who has gone to make a pastoral call on some one of his parishioners who
is dying.’ And I hung there by the sill of the window, and looked in and
fed my eyes upon the sweetness of the scene.

“Well? what then?”

“Then I heard horse’s feet coming. ‘Papa is returning,’ I said to
myself. And I dropped from the sill and hid myself in some thick bushes
below it, to wait till papa should pass, so that I might make my retreat
unobserved. It appears that the horseman went first around to the
stable; for soon I heard rapid footsteps approaching the house. And you
may judge my surprise when I saw a young man run lightly up the stairs,
and saw the door fly open, letting out a flood of light, and the little
beauty rush into the arms of the new comer, whom I then plainly
recognized as Alexander Lyon.”

“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Dick Hammond, in agitation.

“As if it had not been enough to know him by his face and form, I had
his voice also in evidence of his identity. ‘Are you as glad to see me
as all this, my little Drusa?’ he asked. And she answered with a shower
of soft caresses and silvery tones.”

“And then?” inquired Dick.

“Why, then, of course, the house swallowed them up. The door was shut
and locked, and the brilliant windows were darkened, and they had their
happiness all to themselves, while I was left out in the cold.”

“You could not have been mistaken in what you supposed you saw and
heard?” inquired Dick.

“No; how could I? That was not the only time I looked in at those
windows either. A sort of fascination drew me there, to look in upon
that lovely young creature. While I remained in the neighborhood, under
the cover of coon hunting, I paid a visit to the lighted windows every
night. Ah! night after night! night after night did that sweet little
creature sit there waiting for him, leaving the windows open to guide
him home, and keeping his supper warm, while he, sorry dog, was engaged
gallanting Miss Anna about to balls and theatres, and scowling at better
men than himself if they so much as looked at the belle.”

“Reding, I am deeply grieved to hear this; scarcely less so than I
should be if the poor child were my own sister. But I repeat and
reiterate most emphatically this truth, that she is really his wife, or
believes herself to be so!” said Dick, earnestly.

“I think you are quite right, Hammond! The young creature herself, and
all her surroundings breathed so sweetly of what you called ‘the
sanctities of home life’ that no one looking on her could think evil of
her. Indeed I thought evil of _myself_ though, sometimes, for seeming to
play the spy. But I couldn’t resist the temptation of looking into that
beautiful interior. I meant no harm.”

“And your contraband pastime was never discovered?”

“Oh yes,” laughed Reding. “She rose once and turned round so suddenly,
that she saw me before I could drop from my perch. She screamed and
disappeared; and I could have scourged myself for frightening her.”

“And then, I suppose, your stolen visits ceased.”

“Not a bit of it. I was only more cautious. But one night I purposely
let myself be seen by _him_, on a rare occasion, when he happened to
come home before daylight. It was to be my last visit, for I was about
to leave the neighborhood.”

“Did he know you?”

“No! for as soon as he got a glimpse of my face, he blazed away at me
with his revolver, and you may rest assured, I didn’t stop to claim his
acquaintance! All, he had a good chase after me, and I had a good run
and a good laugh! When I returned to the city, I couldn’t keep the joke
to myself. I had to tell Harpe, for which I was afterwards sorry; for
the scurvy fellow, with a party of his companions, having met the poor
little girl in the city after Lyon had left, took advantage of her
unprotected state and followed her home, and would have intruded into
her house, if they had not been prevented by her servants.”

“Reding,” said Dick, gravely, “after what I have told you of this young
lady, I hope and trust that you will abstain from speaking of her
anywhere, and from doing anything to annoy her at any time. In a word, I
appeal to your manhood, to treat her in all respects as you would treat
the most honored woman of your acquaintance.”

“I never wished to do otherwise, and as I never expect to see the little
angel again, I shall never have a chance of doing otherwise. But here, I
declare, the day is breaking! And we ought to do the same! Wake up,
Harpe! Come! Good night, Hammond!”

And so the party separated.

Dick Hammond remained, walking up and down the room in deep thought. At
length he took a sudden resolution—to seek Drusilla.




                              CHAPTER XL.
                              DICK’S NEWS.

           If Sorrow has taught me anything,
             She has taught me to weep for you,
           If falsehood has left me a tear to shed
             For Truth, those tears are true.—OWEN MEREDITH.


The greenness of the grass, the freshness of the flowers, and the
splendor of the sunshine, still lingered; the glorious Indian summer
still lived on through the gorgeous month of October, and even staid to
welcome the arrival of sad November.

At high noon, one day about this time, Drusilla was sauntering slowly
through her garden, trying to gather strength and comfort from the
beauty and refulgence of the scene and hour, when she suddenly heard the
outer gate open.

She looked up to see the cause, and she started violently and changed
color; for she saw—

Mr. Richard Hammond!

He was now walking up the avenue towards the house.

On seeing him, her first natural emotion was that of astonishment; her
first clear impression was that he came from her husband on some errand
to herself. All in a tumult of delight, she hastened to meet him.

“Mrs. Alexander Lyon, I believe,” said Dick, at a hazard, and
respectfully raising his hat as he came on to greet her.

“Yes, that is my now name,” answered the young matron, with a smile and
a blush of happiness, not of confusion, as the questioner particularly
noticed.

“I knew it!” he exclaimed, emphatically and involuntarily.

“Knew what? knew me?” she inquired, pleasantly. “Of course you did. Why
should you not? It has been but two years since we met. And I knew YOU
at a glance.”

“Very likely; for an old fellow like myself does not change in two
years, while a young lady like you grows up and gets married in the
meantime, which makes _some_ little difference,” answered Dick, archly,
partly to cover his confusion at having spoken his thoughts aloud, and
partly to procure her confirmation of what he firmly believed—namely,
that she truly or falsely imagined herself to be a wife.

“Oh, yes,” she replied, still blushing and smiling, “I am married; and
as you know that fact, which you could have learned only from my
husband, of course you come from him. He is well?” she inquired, anxiety
now betraying itself in her look and tone.

“Quite well,” said Dick, who was now beginning to feel the embarrassment
of the duty he had taken upon himself to do.

“And you bring me a letter from him? I have been looking for one by the
mail; but I am glad he sent it by you?”

Dick hesitated and looked confused.

“Give me my letter, please,” she said, holding out her hand with a
smile.

“My dear Mrs. Lyon, I regret to say I have no letter for you,” he
answered, as calmly as he could.

“No letter!” she repeated, with a look of disappointment; and she sank
down in the garden seat, because from excess of emotion she was unable
to stand. Then, soon brightening up with new hope, she exclaimed—“Oh,
then, he has charged you with a message for me! Sit down here and tell
me all he says.”

Dick took the offered seat, but remained silent.

“How, then, Mr. Hammond, tell me! tell me quickly what does Alick say?
And, oh, forgive my impatience! but it has been so long since I have
heard from my husband, and I have been so uneasy about him!” she said,
and her hurried tones, her eager face and trembling frame, all betrayed
the excess of anxiety that agitated her.

But Dick Hammond sat silent and immovable, cursing the fate that had
thrust upon him a duty he found so hard to perform.

“Why don’t you answer me? Why are you silent? Why do you look so
strangely, avoiding my eyes? What is the matter? Oh, Heaven, what has
happened?” she cried, turning pale and beginning to twist her fingers.

“Mrs. Lyon,” said Dick, with an effort, “I have neither letter nor
message from Alexander.”

“Neither letter nor message from my husband? I thought you came from
him! I thought you came with his sanction. Else why are you here at
all?” she asked, shivering with a vague alarm.

“Madam!” cried Dick, jumping up, flushing red, and, between his pity for
her and his rage at Alick, losing all his self-command; “Madam, I came
here to tell you that Alexander Lyon is a reproach to his name and to
manhood! and totally unworthy of your regard, or of the notice of any
honest woman!”

Drusilla was struck dumb.

For a few moments she gazed at him in blank wonder, while he strode up
and down the garden walk before her, wiping his brows and trying to
subdue his excitement. Then she arose slowly, stretched out her arm, and
pointing to the outer gate said, quietly:

“Leave this place, sir.”

He stopped in his furious walk and looked at her. She had ceased to
speak, but was still standing pale and grim and pointing his way out.

He felt that he must keep his ground, and do his duty at any cost. He
was sorry that his own rashness had raised obstacles in his path. He
approached her and said:

“Madam, I take back my words. I beg your pardon for having uttered them.
I will beg it on my bent knee to content you. Forgive me, and consider
my rash words unsaid.”

“Indeed, I know not how to forgive you.”

“But when penitence is professed and forgiveness asked, it is a
Christian’s duty to extend it,” said Dick, appealing to her conscience.

“Admit, then, that your words—the injurious epithets you dared to apply
to my husband—were untrue.”

“Do _you_, who have so much trust in him, need to be assured that they
were untrue?” inquired Dick, evasively.

“No, indeed, I do not. I know that Alexander Lyon is the very soul of
honor.”

Dick bowed deeply and a little ironically, saying:

“But you require a fuller apology than I have yet made?”

“I do.”

“Well, I make it. I feel very sorry that I forgot myself so far as to
use those terms in respect to the gentleman in question. I take them
back unreservedly, and I beg you, as you are a Christian, to forgive
me.”

She bowed, still a little coldly, and then said:

“Sir, I know that you have come here this morning, if not directly from
my husband, at least in his interests, or upon his affairs. If you are
an authorized agent, pray explain the nature of the business that has
brought you here.”

Under the forced calmness of her words he perceived that a terrible
anxiety was torturing her soul. He answered gently:

“Madam, yes, I come here on his affairs and in his interests, since it
is certainly important to him that he be prevented from taking a certain
step that he contemplates.”

“What step is that?” she breathlessly inquired.

“Will you permit me first to see you into the house? The explanation I
have to make is not a pleasant one, and you are already something
overcome by what has passed. You had better hear the rest of what I have
to say in your own parlor.”

Drusilla hesitated. She still resented the words he had used in
reference to her husband, although he had recanted and begged pardon;
and for this reason she shrank from taking him across the threshold of
her house. But she reflected that, as he had assured her he came upon
Alexander’s affairs and in his interests, she could do no less than open
her doors to his entrance.

“Come, then,” she said, rising and leading the way into the cottage.

She walked very fast, her impatience overcoming her weariness.

She showed him into the drawing-room and signed him into a seat, and
sank herself down on a corner of the sofa, for she was quite out of
breath.

“Now, now, Mr. Hammond,” she exclaimed, as soon as she could articulate
the words. “Explain yourself! I know well, I knew from the first, that
you did not come here for the sole purpose of making me a call. I feel
now that the nature of your errand is painful. Tell it at once. You must
know that anything is better than suspense.”

Dick attempted to answer, but looked in her face and failed. It was as
hard to obey her as it would have been to gaze in the eyes of a lamb and
slay it.

“Still silent?” she said, clasping her hands. “Ah, Heaven, do not
torture me so! I have suffered so much already! so much, just Lord! I
can bear no more! Tell me your worst news at once, and kill me with it.
It would be mercy.”

Still, still, Dick’s answer, like Macbeth’s amen, “stuck in his throat.”

“Oh, Heaven, what is this? Why don’t you speak? Alick! Alick! my
husband! You said that he was well! Yes, you said so! But they say of
the _dead_ that they are well!” she cried, clasping her hands, and in
her excessive alarm forgetting that Dick had certainly, in the early
part of their interview, spoken of Alick as a living man about to take
an objectionable step.

Her complexion curdled into white and livid spots, her features quivered
with the intense agony of suspense, as she stretched out her hands and
gasped forth the word:

“Tell—tell—is Alick—DEAD?”

“No!” thundered Dick, emphatically, as he found his voice, “he is not!
No such good luck. The rope is not ready for him yet,” he added, under
his breath.

She heard only the first words of his reply.

“Thank Heaven for that, at least. It is well to know that. I think now I
can bear everything else,” she sighed, as the tension of her nerves
relaxed, and she sank down among the cushions and closed her eyes. This
reaction from her illogical but deadly terror was so great, that she
nearly swooned. And now to feel certain that he was alive and well
seemed all sufficient for her satisfaction.

Dick did not disturb her by a word, look, or gesture. He was pleased to
put off the evil hour of explanation as long as possible, even if it
were to be forever; and he mentally bemoaned the hardship of the duty he
felt compelled to do, and he wished himself anywhere else but where he
was.

In a few minutes Drusilla recovered herself, and with an effort sat up
and said:

“Mr. Hammond, you assure me that my husband is alive and well; as indeed
I ought to have known from your previous conversation; only that in my
sudden alarm I did not remember it. I am not very rational, I think. But
now that my fears for his safety are set at rest, I do not dread to hear
any other ill news that you may have to tell me. So speak out freely and
without fear for me. I am strong enough to sustain the shock of common
calamities,” she added, with a smile.

And in saying these words, she only thought of Mr. Lyon’s supposed
lawsuit, “connected with his late father’s will,” and she fancied that
Dick had come to tell her of its failure.

“Then I will do so, Mrs. Lyon—Drusilla! I wish you would let me call you
so, as I used to do when you were a little child,” said Dick, gently and
gravely.

“You may call me anything that my husband will permit, Mr. Hammond. But
until you have his sanction, you must call me Mrs. Lyon.”

“Ah, my dear child,” said Dick, mournfully, “I fear that is the very
last name he will be willing to accord you.”

“What is it that you say, sir? What do you mean?” questioned Drusilla,
in a low, breathless, hurried tone, as with his words there rushed upon
her mind the recollection of her husband’s cruel letter, in which he had
declared his union with her to be illegal, null and void, and to have
always been so. And now she instantly connected Hammond’s visit and his
untold news with that letter and its cruel communications. And she
wondered if Dick knew anything about Alick’s supposed monomania; and if
so, whether he rightly understood it, or whether he was misled by it.

As Dick did not immediately answer her questions, she spoke to him
again.

“Why do you not reply to me, Mr. Hammond?”

“Ah, my poor child! my dear child! you readily surmised that I had
painful matters to communicate, but you never divined how painful,” said
Dick, sorrowfully.

“You alarm me again. For Heaven’s sake, speak and shorten this torture,”
she pleaded.

“You believe yourself to be the wife of Alexander Lyon?” said Dick,
modulating his voice to a tone of the deepest and most respectful
sympathy.

“‘_Believe_,’ sir? I am so,” answered Drusilla, drawing herself up with
a proud and confident smile.

“I feel assured that you think as you say. My long knowledge of you, my
earnest esteem for you will not permit me to question your good faith.
But my poor Drusilla, my dear girl, I fear, I greatly fear that you are
mistaken.”

“I am not, sir. I cannot be mistaken on such a subject,” answered
Drusilla. And as all the deep dishonor implied in the doubt rushed over
her mind, her face and neck were suffused with the crimson flush of
wounded delicacy and offended pride, and she added, “You must know, sir,
that to question my wifehood is to insult me.”

“Heaven is my witness, how far from my heart is the wish to offend you,
how profound and respectful is my sympathy for you, and how deeply it
pains me to give you pain. But I must do my duty. Most willingly would I
have avoided this task, if I could have done so; but I could not. And I
come to serve and to save you, and one who is dearer to me than all
others besides,” said Dick, earnestly.

“I think I know why you speak to me in this manner. You have suffered
yourself to be misled by the transient imaginings of a monomaniac, who
is so sane on all other subjects, and with one exception so strong and
clear in judgment and understanding, that you have failed to discover
his hallucination to be what it is. But I will soon convince you that it
is _you_ who are mistaken, and not I,” replied Drusilla, with much
dignity.

And she drew from her bosom the little black silk bag:, took from it the
small piece of paper and placed it in the hands of her visitor, saying:

“There, Mr. Hammond, read that, and confess that you have alarmed
yourself for nothing.”

Dick, who had been listening to her and watching her in wonder and
curiosity, took the paper, and with a bow, began to examine it. As he
read it slowly and attentively, he gathered his brows into a thoughtful
and troubled frown, and as he finished it, he looked at her with a
compassionate expression and inquired:

“My dear child, how came this little document into your keeping?”

“I found it while clearing out Alick’s dressing-glass drawer. And as it
was as much mine as his, and as he did not seem to set much value on it,
judging by the place in which he left it, I took possession of it. And I
am very glad now that I have it to show you,” she answered, smiling
confidently.

“Because you consider it a proof positive of your marriage?” he
inquired, gravely.

“Why, of course. And so it is,” she exclaimed, triumphantly. “Why, look
at it! Read it! It is quite plain and conclusive! A child could
comprehend it! Don’t you see for yourself that this is the most positive
proof of my marriage that could possibly be produced?”

“No, Drusilla,” he answered, mournfully, “I see nothing of the sort.
Quite the contrary.”

“Then you don’t understand English when you see it!” retorted the sorely
tried young creature, losing a little of her saintly patience.

“I understand _this_, but too well!” replied Dick, grimly regarding the
document that he still held in his hand.

“In mercy’s name, what do you mean now?”

“I mean that this piece of paper proves no marriage. It only indicates
that at the time of its being filled out, Lyon probably had sincere
intention to marry you. But so far from its being a proof of your
marriage, as it lies here before us, it affords an incontrovertible
evidence that no such marriage ever took place!”

“Come! what next, I wonder? Are you also a monomaniac on this subject?
And is madness infectious? If so, pray leave my presence before you
inoculate me with the same mania!”

“I would to Heaven that you were right and that I were talking at
random! But it is not so, Drusilla! ‘I speak the words of truth and
soberness.’ This document proves that you were never married,” said
Hammond, with as much earnestness as sadness.

“You are raving! In the name of reason how can you talk so frantically?
_That_ paper, of all things in the world, proves I never was married?
Can _any_ thing in the universe prove that I was never married, when I
know I was? I am not a fool, or a lunatic, or a visionary, to imagine
things that never happened. I saw and heard myself married to Alick by a
regularly ordained minister, with a special license, and in the presence
of a dozen witnesses. You talk wildly, Mr. Hammond! Yes, and very
offensively!” she added.

“I beg you to forgive me and to bear with me, Drusilla,” he answered
sadly, “but——”

“Call me by my husband’s name! I have a right to it!” interrupted the
young matron, proudly, but mournfully.

“Yes, Heaven knows that you _have_ a right to it! The holiest, if not
the most lawful right, and I cannot refuse it to you. But, Mrs. Lyon, as
I told you, I came here to serve and to save _you_ if possible, and also
one who is dearest of all to me; so in her service and in yours, I must
convince you of the truth of what I have just said, however distressing
it may be for me to press, or for you to believe,” said Dick, solemnly.

The earnestness and solemnity of his words deeply impressed her. A new
terror struck all the color from her face—doubt, like the iron, entered
her soul. She gazed at him transfixed.

“It is so,” said Hammond, turning away his eyes that he might not meet
the agonizing appeal in hers. “It is so.

“You _ought_ to be, but you are _not_ the wife of Alexander Lyon.”

“Not his wife—not Alick’s wife! Oh, Alick, Alick! my own! my dear! my
love! my husband! I _am_ your wife! I am—I am!” cried the wronged and
wretched young creature, with a sob and a gasp, as she sank back among
her cushions.

Dick could have wept for company, but he only cursed Alick and pitied
her, while he watched and waited for her to recover herself.

Ah! how many tears she had shed in her short married life of less than a
year!

Presently her anguish broke forth in a sharp and bitter cry:

“Why, oh why, do you say such terrible things to me, Mr. Hammond?”

“Because it is absolutely necessary that you should know them,” he
answered, kindly.

“Have you no pity—_none_—that you drive this sorrow-like a sword into my
heart?” she cried.

“Heaven knows how much pity and how much respect I have for you,” he
said.

“Oh, what—oh what,” she sobbed, wringing her hands in her agony, “oh,
what makes you say that I am not his wife—not my dear Alick’s wife? When
I told you—_I told you_ how I was married; with a special license, by a
regularly ordained minister, and in the presence of a dozen witnesses?
How _can_ you say, in the face of all this, that I am not Alick’s wife?”

“My dear Drusilla, on my honor as a gentleman, by my knowledge as a
lawyer, and on my faith as a Christian, I assure you, that though your
nuptial ceremony had been pronounced by a bishop, and in the presence of
a thousand witnesses, the very existence of this little document as it
lies before us proves that ceremony to have been illegal and of no
effect.”

She clasped her hands and gazed on him with such a look of unutterable
woe in her voice, that he could no more bear to meet her eyes than could
the heroes of old endure Medusa’s glance and live. Yet withal she was
now very calm, though with a calmness that was but a restrained frenzy;
but it must have deceived Dick as to her powers of endurance, or he
would not have driven the spear home to her heart as in a few moments he
did.

“And Alick knew this?” she asked.

“I am not sure he knew it or thought of it on the wedding-day. But I am
sure that he knows it now,” sighed Dick.

“And so his fancy was a fact after all; and he was no monomaniac?”

“No, he was no monomaniac,” said Dick. “He was only a scoundrel,” he
added, under his breath.

“Alick knows this! Then this is the discovery he made in March?”

“Probably, if he made any.”

“He told me he had discovered then our marriage was not legal. He has
absented himself from me ever since. Heaven help me! I thought he was
suffering from a hallucination that would pass away. And it was a
reality!”

“Yes, it was,” said Dick, wondering at her apparent composure and misled
by it.

“But Alick will remedy the evil now. He will marry me over again. You
know he will, Mr. Hammond?”

“I know he ought to do so; I know he is bound by the holiest obligations
that can bind a man to do so; I know if he had one spark of honor in him
he _would_ do so; but I do not believe he will,” growled Dick.

“How dare you say that?”

“Because if he had the slightest intention of doing you justice, he
would never even dream of the step he is now actually about to take, and
of which I came here on purpose to warn you.”

“What step? You said something of this when you first arrived. What is
it?”

“A step which, (were you his wife, as you ought in justice to be) would
take him across the threshold of a state’s prison, for it would be a
felony,” answered Hammond, speaking distinctly and emphatically, and
hoping that she would understand him, and save him the pain of a more
particular explanation.

But she did not even suspect his meaning. She only clasped her hands,
and gazed at him with piteous and beseeching eyes, and murmured:

“What is it? Speak plainly.”

He turned away his head that he might not witness her despair, as he
replied:

“He is about to take advantage of the discovery he has made by marrying
Miss Anna Ly——”

His words were cut short by a piercing shriek that rang like the cry of
a lost soul through the air. He started up and confronted Drusilla.

She was standing before him, in motionless, speechless anguish. Her face
was blanched to the hue of death, her eyes were dilated and strained,
her hands were extended, her form rigid. As one struck with catalepsy,
for a moment she stood thus, and then fell.

Hammond caught her before she struck the floor, and laid her tenderly on
the sofa, and then in great alarm, he rang for assistance.

Her servants were at that hour gathered around the kitchen table eating
their dinner, and talking of the strange visitor whom they had all seen
enter the house in company with their mistress. They heard the shriek
that rang through the air, followed by the loud peals of the
parlor-bell, and they started up in a body and ran to see what the
matter could be.

They found their mistress in a swoon on the sofa, and a strange
gentleman standing over her, beside himself with fear and grief.

“For Heaven’s sake do something. I fear Mrs. Lyon is dying or dead!” he
exclaimed.

“What caused it, sir?” demanded “mammy,” putting aside the intruder, and
kneeling down to examine her patient.

“I was so unhappy as to be the bearer of bad news to her,” Dick
confessed.

“Then, sir, you ought to a-knowed better than for to a-told it to her in
her state of health. It may a-killed her,” said the nurse severely, as
is the custom of her class in rebuking the common enemy.

Dick looked guilty and wretched.

Pina pitied him.

“No, mammy, it aint killed her—she aint dead; ’deed she aint, mammy.
She’s only in one of her fainty fits. She’s subject to ’em, mammy,” said
the girl.

“You hold your tongue, gal. What do you know? Come here and help me to
rub her hands. And Mr. Leo, you go ’bout your business. What call you go
to be poking ’round where there’s a lady sick? And _you_, sir,” said
mammy, turning to the unhappy Dick, “now you’s done all the harm you can
do, you go ’way too.”

Dick turned a long, lingering look to the inanimate form on the sofa,
and then reluctantly followed his companion in banishment from the room.

When they reached the hall, Leo politely opened the front door for the
exit of the visitor.

But Dick loitered.

“Come here, boy,” he said, beckoning Leo close to his side. “Is your
mistress realty subject to these swooning fits?”

“Yes sir; and so has been ever since master took to his ways,” answered
the boy, sulkily, because for the time being he hated all mankind, and,
most of all, his master, for his mistress’s sake.

“What ways?” asked Dick.

“Gentlemen’s ways, sir,” growled Leo.

“But—she gets over these attacks?” asked Dick, anxiously.

The boy looked at the questioner askance, and answered, ironically:

“No, Sir; slight as they is, she allus dies of ’em.”

Dick smiled, even in the midst of his trouble, and said:

“Come, I pardon your impertinence for the sake of the regard that I see
you bear your mistress. Don’t mock me again, but answer me truly—these
swoons are not dangerous, are they?”

“Well, sir, I don’t think they is. The women allus gets her out of ’em
in an hour or so,” said Leo, somewhat mollified by the sincere interest
this stranger took in his mistress.

“Well, my boy, when your mistress is quite well, say to-morrow morning,
if she is well enough to be up, I wish you to give her this packet,”
said Dick offering Leo a large, long, well-filled yellow envelope.

Leo backed several paces, and put his hands behind him.

“What’s that for?” inquired the visitor. “Why don’t you take this?”

“Is it a writ?” asked the boy.

Dick laughed now.

“No, stupid! I have been more used to having writs served upon _me_,
than to serving them upon _others_. Do I look like a bum baillie?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then, take this and give it to your mistress when she gets
better.”

But the boy backed farther, and kept his hands behind him.

“Are you crazy?” asked Dick, impatiently.

“No, sir; but I want to know what is in that there yaller hang-wallop,
before I tetches of it to take it to my mist’ess, ’cause she’s been put
upon bad enough a’ready, the dear knows,” said Leo, stubbornly.

Mr. Hammond good-humoredly opened the yellow envelope, and for the boy’s
satisfaction displayed its contents, which consisted of two open
letters, one sealed letter and a newspaper.

“There,” he said, as he replaced them, “you see there is nothing very
dangerous in the packet. It is for your mistress’s benefit that I wish
to send it.”

“Well, sir, I’ll take it to her; and I hope, sir, you’ll ’scuse me for
hanging back and doubting,” said Leo.

“Certainly; I respect your scruples, and I like you all the better for
your fidelity to your mistress. And now, listen. I want you to do
something else for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know the ‘Drovers’ Rest?’”

“Is it that little shady inn on the road, just before you turn into our
woods, sir?”

“The very same; it is the only inn within half a mile. I shall wait
there until evening to hear how your mistress is. Do you think you can
slip across there to bring me news of her this afternoon?”

“I’ll try, sir—yes, sir, I’ll come, sir,” said the boy, first
hesitating, and then consenting.

“Thank you. Don’t forget to do so,” said Mr. Hammond, dropping a small
gold coin into Leo’s hand, and then hurrying from the house.




                              CHAPTER XLI.
                                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.




                             CHAPTER XLII.
                        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.




                             CHAPTER XLIII.
                         THE DREARY NIGHT RIDE.

              Her brain is sick with thinking,
              Her heart is almost sinking,
              She cannot look before her,
                On the evil haunted way;
              Uphold her, oh! restore her!
                Thou Lord of life and day.—MONCTON MILNES.


A few minutes after three o’clock, the carriage containing Drusilla and
her attendant stopped before the office of the Washington and Western
Virginia line of stage coaches.

In great anxiety, Drusilla drew up the carriage curtain and looked out
of the window.

There was no sign of a coach near the office.

“It is gone, it is gone,” she cried, clasping her hands in despair. “It
is gone and I know I can never reach the place in time to save him!”

“Now don’t you take on so, ma’am, that’s a dear child. The coach mayn’t
have come yet, much less gone,” said mammy, soothingly.

Meanwhile the porters about the office had come forward and commenced
unstrapping the baggage from behind.

Leo jumped off his seat and came and opened the carriage door and let
down the steps.

“Is it any use to alight, Leo? Is not the coach gone?” sighed the lady.

“Lor’, no, ma’am—it haven’t gone out of the stable yet. We’ve lots of
time.”

“Oh, thank heaven!” exclaimed Drusilla, in a tone of great relief.

Mammy gathered up her carpet bag, umbrella and big shawl—all carried for
her mistress’s accommodation and not for her own—and prepared to alight.

“Here, boy, you let me get out first, so I can help the madam,” she
said, handing a part of her paraphernalia to her son, and then clumsily
but safely tumbling herself down to the sidewalk.

“Take care, mammy,” said the boy, when all the danger was over.

“Now, that job’s done! I’m allus thankful when I can get out’n a
carriage without hurting of myself or breaking anything. And now, honey,
let me help _you_ out. Be careful, child,” she said, holding her arms
forth to receive her charge.

“Stand aside, please,” smiled Drusilla; and then, rather than avail
herself of mammy’s dangerous assistance, she alighted without aid, and
immediately entered the office, calling Leo to attend her.

Seeing a lady’s waiting-room back of the office, she gave her purse to
Leo, telling him to go to the clerk and secure their seats; but then, as
the sudden thought that they might all be already taken flashed into her
mind, she hurried after the boy up to the clerk’s desk and eagerly
inquired:

“Have you any seats left in the coach now about to start?”

“Yes, Miss; lots. We have nine inside, and only one taken.”

“Then I will take two at once,” said Drusilla, with another sigh of
relieved anxiety.

“Four, master, if you please; we’ll take four. _All_ the back seats and
one of the others,” said mammy.

“What is that for?” hastily whispered Drusilla.

“’Cause, child, you can’t sit up all night. You must lie down, and you
must have all the back seats to lie on like a sofy, you know,” whispered
mammy, in reply.

“How many seats will you take, Miss?” inquired the clerk, who had looked
on, pen in hand, while this low-toned consultation was going forward.

“Four,” answered Drusilla. “And my servant here will settle for them.
Come, nurse, leave Leo to finish this business, and attend me to the
ladies’ room.”

“Yes, honey, in one minute. I just want to stop here and see the _back_
seats secured all for you, all together, to lie down on. ’Twould be no
use for you to have three seats ’stributed all about the coach, for how
could you ’cline on them? Leave me to ’range for you, ma’am.”

“Very well, nurse, do as you think best,” said Drusilla, passing on to
the back room.

There was a side window, opening upon an alley leading to the stables
where the coaches were kept.

Drusilla perceived this, and seated herself by the window to watch for
the coming of the night coach. She was in such a state of feverish
anxiety, that she could not rest. True, two great causes of uneasiness
were removed. She was in time for the coach, and she could get seats
enough; but still, in her eager impatience, she could not be at peace,
and she longed to be on her journey, to feel herself whirled swiftly
onward towards the place she was so ardently desirous to reach.

Presently she was joined by mammy, who dropped her fat self down upon a
chair, making it creak under her weight, and said, triumphantly:

“Well, honey, it’s all right, and you’ll travel as easy as if you was a
lying on your own sofy! I left that boy Leo to watch the luggidge.”

“I’m very much obliged to you; but at the same time, if the coach should
be full, and any one should want two of my places, they must have them,”
said Drusilla.

“Must they? What’s the use o’ our paying for them, if it wasn’t to keep
out all ’truders that _did_ come? If the coach wasn’t _going_ to be
full, we needn’t a paid for no extra seats, seeing as we might a had ’em
for nothing, ma’am. And don’t you think so much of other people. Think a
little more of yourself, ma’am. Take a _little_ bit of pity on yourself,
which you never does, though the Lord knows you needs it.”

Mammy’s discourse was interrupted by music as delightful to the eager
ears of Drusilla as the sublimest strains of Handel—the rumbling of the
stage-coach as it rolled out of the stable yard, and whirled around the
corner and drew up before the office door.

Drusilla was on her feet in an instant.

“Now don’t be in such a hurry, ma’am. You be quiet. Bless you, it will
be some time yet before it starts. They’ve got all the luggidge to put
up yet. Leo, he’ll call us when it’s time to get in.”

With a sigh Drusilla dropped into her seat. Moments seemed hours, and
hours months to her, until she could reach old Lyon Hall and prevent the
consummation of her Alick’s meditated crime.

At length the long wished for signal came. Leo looked into the room,
touched his hat, and said:

“Coach ready, ma’am.”

Drusilla arose in haste and excitement.

Leo loaded himself with the light luggage.

Mammy drew her big blanket shawl about her, and so they went out of the
office.

“Leo, my good boy, take great care of yourself and your sister, and of
the house and the animals, while I am gone,” said the lady.

“Yes, ma’am; you may trust me for that,” answered the boy, very
earnestly.

“And Leo, mind, go to the office every day; and if you find letters for
me, put them in the directed and stamped envelopes I gave you, and post
them with your own hand—do you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am, and will be sure to remember,” said Leo, almost weeping.

She shook hands with her servant, and sent her love by him to Pina, and
bade him good-bye.

In another moment Drusilla and her attendant were in the coach—the only
passengers there.

Drusilla sat reclining in the corner of the back seat, but mammy, who
had not yet seated herself, was fussing about, stowing away such
portable luggage as they had brought in their hands.

“There, honey!” she said, as she placed a carpet bag in the other corner
of the seat, where her lady sat, and spread a soft shawl doubled over
it, “there, that will be a tolerable pillow for you when you want to lay
down. And here’s another shawl that’ll do to spread over you. And I
reckon I might’s well take the lunching basket and umberella on to the
seat with me. And, dear knows, it looks as if we was agoing to have all
the coach to ourselves, any way; so we had no call to pay for so many
seats we might a had for nothing.”

While mammy rambled on in this manner, apparently for no other purpose
than the pleasure of hearing the sound of her own voice, Drusilla sat
gazing out of the window at her own pretty little carriage, with her
faithful boy perched upon the coachman’s seat. Poor Leo was waiting to
see his beloved mistress off before leaving the spot.

“And now let me see—whar shall I put this ’ere bundle so I won’t forget
it? And here, ma’am, you better take this purty little reticule o’ yours
in with you, ’cause——”

“Nurse,” said Drusilla, drawing in her head, “you had better sit down
and be still. The coach is about to start.”

“Yes, ma’am, so I will, soon’s ever I find a convenient place for these
gum shoes in case we have to get out in the wet, ’cause you see, honey—”

The sudden starting of the coach stopped mammy’s oration short by
jerking her forward upon her hands and knees.

“Lor’ a massy upon me! This is a pretty beginning, isn’t it now? if it’s
all agoing to be like this!” grumbled mammy, as she gathered herself up,
and reeled to and fro with the swinging action of the coach before she
could recover her equilibrium and take her seat.

Drusilla, who was looking out of the window, and waving her hand in a
last adieu to her poor devoted servant, did not perceive mammy’s
summersault or her complaints.

The coach swung on at a fearful rate until it reached Fourteenth street,
where it stopped at the great hotel there.

“I s’pects here’s where they’re gwine to pick up the other passenger,
which sorry enough am I for it as anybody else should be intruding upon
us,” said mammy, folding her arms and sitting up as if she had been in
her own private equipage.

But Drusilla lay back in her corner, not even caring enough about her
unknown fellow-passenger to turn her eyes towards the sidewalk.

A tall young man, wrapped in a dark cloak, with its collar turned up
around his face, and wearing a cap pulled low over his brow, came out of
the hotel, followed by a porter with some luggage.

The luggage was put into the boot behind. The young man climbed up on
top.

“Oh, a outside passenger, after all, thank goodness,” said mammy,
reposing herself cautiously back upon the cushions to avoid another jar
as the horses started.

The coach thundered down Fourteenth street south, and onward until it
reached the foot of the Long Bridge, where it slackened speed, as “the
law directs.”

Ah, Heaven! what pleasing, painful memories were awakened in the poor
child’s mind and heart by the sight of this old bridge.

Upon just such a day and hour as this she had crossed it for the first
time. Then as now, the gorgeous crimson rays of the afternoon sun blazed
down upon the river, and the wintry wooded shores were reflected in deep
shadows along the reddened waters. Then as now, the scene was
transfigured by the hour into supernal beauty and glory.

But _then_ she was a newly made and blessed bride, seated by her
husband’s side and going to share his home and bless his life.

Scarcely eleven months had passed, and now, now she was recrossing the
same river, gazing on the same scene, at the same hour,—a deserted wife
though an expectant mother—a nearly heart-broken woman because an
accusing spirit, going to confront her husband, and confound his
criminal plans. And at this hour on the morrow, where should she be? At
Old Lyon Hall, bringing exposure and shame upon her guilty but still
dear Alick—bringing mortification and sorrow to his expectant young
bride—spreading consternation and gloom among the gay wedding guests.
Could she bear to do this? But perhaps at this hour to-morrow she might
be dead and “past her pain,” for who could say whether she would have
strength to live through the terrors of the scene she was so resolved to
brave?

Her mournful reverie was interrupted by mammy. The slow motion of the
coach was favorable to conversation, and mammy loved to let her tongue
run.

“You see that sunset, don’t you, ma’am?” asked the old woman, pointing
to where the sun was slowly sinking behind some long black clouds that
lay along the summits of the western hills.

“Yes, I see them.”

“That means bad weather, ma’am. All the good Indy summer goes down with
that sun, ma’am. You may take my ’sperience for that. We gwine to have
rain and wind, and may be snow and sleet. For my part I pray to the Lord
as we may reach our journey’s end before it comes too severe. When does
you expect to get there, ma’am?”

“Some time to-morrow afternoon or evening; I do not exactly know the
hour.”

The coach reached the western terminus of the bridge, passed quietly
through it, and then rapidly increasing its speed, thundered onward over
the rough old turnpike road.

Trees, houses, farms, forests flew past as the coach whirled onward up
hill and down dale, until it reached Alexandria.

It drew up in the midst of the old town, before its office, took the
address of the single passenger for whom it was directed to call,
changed horses for a fresh start, and swung around into Duke street.

What was it here that suddenly aroused Drusilla from her painful
absorption in her own troubled thoughts?

The coach drew up before the house in which she had been married!

She let down her veil, and, growing rapidly red and pale with
excitement, looked out.

Soon the door opened, and the young minister—the very one who had
performed her marriage ceremony—came out, carpet bag in hand, and shawl
over his shoulders.

“You see I am quite punctual,” he said, speaking to the gentleman
passenger on top.

The other did not reply, but probably made a sign, for the minister
nodded pleasantly, saying:

“Yes. I am coming up there to sit by you. Besides, the night is so fine
it would be a pity to box one’s self up inside.”

And with this the reverend traveller climbed to his place, and the coach
started.

Drusilla sat back in her corner and drew aside her veil. Then she saw at
the same moment mammy draw her head in from the other window and raise
her eyes with a look of astonishment.

“Well, if that don’t beat Injuns!”

“What, nurse?” inquired Drusilla.

“Why, honey, that gentleman as has just got up on top, is the Reberend
Mr. Hopper.”

“You have known him, then,” said Drusilla, with awakened interest.

“Hi, honey, why wouldn’t I know my own pastors and masters and sponsors
in baptism? Sure I does know him, good too. Didn’t I sit underneaf of
his preaching ebber since here he’s been till I come to lib long o’ you?
What you talking ’bout, honey? I knows him good as I do my own chillun.”

“Is he an Alexandria man?”

“Oh lor, no, honey, not he! He comes from the northud and hasn’t been in
these here parts moren’ a year; no, nor come to think of it, that long,
nyther; ’cause I ’members well, he come the first of last Janivary as
ebber was.”

“Then,” thought Drusilla to herself, “he could not have been but a few
days in the State before he married Alick and me.” And speaking aloud,
she asked—“What did you say his name was, nurse? I have forgotten.”

“Hopper, child! Mr. Hopper, honey; the Reberent Mr. Hopper; which
whoever heard tell of a reberent gentleman of the name o’ Hopper, which
to my thinking is more besuited a dancing-master, or a skipping-jack nor
a Methody minis’er. But so it is, honey; and I ’spose people aint to be
blamed for their misfortnit names. But what _I_ would like to know is,
what he gwine prowlywowling ’bout the country for?” said mammy.

And Drusilla shared her curiosity, though she did not answer it.

“What, indeed, could be taking this young Methodist minister, who had
married her to Alick, and who could testify to the validity of the
marriage? What _could_ be taking him on the same day, by the same
conveyance, on the same journey with herself? Could his errand have any
connection with Alick’s approaching iniquitous marriage, or with his
prior one? Indeed it looked so.

“But, nonsense, I am morbid and fanciful; the minister who married us
happens to be journeying at the same time and in the same coach with
myself, and I jump to the conclusion that he is going to the like place
on the like business. What a weak fool my sorrows have made me, to be
sure,” said Drusilla to herself, taking her imagination to task for its
vagaries.

But she could not quite stop its wanderings.

“I’ll tell you what, honey, the night is a going to be a bad one. Them
clouds over there is a banking up like mountains of soot. And the most
_I_ care for is this:—it will drive them there passengers from the top
to the inside, to moilest us,” said mammy, drawing her head in from the
window.

“Well, they have a right to come, nurse. You would not keep them out in
the rain all night, would you?”

“Yes; that I would; ’cause I want to have the coach all to ourselves,”
said mammy, positively.

It was quite dark and very cloudy when the coach reached the little,
rural town of Drainsville, where the horses were to be changed and the
passengers were to take tea.

“Come, honey; les us get out,” said mammy, hiding away some of her
treasures, while she loaded herself with others.

“I think I would rather stay here, nurse,” said Drusilla, languidly.

“No, no, no,” objected mammy, authoritatively, “not at all. I can’t
allow it. The coach will be here for a good half an hour. You get out,
and come in the house, and walk about a little to stretch your limbs;
and take off your bonnet to ease your head, and have your tea
comfortable. It will freshen you up a heap for the rest of the journey.

“And the goodness gracious alive knows as you _need_ freshening up, and
you won’t get another chance till the stage stops at Frostville to
breakfast. And that will be a good twelve hour long. Think of that, now,
and do as I ’vises of you.”

Before mammy was half through her exordium, Drusilla, convinced by her
eloquence, had risen to her feet, and was drawing her cloak around her.

She saw through the darkness her fellow-travellers from the top get off
and go into the bar-room of the neat and comfortable inn. And she gave
her hand to the guard, who kindly came around to help her to alight.

“There, Miss, there is the private door—a nice place, Miss, with a nice
landlady and a good table; shall I take you in, Miss?” he inquired,
hoisting a large umbrella, for it was now beginning to rain.

“Thanks, yes,” returned Drusilla, “the ground seems slippery.”

“This way, if you please, Miss.”

“Bad manners to your imperence, this lady is a married lady, and not a
young Miss,” said mammy, indignantly.

“Beg pardon; but I thought the madam _looked_ young,” said the guard,
laughing, yet not disrespectfully.

He took her safely across the slippery way, and showed her into a neat,
well warmed and lighted parlor, where the table was cleanly set for tea.

The landlady, a cheerful, hospitable looking person, as a landlady
should be, came to meet her.

“Would you like to go to a bedroom, ma’am?” inquired the smiling
hostess, who was led into no mistake by the child face of her guest,
because her quick and experienced eye had discovered the truth at a
glance.

“Yes, please,” answered Drusilla.

And preceded by the landlady and followed by the nurse, she was taken up
stairs to a large bed room, whose red carpet, white walls and draperies,
and bright fire, gave it a very pleasant aspect.

Drusilla sauntered about, enjoying the privilege of locomotion.

“You’ll have tea, I suppose, ma’am?” inquired the hostess.

“Yes, please; and I will have it here,” answered Drusilla, as she took
off her bonnet and laid it on the table.

The landlady left the room to issue orders.

While waiting for her tea, Drusilla washed her face and took down her
hair and combed it out, and then did it up loosely in a net, so that she
would be able to lie down and sleep with it so. Then she made the
fastenings of her clothing easy.

And by the time she had finished preparing her toilet for the night
journey, a maid-servant appeared with a tablecloth and tea tray.

Drusilla drank two cups of tea, for she was feverishly thirsty. And
then, being scolded into the measure by mammy, who assured her that two
lives depended on her feeding, she ate a buttered muffin, and the breast
of a boiled chicken with cream sauce.

Drusilla, in the child-like simplicity of her heart, would have made her
nurse sit down to the table and partake her supper.

But mammy asserted that she—Aunt Hector—knew her place. And so she
filled the slop bowl brimming full of tea, piled up a plate with three
quarters of the chicken and half a dozen muffins, went off to a distant
corner of the room, seated herself upon an old chest, ranged her supper
around her, and, with a promptness and dispatch that made her mistress
stare, she dispatched all these edibles, and announced herself in
condition to pursue her journey.

“And now if the coach is ready, I is.”

But if mammy and the coach were both ready, the passengers at the
tea-table down stairs were not; but the coach was not so very strictly
confined to time, and so it was a good quarter of an hour longer, and
Drusilla had ample leisure to put on her bonnet, and to pay her bill,
before she and her attendant were summoned to take their places.

The guard kindly and carefully assisted the delicate young matron into
her corner of the back seat, saying that he would warn the other
passengers who were coming in for the night that the whole of it
belonged to her.

She thanked him, and then called to her nurse to make haste and enter.

“Yes, honey, yes; I’m coming just as soon’s ever I catch my eyes on them
two little red morocky trunks, which I haven’t seen ’em since we left
Alexandry,” said mammy, who was behind the coach, engaged in a sharp
argument with both coachman and hostler.

“I tell you, woman,” said the former, “the blamed red trunks is all
right. They is inside of the boot, kivered over with the ile skin to
keep out the wet.”

“Yes, so you say; but I’d a heap rather see ’em with my own two looking
eyes. And believe you I won’t till I does,” snapped mammy.

“There then, blast you, look for yourself,” said the hostler, pulling
apart the leathern flaps of the boot.

Mammy peeped through the aperture, and seeing the treasure safe, she
smiled and said:

“Thank ye, sir. Sorry to give you trouble; but seeing is believing, and
nothing short of it aint.—Yes, honey; yes, honey, I’m coming now!” she
exclaimed, in answer to her lady’s repeated summonses.

Mammy tumbled up into the coach with even more than her usual blundering
awkwardness; for it was as dark as Tophet, and the guard did not seem to
consider it necessary to hold a light to such a refractory passenger.
And so mammy, after fumbling blindly about to find the seat she had
formerly occupied, turned and dropped herself heavily down upon a
gentleman’s lap. A simultaneous—

“Oh!”

A cry of pain from the victim and of surprise from the oppressor arose.

“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure; but I’m a heavy ole ’oman, and you shouldn’t
a hit up agin me.”

“Hit up agin you! Oh!” exclaimed the injured party, in a tragi-comic
groan.

At the sound of his voice Drusilla started violently, and lowered her
veil; though in fact it was too dark either to see or to be seen; for
oh! with what a thrill of vague dread she recognized Dick Hammond’s
tones, although she could not discern his face!

“I wish you wouldn’t yowl out in that onyearthly way, sir; you’ll
disturb a deliky lady I has in my charge,” expostulated mammy.

“Oh, I’ll roar you softly an’ it were a sucking dove, and bear my
tortures with the patience of a slaughtered lamb,” laughed Dick, in a
lachrymose manner.

“I hope it aint as bad as all that, sir. Take a sup o’ brandy out of my
bottle,” said mammy, feeling about all the vacant seats with her big
hands.

At this instant the coach started so suddenly with such a violent lurch,
that mammy was jerked back, and precipitated upon the knees of the
unlucky Dick. And in scrambling upon her feet she laid hold of his hair
to help herself up by.

“Outch!” screeched the victim. “She’s finished me now. She has scalped
me and broken both my legs. I know they’ll have to be amputated!”

“Very sorry, sir, I’m sure,” said mammy, as she reeled about with the
swinging of the coach, and finally dropped into a vacant seat. “Very
sorry, but you _will_ keep a hitting up agin me. I hope you aint hurt
much?”

“Hurt much? I tell you you have crushed both my knees to a pulp, and I
know I shall have to get them taken off.”

“Very sorry, sir! but I can recommend you to a doctor as saws legs off
beautiful, and likewise to a upholster who sells elegant wooden ones,”
said mammy, sympathetically.

“Many thanks! But how about my head? You have pulled two great handfuls
of hair out by the roots, and I know I shall have to get the rest
shaved!” laughed and groaned Dick.

“Well, sir, I can direct you to a gentleman of the barbarous line of
business, who will shave your head as clean as a peeled potaty, and sell
you a lovely false wig.”

“A million of gratitudes! When I require your valuable guidance I will
seek it. But for the present, I begin to suspect that my limbs were not
quite crushed, but only benumbed; and instead of being scalped outright
I have only lost a handful of hair,” said Dick, as he settled himself
comfortably in his seat, and subsided into silence.

“How does you feel now, honey? Is you comformerble?” inquired mammy, in
a low tone, addressing her charge.

She received no answer.

“I do b’lieve how she’s sleep. How is you getting along, honey?”
repeated mammy. But with no better success.

“I do ’spose she _is_ ’sleep! But, Lor’, I daren’t go nearer to her to
see for fear I should fall on her, and mash her, which would be
dreadful. Tell me if you is asleep, honey; ’cause if you is I won’t wake
you up,” said mammy, raising her voice, and listening attentively.

But still she received no reply,

“Wonder what’s the matter with her?” muttered mammy, uneasily.

“She’s asleep,” answered Dick.

“Well, if she’s ’sleep, why couldn’t she tell me so when I axed her?”

“She has told you so,” replied Dick.

“Lor’! why she hasn’t said a single word!”

“No; but she has told you so in the only way a sleeper could,—by her
silence. If she had been awake, she would have spoken; wouldn’t she?”

“Sure enough; I never thought of that before. See what it is to have a
head-piece. But is you sartain sure she is asleep?”

“Certain sure,” answered Dick, bending forward, and listening to the
soft, low, regular breathing of his invisible fellow-passenger.

“Well, thank Goodness for that!” said mammy, as she settled herself to
rest.

The stage-coach had been thundering on its way at a tremendous rate for
several miles, but now it had to cross a broad but shallow stream and to
go slowly.

Suddenly, Dick yawned, and then, addressing his fat neighbor, inquired:

“Does your ladyship object to smoking?”

“Yes, sir,” replied mammy, sharply; “my ladyship _do_ very much so,
indeed; and so do my missus,—which, sleeping or ’waking, I believe it
would make her sick.”

“Oh, your missus! True? Well, let’s see what sort of weather it is
outside—though, in point of fact, I had rather bear the rain than
forbear my cigar,” said Dick, as he opened the window and looked forth
into the blackness of the night.

The rain had ceased and the clouds had parted as with the promise of
clearing off entirely. A few stars were shining out.

“Come; not so bad a night after all. I have been out in worse. And as
soon as we get upon dry land again, I think I will climb up on top and
take a smoke. Eh, what do you say, Aunty? Shall I help you up also? I
know you’d like your pipe!” said Dick.

“I scorn your insiniwations, sir, and I ’vises of you, if you is agoing
out in the damp night air, as you’d better take care and not get cold in
your ‘raw head and bloody bones,’ as you was a-complaining of.”

“Thanks for your caution, Aunty. I shall be sure to profit by it,”
laughed Dick.

And then as the coach was slowly crawling out of the mud that bordered
the shallow stream, he called the coachman to halt.

“I wish to get up on top,” said Dick.

And when the man complied with his wishes, Dick left his seat and went
up.

There now remained two other passengers besides Drusilla and her
attendant. These were two gentlemen that occupied the corners of the
front seat, with their backs to the horses. But they sat so quietly that
but for their breathing and an occasional cough or low-toned word, mammy
would have been unconscious of their presence.

And now Drusilla bent forward and cautiously touched the nurse, and
whispered:

“Mammy, come and sit by me. I have something to say to you. Don’t answer
me aloud, but do as I tell you.”

“Lor’, honey, is you waked up? It was that there man a-making of his
noise, getting outn’t his seat. Some people can’t never keep quiet. But,
honey, I’m afraid if I moves I might fall on you,” said mammy.

“No, you won’t; we have no jolts here. Guide yourself by the left side
of the seat, and I will give you my hand.”

“Yes, honey,” said the old woman, and slowly and carefully she changed
her “base,” and safely reached the haven beside her mistress.

“Nurse,” whispered Drusilla, “I have not been asleep.”

“My! haven’t you, honey? Why didn’t you answer me, then?”

“Because I did not wish to talk. That gentleman who got in just the
moment before you, is a passenger that was picked up at Drainsville, he
is the same person who brought me the bad news yesterday.”

“Don’t say!”

“Hush! speak very low; we are not alone, you know.”

“And to think I never knowed him agin.”

“That is not strange. It is quite too dark for you to have seen his
face. I only knew him by his voice.”

“Well, I heard his woice too; but I didn’t know it agin.”

“You heard it only in a moment of terror, and when its very sound was
unnatural. It is not strange that you should not have recognized it
again.”

“Well, I’m sure! Where’s he going?”

“I don’t know, nurse. Probably where _we_ are going. But I do not wish
him to recognize _me_, lest he should like me to talk; and I cannot talk
of my affairs. I say this to caution you. Be on you guard.”

“Yes, honey, I’ll be on my guard. And you may keep yourself dark during
the night; but I don’t see how you gwine to manage when it is daylight.”

“I must keep my veil down,” said Drusilla.

“Well, honey, I hope you will succeed.”




                             CHAPTER XLIV.
                             HOW SHE SPED.

           The night drave on * * *
           The wind blew as ’twad blaun its last,
           The rattling showers rushed on the blast,
           The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed.
           Deep, lang and loud the tempest bellowed,
           From heav’n the clouds pour all their floods,
           The doubling storm roars through the woods.—BURNS.


Light here and there, like sparks of fire in seas of darkness. Darkness
within and without. The two red lamps that flanked the coachman’s seat,
the single lantern carried by the guard, and the bright point of Dick’s
cigar as he sat smoking on the top of the coach, only seemed by contrast
to make that darkness deeper.

The coach slowly clawed up a long hill at the summit of which was a
country inn, with its usual accessories of grocery-store, blacksmith’s
shop and post-office.

Here all was cheerful bustle, with the glancing lights, the voices of
men, the tramp of steeds, and all the merry movement of a way station.

And here the coach stopped to change horses.

The outside passenger jumped down and went into the little bar-room of
the inn, which Drusilla could see from her window was half filled with
country loafers and village politicians, drinking, smoking, discussing
the news, and settling the elections. In two minutes the outside
passenger was “hail fellow, well met,” with every one of them, and
generously treating the whole company with the best in the bar. Ah, poor
Dick!

Meanwhile the guard came to the coach door with his lantern, and
inquired if any of the ladies or gentlemen desired to get out for
refreshments, as they should stop there fifteen minutes.

The two gentlemen on the front seat at once left the coach. As they got
out, Drusilla saw that one was the Reverend Mr. Hopper. The other was
the stranger they had taken up first in Washington.

When they had disappeared, the guard turned to Drusilla and repeated his
question, whether she or her attendant would like to leave the coach.

Drusilla politely declined to do so. But mammy got up and tumbled out of
the coach, and called to one of the hostlers;

“Hey! I say! Come here, you sir, and fetch a light this way.”

The man who was thus summoned, thinking that some accident had happened,
ran to the spot, demanding:

“What is it?”

“I want you just to look in that there leather place behind, and see if
them there little red morocky trunks is all right.”

“Blast you and your trunks too! Who do you think is going to be bothered
with them?” angrily retorted the man as he left her.

“Come in, nurse. Oh, _do_ come in,” pleaded Drusilla, from the window.
“I am _sure_ the trunks are all safe.”

But mammy was not in a very compliant humor. She ran splashing through
slop and mire, and burst into the bar-room, exclaiming:

“Oh, do, kind gentlemen, some of you come out and see if them there two
little red morocky trunks of the madam’s is all right.”

The company around the fire stared at her in astonishment and ridicule.

But Dick, the most good-natured of all creatures, took up a light and
followed her.

“Here, sir,” she said, leading the way to the boot, “just you pull apart
these here flaps and hold the light so I can peep in and see.”

Dick laughingly complied with her request.

“Yes, there they is, thank goodness, safe as _yet_. Thanky’ sir. Now
I’ll get in the coach, please,” she said, with a courtesy as she
returned to the side of her charge.

“Is it raining?” inquired Drusilla.

“No, honey, but black as Beelzebub; so it must come down heavy enough
afore long. And now, honey, while them there men is all out’n the way
let me make you comfortable for the night. You come over on this middle
seat while I make you a bed on the back one.”

Drusilla complied, for she was very, very weary with sitting up so long.

Mammy, with the help of a softly-packed carpet bag, that served for a
pillow, with a clean pocket handkerchief spread over it for a case, and
two large shawls for coverings, made a very comfortable couch.

Drusilla took off her bonnet and hung it up, and loosened her hair and
her clothes, and lay down. And mammy tucked her up.

Just at this moment came the guard with a tray and a tumbler.

“One of the gentlemen from the inn has sent this to the lady with his
respectful compliments, and begs she will take it,” he said, as he
handed the oiler in at the window.

“Yes, honey, you take it, and drink it, too. It’s a hot mulled port wine
negus, spiced; and it will warm you and put you to sleep,” said mammy,
as she took the glass from the messenger and passed it to the mistress.

The poor, chilled, tired and nervous creature really needed and felt
that she needed just such a cordial at just that hour. She inhaled its
steamy, spicy fragrance with satisfaction and desire, yet she hesitated
to take it.

“I don’t know who sent it, nurse,” she said.

“Now what the mischief _that_ got to do with it? Do _that_ make it
hotter or worse? I s’pect the good-natured young man who ’cused me o’
scalping him and breaking of his legs sent it. But that’s nyther here
nor there. Whoever sent it, sent it in kindness; and don’t you ever
’fuse human kindness when you needs it, come from where it will, ’cause
it hurts the feelings in the saftest place. Here, honey, drink it while
it’s steaming hot—hot as love.”

“Well,” said Drusilla, taking the glass and sipping the cordial, “when
you return the glass, send word to the gentleman that I thank him very
much for his thoughtfulness in sending me this restorative, and that I
know it will do me good.”

Five minutes after, when Drusilla, having finished her cordial, was
comfortably reposing on her couch, and the guard came for the glass,
mammy delivered her message thus:

“Tell the young man as sent this that the madam says how she’s very much
obleeged to him for the hot stuff, which it has gone right to the right
place, and done her good and no mistake.”

The next moment the three gentlemen passengers took their places inside
the coach, two of them sitting on the front seat in opposite corners,
and one of them, Dick, sitting on the middle seat beside mammy.

The coach started again. The night was so dark, and the down-hill road
so steep, that its progress was cautiously slow.

The male passengers wrapped themselves closely in their “mauds,” pulled
their caps down over their eyes, and composed themselves to sleep.

Mammy opened her luncheon basket, and, having first hospitably offered
to share its contents with each and all of her fellow-passengers and
been politely refused, set to work and ate a very hearty supplementary
supper off the best it contained of food and drink, and then gathered up
the fragments and put them away.

Finally, she took off her best bonnet—of the Quaker or Methodist
pattern,—hung it up beside her mistress’s, tied a little woollen shawl
over her head, wrapped a big one around her shoulders, and resigned
herself to rest.

Soon all were sleeping except Drusilla, who, physically speaking, was
more favorably placed for sleep than any of the others. She lay very
comfortably, really rocked, not racked, by the swinging motion of the
coach as it rolled down hill. She was very tired, and so, in a bodily
sense, she almost enjoyed this soft reposing and easy rocking; but she
was not sleepy, for her mind was too active with the thoughts of what
lay around and before her.

Where was Dick Hammond and Mr. Hopper going? Who was the tall, dark
gentleman they had taken up at Washington, and who certainly seemed to
be of the same party, since she had seen him signalling to Mr. Hopper?
Was their errand in the country connected with the same sad business
that was taking herself thither?

Dick might be only going down in answer to his uncle’s invitation to the
wedding, she reflected. “But, no, not so!” she thought, instantly
repudiating the idea that Richard Hammond, after all that he had said in
reprobation of the iniquitous marriage, could possibly sanction it by
his presence.

But what then was he going for? and why was he taking Mr. Hopper and
that other gentleman—who looked as if he were in some way connected with
the law, along with him?

Was he going to denounce Alick to his uncle and cousin? Was he taking
Mr. Hopper down as a witness to Alick’s former marriage? And the
mysterious legal-looking gentleman as a prosecutor?

As these thoughts chased themselves through her mind, she clasped her
hands and moaned.

Oh, were they all three combining to go and overwhelm her Alick, and
cover him with humiliation and confusion? she asked herself; and for the
moment her Alick appeared to her, not as a criminal pursued by the just
avengers, but as a victim hunted down by relentless persecutors, of whom
she saw herself the chief.

“Oh, why—oh, why couldn’t I have kept still and let him marry his cousin
and be happy with her? Oh, Alick! oh, poor Alick! But that would have
been a crime. Ah, Heaven, how hard is my lot to have to choose between
making him wretched or leaving him criminal!” she moaned, twisting her
fingers and weeping.

She dreaded the coming of the morning. She feared the daylight that
might discover her face to these men, who she thought were confederated
to ruin her husband. She dreaded their recognizing and speaking to her.
But she was determined to have nothing to say to them, or to do with
them; for, under present circumstances she felt that any intercourse
between her and them would look too much like entering into their
conspiracy. And now her whole gentle soul revolted in horror from those
three harmless and unconscious gentlemen, who were reclining on the
seats before her, and “sleeping the sleep of innocence.”

Yes; all in the coach were at rest except herself. Nor could she, with
all her mental distress, very long resist the influences that were
wooing her to repose. Her excessive bodily fatigue, combined with the
soporific qualities of the spiced cordial she had taken, the swinging
motion of the coach and the lulling sound of the falling rain, soon
overcame her consciousness, and she too slumbered in forgetfulness of
all her sorrows.

She slept on for several hours, until she was awakened by the flashing
of lights, the hallooing of men and the trampling of beasts, as the
coach stopped to change horses at one of the nosiest post-houses on the
road.

The other passengers were aroused at the same time.

Mammy awoke from some dream of her professional duties, yawned,
stretching her jaws almost to dislocation, and thereby discovering a
most fearful abyss, and still dreaming, exclaiming:

“Yaw-aw! Yes, honey! Tell the madam I’ll be up and dressed in one
minute. And tell that boy to run for the doctor. Ow! Yaw-aw!”

But at this noisy station the people were very active. And before the
good woman could collect her faculties the coach started, and she
herself was again precipitated down into the land of “Nod.”

Drusilla could not sleep again, so to ease her position she sat up and
reclined back in the corner of her seat, and in a dreamy, half-conscious
condition she gazed through the opposite window.

At first it seemed but a solid wall of darkness past which the coach was
so swiftly whirling; but gradually, as her eyes accustomed themselves to
the circumstances, this darkness grew less opaque, this obscurity less
impenetrable, until at length she could dimly discern the boundaries of
mountains, valleys, forests, and the outlines of rocks, trees and
buildings.

At long intervals she could perceive the form of some solitary
farm-house, with its barn, shed, cattle-pen, field, orchard and garden.
Half waking, she would wonder who lived and worked there; and half
sleeping, she would people the place with the beings of her dream.

Sometimes she saw a lonely woodcutter’s cottage on the edge of a forest,
and vaguely conjectured what sort of life its denizens led. Once in such
a place she saw a single light burning in the tiny window of a little
upper chamber, in the interior of which the shadow of a woman was
bending over the shadow of a sick-bed. She had but a glimpse of all
this, as the coach rolled past, yet her ready sympathies went forth to
the poor watcher and the suffering invalid.

Once she was treated to a brilliant picture in the darkness—an oasis in
the desert. It was a bran new, commodious country house, well seated on
a hill; lights were glancing from every window; music was borne forth
upon the wind; even in that inclement weather, somebody seemed to be
giving a great party and to be keeping it up all night. But before she
could observe more the coach had rushed by and left the festive scene
far behind.

Once she noticed a little road-side hut, and in its doorway, a poor, old
woman, thinly clad, holding a lantern in her hand and bending outward in
an attitude of intense anxiety, as if looking for some one. “In her poor
way, she is watching and waiting, as I used to do. Has she a husband, or
perhaps a son, who is breaking her heart?” mused Drusilla, as the coach
swung onward and left this sad picture also in its rear.

Such signs of life, however, were very rare, on that lonely road, at
that late hour. The few hamlets, farms and huts they passed were for the
most part shut up, dark and silent as graves.

But they were now penetrating deeper and deeper into the mountain
fastnesses; and farm-houses and villages were fewer and farther between.
For miles and miles nothing but the most savage solitudes loomed in the
blackness of darkness through which they passed. And Drusilla, reclining
back in her corner, dreamily gazing forth through the rain-dimmed window
upon this obscure scene, vaguely wondered when these solitudes would be
peopled, when this wilderness would “bloom and blossom as the rose.”

And so, while all her fellow-passengers were deeply buried in
unconsciousness, she dreamed on her waking dream. But often in the midst
of these reveries the sudden sharp recollection of her own trouble
pierced her heart like a sword and drew from her lips a bitter groan.
Then again the influence of the scene and hour, the obscurity, the
picturesqueness, the rocking motion of the coach, the soothing sound of
the falling rain without, the silence and stillness of all within,
lulled her senses to repose if not to sleep.

Thus, slumbering, dreaming, starting, waking, she passed this weird
night, that ever in her after life seemed to her less like the reality
than like the phantasmagoria of a hasheesh-conjured vision.

Towards morning, being very much wearied with sitting up, she lay down
again, and, as is usual with uneasy sleepers, just at daylight she fell
into a deep and dreamless sleep.




                              CHAPTER XLV.
                          DRUSILLA’S ARRIVAL.

                  What shall she be ere night?—BYRON.


She slept profoundly and until she was rudely awakened by a shock of
noise and action.

It was now broad day, and it was raining hard. The coach was drawn up
before the door of the large, low building, the one hotel in the
mountain hamlet. Hostlers and porters were crowding around it.

Drusilla lay quietly in her shadowy recess, resolved not to move until
the male passengers had left the stage, which she saw they were
preparing to do.

First, Dick Hammond climbed over mammy, who was still fast asleep, and
got out. Then the minister and the lawyer, one after the other,
surmounted the same obstruction and passed on the same way. And these
three gentlemen went into the bar-room.

But mammy slept on.

Drusilla sat up and quickly tightened her own dress and put on her
bonnet. And then she tried to wake her attendant, but without success;
for mammy did nothing but yawn and talk in her sleep and settle herself
to rest again; until the guard came, and, shaking her roughly, shouted
in her ears:

“Come, come, old woman! wake up and get out! the coach stops here to
breakfast.”

“Yaw! yaw! I just said how it would be! I know’d it would happen before
morning!” said mammy, yawning fearfully and then opening her eyes and
exclaiming:

“Oh, dear! why, what’s this? Where is we, to be sure? Oh, I members!
This must be Frostville. And now I wonder if them there little red
morocky trunks is safe?”

“Yes, yes, nurse, of course they are safe. And now come and do let us
get into the hotel as quickly as possible,” said Drusilla, impatiently,
for she saw that the people in charge of the stage were vexed at the
delay.

“Why, Lor’, honey, is _you_ awake at last? Well, I declare! How sound
you _did_ sleep all night, to be sure! and a blessed thing for you, too;
but as for me, I couldn’t close my eyes all the whole night, for
watching of you, and thinking of them there two little red morocky
trunks. I wonder if they _is_ safe,” said mammy, uneasily.

“Yes, yes, blame you! Come, get out! I can’t stop here waiting on you
all day,” said the guard, half angrily. And with very little ceremony he
bundled the old woman out of the coach.

And then he hoisted an umbrella, and held it over the delicate young
invalid as he helped her to alight, and led her across to the private
door of the hotel.

Mammy followed, dragging all her belongings, and grumbling:

“I haven’t seen them there little red morocky trunks yet, which it is my
private belief that the guards is in league with the highway robbers,
same as they say the p’lice is with the burglarians in the towns; and
they ’wides spiles, share and share alike, that I do. Goodness knows,
one needs to have one’s eyes all around one’s head, and all of ’em wide
open all the time, to watch these fellers.”

“Nurse, be quiet. The trunks are safe; or, if they are not, the loss is
mine,” said Drusilla.

“The loss may be yours, but the illconweniency is mine, ma’am. How in
the world am I to do my perfessional dooty without my proper
conveniences?” inquired mammy.

But before her question could be answered, the guard had conducted her
mistress into the best parlor of the humble hotel.

It was a very pleasant place to come into out of the rain; a spacious
room with a low ceiling, and an ample fire-place with a huge fire of
pine and oak wood roaring and blazing up the chimney; on the floor a
home made carpet; at the windows, home made blue paper blinds; along the
walls, country manufactured chip-bottomed chairs and chintz-covered
sofas; over the wooden mantel-piece, the oldest fashioned looking-glass,
ornamented with peacock’s feathers;—altogether it was a room breathing
of real rustic life, and very refreshing after velvet carpets, satin
damask draperies, gilded chairs, and cheval mirrors.

Many doors opened from this large, low parlor into many other rooms, for
in this mountain region the houses were all built on one floor and of
one story, to protect them from injury by the high winds of that
locality.

Drusilla stood for a little while before this beautiful fire, basking in
its genial warmth; and then to relieve her long cramped limbs, she
walked up and down the cheerful room and looked through the windows upon
the busy scene without, in which landlord, postmaster, coachman, guard
and hostlers seemed all to take an important part.

Tired of this view, she turned from the windows, and then, from an open
door on the left side of the fire-place, she had a view of the long
coffee-room, in which was set forth a very inviting breakfast. There all
her fellow-passengers, as well as many other persons, were impatiently
waiting for the signal to sit down to the table.

Drusilla not wishing to join this company, went to the bell and rang it
peremptorily.

A chamber-maid answered the summons.

“Can I have a bedroom at once?” inquired the lady.

“Oh, yes, ma’am, certainly. This way, if you please,” smiled the woman,
opening one of the many doors and leading the way into an inner chamber
of the same general character as the parlor, except that it was
furnished with a bed and a toilet table, with pure white dimity
hangings, and a wash-stand with a plenty of fresh water and clean
towels.

Drusilla threw herself into the white draperied easy chair, before the
blazing wood-fire, and then inquired—

“Can I have breakfast for myself and my attendant served here?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am, certainly,” assented the woman, in what seemed to be
her stereotyped phrase.

“Then I would like to have it soon, if you please,” said Drusilla.

The girl went away to execute her orders.

Drusilla, left alone with her nurse, laid off her bonnet, and bathed her
face and hands and arranged her hair.

While engaged in this refreshing process, she overheard voices speaking
in the parlor she had just left.

They appeared to belong to Dick and his companions, and they seemed to
be discussing with the landlord the speediest manner in which to
prosecute their journey.

“You say the new Bee-line of coaches across country is started,
landlord?” spoke Dick.

“Yes, sir; started on Monday. The road was first opened on Saturday.”

“At what hour do they pass here?”

“At half-past ten, sir, almost to a minute.”

“And they pass directly through Hammondsville?”

“Directly, sir.”

“And Hammondsville is within six or eight miles of Old Lyon Hall, while
Saulsburg is nine or ten miles off. Besides, at Hammondsville, I shall
be near enough to my place, Hammond Hill, to get my own horses, with
altogether a better chance of reaching our destination to-night. Come! I
have a good mind to have my luggage taken off, and to wait for the
Bee-line coach. What do you say, gentlemen!” inquired Dick.

“I say that we had best first be sure that we can get places in the new
coach before we give up our seats in the old one. ‘A bird in the hand is
worth two in the bush,’ you know,” answered the lawyer.

“What are the chances of our obtaining places, landlord?” inquired the
clergyman.

“How many places do you want, gentlemen?” inquired ‘my host.’

“Only three; and, rather than miss, we would not mind taking outside
places.”

“Oh, be at ease, sir; I can almost insure you places on these terms,
either outside or inside. At this season of the year, the coaches are
very seldom crowded.”

“All right!” said Dick, “I will go and have our luggage taken off this
one.”

“Thank Heaven, we are going to lose our fellow-passengers!” exclaimed
Drusilla.

“I thanks Heaven, too, for that same. But long’s that young man’s gwine
to have his luggidge took off I must go and see that he don’t get hold
of them there two little red morocky trunks,” said mammy, starting off
for the door.

“Indeed you shall do no such thing,” said Drusilla, laying hold of her.

“But why musn’t I then?”

“Because in the first place the trunks are in no sort of danger.
Gentlemen are not thieves.”

“Oh, indeed!”

“And in the second place, I would rather lose the whole of our luggage
than have that gentleman recognize you, as I believe he fortunately
failed to do last night. Sit down and keep quiet. I insist upon it,
nurse!”

The old woman dropped down into a chair, grumbling.

“And I’d like to know what we is to do if them there two little red
morocky trunks is lost or stolen!”

“The risk is mine alone, nurse. And now hush, for here is the waiter
come to lay the cloth for our breakfast,” said Drusilla.

Very soon a most delicious morning meal was laid before them—fragrant
coffee, maple-sugar, rich cream, hot rolls, fresh butter, venison
steaks, pure honey—luxuries to be found in their perfections only on the
mountains.

Mammy inhaled the aromas arising from this breakfast table as though
every breath was a delight. She coaxed and scolded her mistress into
making a very good meal.

And then she made a very much better one herself.

After this they prepared to resume their journey.

In going out to take her seat in the coach, Drusilla drew down her veil
to avoid recognition, in any chance-meeting with Mr. Hammond. She need
not have done so, for poor Dick was in the bar-room treating his
friends.

The weather was worse than ever. From the clouds above the rain was
pouring in torrents; from the valleys below the vapors were rising in
heavy fogs. The boundaries of the mountain scenery were lost in mist.

The day was as dim with a white obscurity as the night had been with a
black one.

Drusilla and her attendant had the inside of the coach all to themselves
for the next few hours.

Drusilla, almost worn out with her journey, reclined at nearly full
length upon the back seat.

Mammy, having asked and obtained leave, lay down upon the front seat.

The remainder of their journey passed monotonously enough, being varied
only by the stopping of the coach at the regular post-houses to change
horses, and by the altercations between mammy and the guard relative to
the safety of “them there two little red morocky trunks,” which the
guard mentally consigned to the demon full fifty times before they
reached their destination.

About noon they stopped to change horses at a small hamlet, where they
were joined by other passengers—two honest, good-humored-looking
countrymen, who immediately upon their entrance, began to talk of the
great wedding which was to come off that same night at Old Lyon Hall.

From their talk Drusilla understood that she was approaching the
neighborhood of the old manor.

Deeply interested in the subject of their conversation, she first forced
herself to listen calmly, and then to speak.

“Can you tell me how far we are from Old Lyon Hall?” she inquired of the
elder man.

“Well, goodness, no, Miss, not exactly; though if I were to hazard a
guess, I should say betwixt twenty and thirty miles, more or less,”
answered the man.

“What is the nearest point at which the road passes the hall?” she next
inquired.

“Well, for the life of me, Miss, I could not tell! But the nearest
stopping-place is Saulsburg; and that’s pretty near twenty miles off
here, I know. Might you be going to the Old Hall, Miss?” inquired the
traveller, feeling quite free to follow her example and ask questions in
his turn.

“I am going to Saulsburg,” answered Drusilla, evasively.

“Ah!—There’s to be a grand wedding at the old Hall to-night, Miss,” said
the traveller.

“So I have heard,” coldly answered Drusilla, almost regretting that she
had opened a conversation with this traveller, and wishing now to close
it.

But the good man was well started on the great subject of the day and
the place, and he would talk of nothing but the wedding, and to nobody
but Drusilla, thinking, doubtless, that a lady, and a young lady too,
would be most likely to feel interested in the theme.

Fortunately for Drusilla, her talkative fellow-passenger got out at the
very next stopping-place.

Now, having passed the greatest range of the mountains, they were coming
into a rather better settled portion of the country, and way-passengers
were getting in or out at every post-house; and the theme of
conversation with every one of these was—not the crops, nor the races,
nor the elections, but—the grand wedding to come off that night at old
Lyon Hall.

About three o’clock in the afternoon they reached the little hamlet of
Saulsburg, consisting merely of a small inn and a half a dozen cottages,
nestled at the foot of the Wild Mountain and upon the banks of the Wild
River.

Here Drusilla and her attendant got out, in a pouring rain.

The kind-hearted guard hoisted his large umbrella, and led her into the
shelter of the little inn parlor, and then went back to the coach to see
to the removal of her luggage. He found mammy in high dispute with the
porter—subject of debate, of course, “them there two little red morocky
trunks.”

“Here they are!” said the guard, as the treasures were taken from the
boot and set upon the ground; “here they are, blast ’em, and I’m blowed
if I don’t wish I may never set eyes on you or your blamed trunks again
as long as ever I live in this world.”

“And so I sees my little red morocky trunks safe, I shan’t tear the
clothes offen my back for grief if I never sees _you_ again; so there
now!” retorted mammy, as she loaded herself with shawls, carpet-bags,
and umbrellas, and followed the porter who carried the precious little
trunks into the house.

The luggage was all set down in the hall, and, leaving it there, mammy
went into the parlor, where she found her mistress still in her
travelling dress, impatiently walking up and down the floor.

“I want to see the landlord, nurse. I have rung twice, but no one has
come. You go and try to find him and bring him here. I must have a
carriage to convey me to Old Lyon Hall this afternoon.”

“My goodness! ain’t you tired of travelling yet? And must you set off on
another journey again directly,” exclaimed mammy, in dismay.

“I am not at the end of my first journey yet, nurse, nor shall I be
until I reach old Lyon Hall. It is there that I am bound. So go now and
call the landlord to me,” urged Drusilla.

Before mammy could either obey or expostulate, the landlord himself came
in, in answer to Drusilla’s first summons.

“Can I have a close carriage immediately, to take me to old Lyon Hall?”
anxiously inquired Drusilla.

The landlord looked surprised at such an unusual demand and, after
staring and rubbing his head, answered, slowly:

“Why, bless your heart, Miss, there ain’t such a thing as a close
carriage in the whole willage!”

“Well, an open one then—any sort of one, so that it can be got ready at
once,” said Drusilla, impatiently.

“But there ain’t any sort of a carriage about the place, Miss.”

“A gig, then, a gig would do,” said Drusilla, eagerly.

“We haven’t got such a thing, Miss.”

“Good heavens, sir, I _must_ have some conveyance to take me to Old Lyon
Hall this afternoon. I do not care what it costs!” said Drusilla,
desperately.

“Oh, you’ll be on your way to the wedding there, Miss?”

“Yes, yes, I am going there. Can you get me a conveyance of some sort
from some one in the neighborhood? I will pay well for the use of any
sort of a carriage to take me to the old hall. And I will pay you well
for your trouble in getting it for me. Answer, quickly—can you?”

“Dear me, how anxious young folks is for weddings, to be sure!—Stay,
let’s see—Yes! There’s old Mr. Simpkins—he would hire his carryall, I
know, and glad to do it.”

“Get it, then! I will pay whatever he asks. How long will it take you to
get it?” asked Drusilla, breathlessly.

“Why, you see,” said the landlord, very leisurely, “Old man Simpkins he
lives about a mile from here; and if I put a boy on horseback and send
him right off we might get the carryall here at the door inside of an
hour.”

“Do it then at once; pray hurry! I will pay you in proportion to the
haste that you make.”

The leisurely landlord sauntered out of the parlor to give his
directions.

Drusilla paced up and down the floor in great excitement. The nearer she
came to her journey’s end the more anxious and agitated she felt.

Mammy stood and watched her in growing wonder. Suddenly mammy spoke out:

“What wedding this they all talking ’bout? I thought we was agoing to
see a wery sick man, not a wedding.”

“Perhaps to see both, nurse! But pray do not talk to me if you can help
it. I am scarcely sane!”

“Which such has been my opinion for some time past,” said mammy,
sententiously, leaving her patient to pace up and down the room until
the latter had paced off some of her excitement.

The landlord put his head into the door, saying:

“The boy has gone after the carriage, Miss, and you may rely on his
being back here in an hour’s time.”

“Thanks. How far do you really think it is from this place to old Lyon
Hall?”

“Why Miss, some people calls it ten miles, but I don’t believe it is
more than eight at the outside.”

“And how long will it take for me to get there?”

“Let me see,” said the landlord in his leisurely way. “It’s three
o’clock now, ain’t it? Yes—well, the boy’ll be back by four, and if you
start then you’ll get there by six or seven. You’ll be there in time to
dress for the wedding, Miss, which I hear is to be performed by special
license at eight o’clock in the evening.”

“Very well. Thank you.”

“And now, Miss, is there anything else we can do for you?” inquired the
slow host.

“No; thanks. Yes! you may send a chamber-maid here,” replied Drusilla,
incoherently, for in her intense excitement she scarcely knew what she
was in need of, or what she was talking about.

When the host had taken his little round head out of the doorway, mammy,
who had kept silence for some time, said:

“Now, ma’am, if so it is that you _will_ go farther and fare worse
to-night, and if you have an hour before you I strongly ’vises of you to
take a bedroom and lie down until it is time for you to start, and then
to take a cup of tea before you _do_ start. You must keep up your
strength. If the matter you come ’bout is so very important, it won’t do
for you to break down, you know.”

Drusilla stopped in her excited walk and reflected. The advice of the
nurse was very good. There were other reasons besides care for her own
comfort to induce her to engage rooms here. For one thing, she intended
to leave her nurse in charge of the luggage, for she was resolved to
have no more witnesses to the humiliation of her poor Alick than was
absolutely unavoidable; and for another thing, she was resolved to stay
no longer at the Old Hall than was necessary to do her painful errand
there, but to return as soon as possible to the inn. Therefore, she
answered mammy assentingly:

“You are right, nurse. You generally are so, in fact. Here comes the
chamber-maid I sent for, and I will order rooms.”

A bright-eyed negro girl stood in the doorway, curtseying and waiting
orders.

In a few words the lady gave them.

The girl went away to obey them.

And in ten minutes Drusilla found herself in a small, clean, warm room,
where she unloosed her clothes and lay down upon the bed, and, overcome
by fatigue and excitement, fell fast asleep.

“Well, thank the Goodness Gracious for that. But who in the world would
have thought it?” said mammy, as she quietly closed the shutters and
darkened the room, and sat down to watch by her patient to try to guard
her from disturbance until the carriage should come.

But the landlord’s hour stretched to two, and still the carriage did not
appear and still the sleeper slept on.

At last, however, mammy heard the sound of wheels.

She went to the window, cautiously unclosed the shutters, looked out,
and saw the most dilapidated old carryall she had ever set her eyes upon
approaching the house.

“That’s it! and a purty object it is!” said mammy, as she went and
looked to see what time it was by her mistress’s watch that lay upon the
dressing-table. It was a quarter past five.

“Oh, dear me!” said the old woman in dismay, “when she finds out how
late it is, and she so anxious to be off, she’ll just go and fling
herself into fits, and then there! Let see! I gwine save her all that,
and ’ceive her for her own good.”

And so saying, mammy opened the watch and turned back the hands from a
quarter _past five_ to a quarter _to four_.

Then she stole out of the room and told the waiter to bring a cup of tea
and a round of toast upstairs quicker than he ever did anything in his
life before.

Then she went back to her patient, lamenting that she must wake up out
of such a refreshing sleep.

But to her surprise and satisfaction, she found Drusilla already up and
standing before the dressing-table, looking at her watch.

“Oh, ma’am, are you awake? I’m so glad you got your sleep out! You _did_
get it out, didn’t you, honey? Nobody waked you, did they?”

“No, nurse, I woke because I had slept long enough; and I feel much
strengthened and quite equal to pursue my journey. It is ten minutes to
four. I am so glad I didn’t oversleep myself. I suppose the carriage
will be here soon.”

“The carriage has almost just this minute come, and a purty ramshackly
old concern it is too.”

“Never mind, nurse, so that it will take me to my destination. Come,
help me to dress quickly. Dear me, what a very dark afternoon,” said
Drusilla, going nearer the window for light.

“Yes, ma’am, the clouds do make it very dark indeed,” said mammy,
smiling in her sleeve at the deception she had played off upon her
mistress—“but here, ma’am, here comes the waiter with lights and the tea
tray,” she added, as she arose and set out a little table.

“I have no time to spend in eating and drinking,” said Drusilla, as she
hastily put on her bonnet.

“But you must keep up your strength, ma’am,” urged mammy leading her
charge to the table and making her sit down at it, while she herself
poured out a cup of tea and handed it to her.

“Nurse,” said Drusilla, as she received the cup from the old woman, “I
shall leave you here in charge of the—_two little red morocco
trunks_—until I return.”

“My goodness, honey, you will never think of going alone?”

“I must, nurse. There is no reason why I should not. I feel quite equal
to the ride. I am going to see my husband.”

“Well, honey, I know if you will do a thing, _you will do it_! When will
you send for me and the luggage, honey?”

“I may _come_ for you and the luggage even to-night.”

“No, you mustn’t, indeed! No use for you to do that, nyther. I reckon I
ain’t afraid to stay alone in a decent inn all night for once in a
night.”

“Very well, nurse; then you may expect me to come or send for you
to-morrow. And now here is my purse—do you pay the landlord and make
yourself comfortable. I am going now,” said Drusilla, rising to put on
her waterproof cloak.

The nurse helped her on with that and with her overshoes, and then
accompanied her down stairs and saw her safely into the old carryall.

“And here’s your umberel, honey. And you driver boy! when the madam gets
out, you be sure to hoist the umberel and hold it over her head to ’vent
her getting wet.”

“All right, ma’am, I won’t forget to do it,” said the lad, cracking his
whip, starting his old horse, and making the dilapidated vehicle rattle
and shake, at every turn of the wheels, as if it would drop to pieces.

Drusilla sat back in her seat, uncomfortably jolted in the miserable old
carriage over that rough road, until, when about a mile from the house,
it actually and hopelessly broke down.

When Drusilla was sure of this mishap, she took off her bonnet, drew the
hood of her waterproof cloak over her head, and set forth to walk the
distance to Old Lyon Hall.

Of that heroic effort, and of its successful issue—her safe arrival—the
reader is already informed.




                             CHAPTER XLVI.
                         THE DESPERATE REMEDY.

              Let that pass, too. There breathes not one,
              Who would not do as I have done.—BYRON.


The bride elect listened to the words of the forsaken wife, first in
surprise and incredulity, then in pity and indignation, and last in a
rapture of relief, ineffable and indescribable, and only to be equalled
by the ecstacy a condemned criminal must feel when at the last moment
before execution he receives a full pardon.

When all was told, Drusilla sat pale and despairing. Anna flushed and
resolute.

“Not for myself,” said the poor young wife, “not for myself, Heaven
knows, and not for you, but for his sake have I done this thing—to save
him from doing, in his madness, a deed that the law might construe into
a crime and punish with degradation. But oh, Miss Lyon, forgive me if in
coming here I have brought you much sorrow!”

“Hush! you have brought me no sorrow, but a great deliverance,” said
Anna with a sigh of infinite relief.

“Then you never loved him—as I do!” exclaimed Drusilla, raising her
large eyes, full of questioning wonder to the face of Anna.

Miss Lyon smiled haughtily, for all reply.

“That, at least, is well,” mused the young wife.

Anna arose, still flushed and resolute.

“Give me that document of which you spoke, my child,” she said,
extending her hand.

Drusilla drew from her bosom the little black silk bag, took from it the
piece of paper in question, and laid it before Anna.

Anna read it over, with smiling eyes and a curling lip.

“Does it prove or disprove my marriage?” anxiously inquired Drusilla.

“I cannot tell, Drusilla; I do not know. But so much is certain—_your_
fate, Alick’s, and your unborn child’s, and also my fate and Dick’s—all
hang upon this precious little piece of paper, for which I would not
take a mint of money,” said Anna, earnestly.

“And yet you cannot tell me whether it proves or disproves my marriage.”

“No; for I am not sufficiently learned in the law,” said Anna, moving
towards the door.

“You are going out?” said Drusilla, uneasily.

“Yes; stay here until I come back, which will be in a few minutes.”

“Oh, Miss Lyon! Miss Lyon, do not go to him yet! And do not upbraid him
when you see him! Your provocation may have been very great, but wait
until you are cool, and then you will be just,” pleaded the young wife,
rising and laying her hands upon the lady’s robes, to stay her.

“Child, I am not going to him. And I shall _never_ upbraid him,” replied
Anna, with a superb and beautiful scorn.

“Then you go——?”

“To my grandfather’s study!”

“To denounce him to his uncle? Oh, do not—not yet, not just yet! Wait,
wait till you are calm! till you can speak only the words of justice and
mercy. Do not denounce him yet!”

“Drusilla, I am not going to denounce him now or ever. Wait _you_, and
see what I shall do!”

“What, what?”

“I shall save the miserable sinner, if he is to be saved at all!”

“But, how? oh, how?”

“Wait _you_, and trust me!” answered Anna, flashing out of the room and
taking the mysterious little document with her.

She walked—no, in the exhilaration of her spirits, she almost danced
down the hall, towards her grandfather’s little study, over the great
entrance.

As she tripped on she noticed the chamber-doors on each side wide open,
and the fire light within shining down on the polished dark oak floors.
In many of the rooms, the chamber-maids were putting on fresh logs.

“I think you need not take that trouble. I fancy there will be no
wedding guests here to-night,” said Anna, smiling, as she passed them.

“Mr. Richard has come, Miss,” replied one of the women.

“Ah!” exclaimed Anna, stopping short with a beating heart. A few seconds
she paused to recover composure, and then she rushed on.

“Well, my darling! have you come to show yourself to me in all your
bridal glory, before you go down to be married? Ah! truly, you look very
beautiful, my Anna. May Heaven make your spirit even more beautiful than
its outward form,” said the fine old soldier, reaching out his hand to
his grand-daughter, as she entered his room, and drawing her towards
him.

“I am very glad that you are pleased with me, grandfather,” she said, as
she seated herself on his knee.

“You look happier now, my Anna, than you did half an hour ago.”

“I feel happier, dear sir.”

“And what makes the difference?” he smiled.

“‘A change has come over the spirit of my dream;’ that is all,” laughed
Anna.

“Ah, my dear! feminine caprice, but I am glad of it. Well, you are
ready, Alick is ready, I am ready, and Dick is here; but we have no
bridesmaid and no minister.”

“Yes, grandpa, we have a bridesmaid!”

“Ah! I am glad of that! Which of the six young ladies is it who has
braved the storm for love of you?”

“Annie,” answered Miss Lyon, evasively, meaning our Anna Drusilla, but
wishing her grandpa to understand another Anna, as he did, for he
immediately exclaimed.

“Ah! little Annie Seymour! Well she lived nearest! and she must answer
for the whole six. But my dear, the carriage has not yet returned with
the minister.”

“The way is long and the roads are very bad. Doubtless he will come; but
it may be late. Was there a special license got out for us, dear
grandpa?” inquired Anna, speaking with assumed carelessness.

“Why, of course, there was, my dear!” answered the old soldier,
elevating his eyebrows in astonishment, at the question.

“Who got it?” dear grandpa.

“Why, Alick, to be sure! who else?”

“Who has it now, sir?”

“Bless my soul, what an inquisitive little puss. What is it to you who
has it? Are you afraid it is not all right? Would you like to inspect it
for yourself?” laughed the general.

“If you please; yes, sir, I should,” answered Anna, archly.

“Lest there should be any informality in it, eh?”

“Such things have happened, sir; but it is not the fear of that which
prompts me; for I have always had a curiosity to look at a special
marriage license; so if Alick has it, please get it from him, that I may
gratify this wish. I only want it for a few minutes.”

“Well, of all the whims of whimsical women, yours is certainly the most
absurd!”

“Will you get the license away from Alick, and let me look at it
grandpa?”

“You persist in this?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then, fortunately, I have not got to go to Alick with such a ridiculous
request as the loan of a license. I have it here with me.”

“You have it?”

“Yes. You see Alick, thinking from the state of the weather, and the
looks of things generally, that he should have no groomsman for the
ceremony, put his marriage license and the minister’s fee both in one
envelope, and requested me, when the proper time should come, to hand it
over to Dr. Barbar. But, now I hear that Dick has arrived—having so far
conquered himself as to come to the wedding. I mean to conscript him
into the service, arm him with this paper, and make him do duty as
groomsman.”

“Where is the packet, dear grandpa?”

“Here, my dear, since you must needs see the license (which the
officiating clergyman scarcely ever does, as he takes its contents for
granted), you may read it at your leisure, while I go down stairs and
inquire if my messenger has returned from the parsonage,” said General
Lyon, as he handed a white embossed envelope to the bride elect, and
then left the room.

She sank down into an easy chair and opened the envelope, which of
course was not sealed. She took out the marriage license, in which she
found folded a five hundred dollar bank note.

With a curling lip and flashing eyes she read over the form of license,
and then, with a smile of scorn and triumph, she put it on the glowing
fire and watched it blaze up and burn to ashes.

Then she took that mysterious little document given her by Drusilla,
wrapped it around the big bank note and put both in the envelope and
folded it neatly.

“Now, Mr. Alexander Lyon, whoever you may marry to-night, you will
certainty not marry me!” she mused, maliciously, as she sat and waited
for her grandfather’s return. Presently she heard footsteps coming up
the corridor; but they were not those of the old General.

She arose to her feet and her heart stood still.

Dick Hammond entered.

“Anna! You here? Pardon me, I expected only to find my uncle,” he
exclaimed, in a voice vibrating with emotion.

“Dick! dear Dick! you are welcome! Shake hands, Dick. No, take it! it is
a free hand now. I know all, Dick!” exclaimed Anna trembling with excess
of agitation.

He clasped her hand and carried it to his lips.

“I came here to tell your grandfather everything and to prove all that I
should tell. But I have been anticipated.”

“Yes, Drusilla is here.”

“I knew she was on her way. I came a night’s journey with her in the
coach. But I saw that she tried to escape recognition by me; for what
reason I could not guess; so, not to trouble her with my presence, in
the morning I got off the coach and took another route. I feared that
she would not be able to continue her journey.”

“She arrived this evening,” said Anna, calmly.

“And she has told you all?”

“All.”

“And _what_ does your grandfather think of this?”

“He does not know it.”

“How? not know it?”

“No, Dick. Drusilla told me only. I have not told my grandfather, nor do
I intend to do so.”

“Then I myself I will denounce the scoundrel to my uncle,” exclaimed
Hammond, shaking with passion.

“No, Dick, we will not denounce him. We will do a deal better than that.
Listen, Dick: My dear old grandpa says he intends to conscript you into
the service to do duty as groomsman.”

“He does!” exclaimed Hammond, with his eyes flashing.

“Yes, and, Dick, you must consent.”

“Consent! _I_ consent! Anna, do you mean this iniquitous marriage to go
on?”

“Yes, I do. And Dick, you must be groomsman and hand the license and the
fee both over to the minister. See, here they are in this pretty
envelope. Grandpa got it ready for you. So, Dick, you must do it.”

“If I do, may I he eternally consigned to the deepest pit in—”

—“Hush, Dick, and don’t go off at a tangent. Look me in the face, sir!
right in the eyes!”

“Anna, what do you mean?” he inquired, meeting her steady gaze.

“Do you see anything ‘iniquitous’ in my countenance?” she asked.

“No; but I see a mystery there.”

“A holy mystery, as I suppose a ‘pious fraud’ may be called. Now, sir,
will you open this envelope, which is to be entrusted to you, to be
delivered to the minister, and examine its contents?”

“Why,” said Dick in perplexity, as he looked at the enclosure, “this
is—”

“Yes, it _is_. I have taken advantage of my grandpa’s absence to burn my
marriage license and substitute this one. And _you_ must hand it
enclosed in the envelope, with the fee, to the minister, when we stand
up to be married. And _now_, Dick, do you begin to see daylight?”
laughed Anna.

“I think I do. Yet I do not quite comprehend yet. You mean—”

“Here comes my grandfather, and we have not a minute more for
explanation. Play the part assigned to you—blindly, if you must—and
trust me with the issue. Will you, Dick?”

“Yes, I WILL, Anna.”

“And Dick, here, listen quick!—Just before I am to be sent for, go down
into the great drawing-room and put out two thirds of the wax candles. I
want a subdued light, not an illumination there. Will you remember,
Dick, and do it yourself, so as to insure its being done?”

“Yes, Anna, I will; and now I _do_ begin to understand you.”

“Hush, here he is!” whispered Miss Lyon, as her grandfather came to the
door.

“Ah, Dick, my dear boy! how are you? so glad to see you!” exclaimed old
General Lyon, entering and holding out his hand to Richard Hammond, who
took and pressed it affectionately.

“So very glad to see you here, Dick! Your very first visit to Old Lyon
Hall! And now I shall expect you to stay and comfort me when my young
people are gone.”

“I shall be very happy to do so, sir,” answered Dick, sincerely.

“But how the deuce did you find your way here, through this wilderness
of a country, and over these dreadful roads?”

“Oh, I inquired of your protegées, the old Scotch emigrants, at the
turnpike gate,” answered Dick, laughing.

“Old Andy and Jenny. Ay, poor souls! Well, Dick, you are here in a good
hour. All our guests have failed us—groomsmen, and bridesmaids, and all,
except little Annie Seymour. And so you must play groomsman, and lead
Annie down.”

“I shall be very happy to do so, sir, if Alick desires it.”

“Oh, yes, he does. I heard that you were here, and so I looked in at
Alick’s room and mentioned the matter to him. And he declared that he
would be very much obliged if you would do him so much honor. So, you
will see it is all right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And here, Dick, is the license and the fee, both in this envelope,
which it will be your duty as groomsman to hand to the officiating
minister.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, by the way, I hear wheels, and his carriage must be coming,” said
the old gentleman, leaving the study to inquire.

Meanwhile, the bride elect had returned to her own room.

Drusilla still sat there in the easy chair, with her hands clasped upon
her lap and her head bowed upon her breast.

Anna went and took a seat beside her, and said, with earnestness almost
amounting to solemnity:

“Drusilla, if you wish to save Alick from guilt and remorse, and
yourself and your child from wrong and shame, you must place your
destiny in my hands to-night, and do as I direct you.”

The helpless young wife looked up in the lady’s face, and murmured
mournfully:

“It is a great trust you seek, Miss Lyon.”

“It _is_, Drusilla, a very great trust; yet I seek it. It is also for
you a very great trial, yet I ask you to meet it.”

“I would meet anything for Alick’s sake, Miss Lyon, if I may save him,
as you say. Please to explain yourself, Miss Lyon,” she said.

“Drusilla, you know that Alexander Lyon is waiting and expecting to
marry me to-night,” said the bride elect.

“Yes,” moaned the wronged wife.

“And my grandfather and his household are equally waiting and expecting
to witness a wedding.”

“Yes.”

“Well, they must not any of them be disappointed.”

“Ah, what do you mean?” inquired Drusilla, with an anxious sigh.

“Not to marry Alick myself, you may rest assured,” answered Anna,
disdainfully.

“Ah, no, for you could not do that.”

“Of course not, as I consider him already married. You are his wife, in
right, if not in law, Drusilla,” said Miss Lyon, emphatically.

“I _know_ I am so by right, and I _believe_ I am so by law,” answered
Drusilla solemnly.

“Yet those who know more of law than we do differ from us. And this
makes your position, Drusilla, very doubtful, very unsafe, and deeply
humiliating.”

“I know it, I feel it, through all my darkened spirit and in every pulse
of my breaking heart.”

“This state of affairs should not be permitted to exist for a moment,
especially—oh, most especially—as you are so soon to be a mother. No
question of the lawfulness of your union with Alexander Lyon should be
permitted to arise.”

“No, no, no!”

“But how to silence such questions forever, how to legalize your union
and legitimatize your child—there is the difficulty.”

Drusilla moaned, but spoke no word in answer.

“If I were to go now to Alick and tell him of your presence in the
house, and urge him to resign my hand and to do you justice, he would
not hear me.”

“No, he would not,” wailed Drusilla.

“If I were to appeal to my grandfather, the high-spirited old soldier
would—kick him out doors!”

“Ah!” gasped Drusilla, pierced more sharply by this idea of prospective
insult to her Alick than she could be by any ignomy that might cover
herself.

“Then what is to be done?” inquired Anna.

“Nothing, nothing,” sighed Drusilla. “I wish I were dead. I wish I were
in Heaven!”

“Yes; but you see we can’t die just when the whim seizes us; and if we
could, we shouldn’t go to Heaven by _that_ means.”

“Ah, Heaven have mercy! have mercy on me, for my state is desperate!”

“Yes, Drusilla, your state _is_ desperate—desperate enough to drive you
to despair.”

“Despair! I have lived in it for months. I shall die in it!”

“If you do you will never see Heaven at all. For despair is the last and
most fatal of sins. But you needn’t give up to it just yet!”

“Oh, what do you mean? What hope have I in this world?”

“The hope that lasts as long as life. Listen, Drusilla. I said that your
state was desperate—not that your cause was lost. ‘Desperate cases
require desperate remedies.’ Your case is such a one, and my remedy is
such a one.”

“What remedy have you for me? However desperate, however dangerous, I
will not refuse it or shrink from it! I would dare anything, suffer
anything, to save my Alick from his sin and win him back to me again!”
said the devoted wife, clasping her hands and gazing imploringly into
the eyes of the lady who seemed now to hold her destiny.

“Then attend to me, Drusilla, while I divulge my plan—the _only_ plan by
which you can save your Alick from present guilt and future remorse, and
yourself and your child from the greatest wrong and the deepest
shame—the only plan, Drusilla, by which you may hope to WIN YOUR WAY!”

“Speak on, tell me! I listen!” gasped Drusilla, in a breathless voice.

“Well, as I said before, Alexander Lyon is confidently hoping to lead
his bride before the minister this evening. His hopes must be
fulfilled—in you, Drusilla!”

“In me!”

“Yes, in you! You must enact the bride this evening.”

“In the name of Heaven, what is this that you are proposing to me?”
exclaimed Drusilla, gazing in wonder at Miss Lyon.

“That you shall take my place in this evening’s solemn farce and be fast
married to your husband, if you never were before,” said Anna, calmly.

“Impossible, Miss Lyon! He would reject me at first sight, and I!—I
should die of mortification!”

“Yes, if he should be permitted to recognize you, he might reject you.
But he is not to be favored with a sight of your face until he is
irrecoverably bound to you.”

“Even then he would renounce me—renounce me with maledictions.”

“Well, let him! I should thank him for freeing me, if I were you. Why
should you care, so that his great wrong to you and to his child is
righted—so that your good name is redeemed from unmerited reproach, and
your innocent child from undeserved shame? After you are fast
married—let him go, if he will, say I!”

“Oh, Miss Lyon! Miss Lyon! I never deceived any one in all my life!
Shall I begin by deceiving my dear Alick?” she said, wringing her poor
little hands again.

“Drusilla, this will be no deception, but a pious fraud—if ever there
was such a thing in the world!”

“Oh, Miss Lyon, you mean well; but I could not practise this ‘pious
fraud’ upon any one, least of all upon my dear Alick! I could not, Miss
Lyon, I could not!” fervently exclaimed the loyal young creature,
tightly clasping her hands.

“Then you accept the dishonor to which he has doomed you, rather than
clear your fame in the manner I propose?” said Anna, curling her lovely
lip.

“Yes Miss Lyon, yes; rather than force myself in this way upon my dear
Alick, if I have really no right to his name, I will accept the
undeserved shame,” said Drusilla, sadly but firmly, while the devotion
of a young martyr glowed through her beautiful pale face.

Anna nodded her head two or three times, and then said:

“So be it. You may have the right to immolate yourself upon this
idolatrous altar of your inordinate affections. But who I pray you,
young mother, who gave you the right to doom your innocent unborn child,
your poor little helpless child, to the deep degradation of
illegitimacy?” demanded Miss Lyon, solemnly fixing her eyes upon the
face of Drusilla, and seeing her mouth tremble and the big tears roll,
bead-like, down her cheeks.

“Hush! oh, in pity, hush, Miss Lyon! Do not speak of this!” she pleaded.

“But I must and will speak of it!” persisted Anna, who now discovered
that she had touched a chord in Drusilla’s heart, through which she
might draw her into the proposed plan.

And though the poor, wronged girl wept and wrung her hands, Miss Lyon
persevered in pleading this cause, mercilessly setting before the young
mother the shames and woes that must attend her child through life,
should she persist in her present resolution.

Of course, Anna gained her point.

“For the poor baby’s sake, I consent. Do with me as you will,” said
Drusilla, weeping bitterly.

“That is right. Come now and let me dress you. We have taken up too much
time in talking. We have very little left. I expect every moment to hear
that the minister has arrived,” said Anna.

And she flew to the chamber door, and turned the key.

And she quickly took off her bridal robes, and carefully dressed
Drusilla in them.

Then she placed the wreath of orange blossoms on her head, and laid the
veil of white lace over all.

“There,” said Anna, giving her a pair of white kid-gloves, “put these on
while I dress as a bridesmaid—for while you personate Miss Lyon, I must
seem to be Miss Seymour.”

Just at that moment, some one rapped softly.

Anna flew to answer the summons.

“Well, what is wanted now?” she inquired, without opening the door.

“If you please, Miss, the Reverend Dr. Barbar have come, and Mr. Alick
and Mr. Dick is both waitin’; and Master’s compliments, and is you and
Miss Annie ready to come down?” spoke the voice of Marcy from without.

“No, we are not quite ready yet, but we soon shall be. Miss Annie is
dressing. Ask them to come for us in about fifteen minutes,” said Anna.

She then hurried to her wardrobes and bureaus, selected from her large
outfit of clothing a white taffeta-silk dress, and a large white tulle
veil, and quickly and carefully disguised herself in them. So much
dispatch did she use that she, as well as Drusilla, was ready and
waiting full five minutes before the summons came for them.

“Courage now, my dear child! Remember how much is at stake, how much
depends upon your self-possession. Draw your veil closely over your
face. I will do the same with mine. They will ascribe this to our
bashfulness. You must take Alick’s arm, I shall take Dick’s. Never mind
if your hands tremble or your tongue falters—it will seem natural. Come
now!” whispered Anna to her agitated companion, as she led her to the
chamber door and opened it.

Alick and Dick stood outside.

“My adored Anna, this is the happiest moment of my existence!” gallantly
whispered Alick, as he took the half-offered hand of Drusilla, pressed
it fervently to his lips, and drew it within his arm.

She bowed in silence. It seemed all that was expected of a bride under
the circumstances.

“Miss Seymour, I believe? Yes? Well, I am very glad to meet you again,
Miss Annie, especially on this auspicious occasion,” said Dick, bending
low over the hand of Anna, and then drawing it within his own and
leading her after the bride and bridegroom who were walking before.

“Dick,” whispered Anna, “are we both well disguised?”

“Excellently,” returned Mr. Dick.

“Did you partially darken the room by putting out two thirds of the
lights?”

“I nearly quite darkened it by putting out three quarters of them. I had
a good opportunity of doing it, being alone in the drawing-room while
Alick and the parson were closeted with the governor. He—the governor I
mean—swore a few at the servants when he came down by himself to see
that all was right. But the servants all declared ignorance of the cause
of the lights going out, and as it was too late to remedy the evil he
did not attempt it.”

“Thanks, Dick. And now you understand my purpose; have you confidence in
me?”

“In your sincerity, _yes_: but in your success, _no_. I tremble for you,
Anna, lest when all is done you should find yourself fast married to
Alick. I do, indeed, Anna!”

“How foolish of you, Dick. Why, I burned the license.”

“I know you did, Anna; but—I wish you would keep as far as possible from
the side of Alick Lyon when he stands before a minister who holds a
prayer-book in his hands open at the marriage service!”

“Be at ease, Dick, I shall place Alick’s wife between me and him. I
shall consider her an insurmountable obstacle.”

“Hush, Anna, we must not talk more! we are too near them,” whispered
Dick, in a very low tone as they came up very close behind the foremost
couple.

And what were Drusilla’s feelings when she found herself again by her
Alick’s side, her hand drawn closely within his protecting arm, and
pressed frequently against his beating heart—knowing, as she did, that
he was then meditating against her the deepest wrong man could inflict
upon woman—feeling, as she did, that every caress bestowed upon her, in
his ignorance of her identity, was intended for another; and going, as
she was, to take from him, by a holy stratagem, those sacred rights of
which he had so cruelly deprived her; and to brave and bear his terrible
anger when that stratagem should be discovered, as it must be when the
rites should be over—what were her feelings?

A great medical philosopher has written that “Nature is before art with
her anesthetics.”

And Drusilla’s present state was an illustration of this. In the supreme
crisis of her fate she scarcely realized her position. She was like one
partially overcome by ether or chloroform; her head was ringing, her
senses whirling, her reason tottering; she went on as a somnambulist,
half conscious of her state, but unable to awake. It may be doubtful
whether she would now have retreated if she could; but it is quite
certain that she _could not_ have done so even if she would. She was
under a potent spell that hurried her forward with all the irresistible
force of destiny.

The drawing-room doors were thrown open. The little bridal procession
passed in.

The room, thanks to Dick, was very dimly lighted.

Upon the rug, with his back to the fire, and facing the advancing party,
stood the officiating clergyman in his surplice.

Near him was the grand and martial figure of the veteran soldier,
General Lyon.

At a respectful distance stood a group of the old family servants.

The bridal party come on and formed before the minister—Alexander and
Drusilla stood together in the center; on Alexander’s right stood
Richard, on Drusilla’s left stood Anna.

All were reverently silent.

At a signal from General Lyon; Richard Hammond put the envelope supposed
to contain the license and the fee into the hands of the minister, who
merely, as a matter of form, glanced over it and then opened his book
and began the sacred rite by reading the solemn exhortation with which
they commence.

The old, loving servants, who had hitherto kept at a reverential
distance from their masters, now drew as near the scene of action as
they dared do, so that they might hear every syllable of the ceremony
that was to unite, as they supposed, their young mistress to the husband
of her choice.

When the minister, in the course of his reading, came to these awful
words—awful at least, to one of the contracting parties, he delivered
them with great effect.

“‘If any man can show just cause, why these may not be joined together,
let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.’”

The minister made the usual formal pause, for the answer that might
often come, but never does; and then, with the most solemn emphasis, he
addressed the pair before him:

“‘I require and charge _you_, BOTH, as ye will answer at the dreadful
day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that
if either of _you_ know any impediment, why you may not be lawfully
joined together in matrimony ye do now confess it. For be ye well
assured, that if any persons are joined together, otherwise than God’s
Word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful.’”

As the minister read this dread adjuration, the face of the bridegroom
was observed to flush and pale, and his form to tremble and shake as
with a sudden ague fit.

But though the minister made the customary pause, no one spoke.

And the ceremony proceeded.

“‘Alexander, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?’” et
cetera.

And the bridegroom answered in a firm and almost defiant voice:

“‘I WILL.’”

The clergyman continued:

“‘Anna, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband?’” and so
forth.

And the bride, Anna Drusilla, faltered in whispering tones:

“‘_I will._’”

“‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’” was the next
question in the ritual.

“‘I do,’” answered the sonorous voice of old General Lyon, as he came
forward, took the hand of the bride and placed it in that of the
minister.

Then the brave old soldier stepped back and turned away his head, to
hide the tears that filled those eyes which had never quailed in the
battle’s deadliest brawl; though they wept now, at his giving away, as
he supposed the last darling of his old age.

But the minister was now joining the hands of the pair before him.

And bridegroom and bride, in their turn plighted their troth each to the
other.

Alick uttered his vows in the firm and rather defiant tones in which he
had made all his responses.

Anna Drusilla breathed hers in murmurs low as the softest notes of the
Æolian harp.

Then the ring was given and received.

The last prayers were said; the benediction was given, and the pair was
pronounced to be man and wife.

Alexander turned gaily and gallantly to salute his bride.

Miss Lyon, as bridesmaid, lifted the veil.

And the faithless husband stood face to face with the forsaken wife!

“‘DRUSILLA!!’”

He uttered but that one word, and reeled backward, white and ghastly, as
if stricken by death.

Drusilla stood pale and mute her head sunk upon her bosom, her hands
hanging by her side.

The parson, in his panic, dropped his prayer-book, and stood gazing in
consternation.

General Lyon bent forward in astonishment and perplexity.

Dick was looking on in amusement.

And Anna smiling in triumph.




                             CHAPTER XLVII.
                               EXPOSURE.

              Away! upon this earth beneath
              There is no spot where thou and I
              Together, for an hour could breathe.—BYRON.


General Lyon was the first to break the ominous silence. Turning to the
bridegroom, he sternly demanded:

“Sir! what is the meaning of this?”

“Ask your beautiful grand-daughter, sir, who, doubtless, to serve her
own pleasure, has lent herself to the basest fraud ever practised upon a
man,” answered Alexander, now livid with suppressed rage.

The old gentleman looked gravely upon the laughing face of Anna, and
inquired, sadly:

“What is this that you have done, my child?”

Miss Lyon hesitated and looked confused.

“Pray, my dear sir,” said Dick Hammond, taking advantage of the pause
and advancing to her rescue, “let _me_ explain this humiliating affair.”

“So _you_ were in it, were you?” fiercely exclaimed Alexander
confronting Richard. “All right! here is _one_, at least whom I can and
will call to a severe account.”

“I am quite ready,” coolly replied Dick, “to admit and answer for my
share in this matter!”

“Dick! hold your tongue! How dare you, sir? This is _my_ thunder! And if
you open your mouth again without leave, I’ll—discard you forever! Stand
back, sir!” exclaimed Anna, with her blue eyes blazing upon the
offender.

He retreated as from before a fire, and stood laughing.

“My dear grandfather,” said Anna, turning towards the veteran soldier,
“this is solely _my_ affair. May I speak without interruption?”

“Yes, Miss Lyon,” answered the old gentleman, with grave dignity, “I
wait to hear.”

“Then, sir, in a very few words, I will resolve the whole mystery. You
must know that at the time Mr. Alexander Lyon sought the hand of your
grand-daughter, he had already a living wife, or one who believed
herself to be so!”

“It is false!” burst forth from Alexander’s livid lips—“as false as——!
My cousin has been deceived!”

“It is as true as truth! I will prove it to be so!” put in Richard
Hammond.

“Dick! what did I tell you? If you speak again, I will have you turned
out!” exclaimed Anna, who was most anxious to prevent a collision
between the two young men.

“He had a wife living and sought your hand?” exclaimed the gallant old
soldier, slowly turning his eyes from Anna to Alick, and back again. “My
child, you must mistake. Such were the act of a scoundrel, and none such
ever bore the name of Lyon.”

“Sir!” cried Alexander, in a voice thrilled and a countenance agonized
by shame—“Sir, hear me, hear one word of my defence before you utterly
condemn me! I do not any more than yourself, understand this strange
scene, which seems to have been got up as a very bad joke against me.
But—that my name _is_ Lyon should be an all-sufficient guarantee that I
am no scoundrel, and quite incapable of seeking to wed one woman while
legally bound to another.”

“That is a denial, not a defence,” coldly replied General Lyon.

“Then, sir,” said Alexander, withdrawing a few paces from the group and
signaling to General Lyon to follow him—“I have to confess to somewhat
of human frailty in order to exculpate myself from the charge of crime.”

“Go on, sir,” curtly commanded the old gentleman, who had come to his
side.

Poor Drusilla had lifted her head, which had rested upon the bosom of
Anna, and bent slightly forward to hear her fate.

“Will you proceed, sir?” sternly inquired the General, seeing that his
nephew hesitated.

“It is an unpleasant story to tell. But lest you should have cause to
think worse of me than I deserve, I must admit that the young person
here present was my companion for a few months of youthful
hallucination; but there was no marriage.”

“_Oh, Alick! Alick! Oh! Alick! my Alick!_” impulsively burst from the
pale lips of Drusilla with a low, long drawn wail of sorrow.

But Anna once more put her arms around the feeble form, and drew the
bowed head down upon her supporting bosom.

“Well, sir, what then?” severely demanded the General.

“I must admit,” said Alexander, with a flushed brow, and with some
compunction awakened by the voice of her whom he had once loved, and
with much shame at having to make the confession—“I must admit that,
though there really was none, yet the poor girl supposed there was a
marriage, since there was a semblance of one.”

“What, sir!” thundered the grand old soldier, “deceive a maiden with the
‘semblance’ of a marriage and call yourself a Lyon?”

“Again you mistake me, sir!” cried Alexander, a hot blush rushing over
his face. “I also believed at the time it was performed that the
ceremony which united us was a legal one. I continued to believe so,
even after the hallucination which led to the false and fatal step had
passed away—continued to believe so until last March, when I chanced to
discover that by the accidental omission of an important form my
marriage with this girl was illegal.”

“And of course, sir, having discovered such an error, you took the
earliest opportunity of rectifying it and making your marriage legal?”
said General Lyon, emphatically.

“Ah, sir! have I not told you that the illusion which lured me to the
folly of such a misalliance was past and gone? No, sir, I was too happy
to be free to retrieve my errors, and to come back, as in duty bound, to
my first love and first faith,” said Alexander, turning and bowing
deeply to Anna, who drew herself proudly erect and bent upon him a look
of ineffable contempt.

“_Oh, Alick, my Alick!_” breathed Drusilla, in an almost expiring voice.

“Hush, dear child, hush! Don’t you see and hear that he is utterly
beneath your love and regret?” whispered Miss Lyon, tenderly drawing the
young bowed head upon her shoulder and pressing the poor broken heart to
her bosom.

“Proceed, sir!” said General Lyon, scowling darkly.

“There is little more to say but this,” muttered Alexander, in an
intensely mortified and irritated tone. “From the moment in which I
discovered the illegality of my union with this girl, of course I broke
with her—not harshly, but very gently. From that moment I treated her
only as a sister, and visited her with less and less frequency until I
ceased altogether. Until this hour, I assure you, my dear sir, I had not
seen this girl for months, in fact not since April last. I meant never
to see her again, but I took measures to provide handsomely for her
future support. Such, my dear uncle, is the ‘head and front of my
offending’—a boyish error, heedlessly fallen into, deeply repented of
and eagerly atoned for. It is seldom that a young man’s follies are so
cruelly exposed as mine have been this evening,” added Alexander, with
an injured air.

“And this is your explanation?” haughtily demanded the General.

“It is. For the girl’s sake I would willingly have concealed the
circumstance; but in the present state of affairs I deemed the
explanation due to yourself as well as to my lovely cousin,” replied
Alexander, again turning with a bow to Anna, who again flashed back upon
him a look of fiery scorn.

“But how comes this unhappy young woman here, sir?” severely inquired
General Lyon.

“I beg to refer that question to the young woman herself, or to her two
confederates, Miss Lyon and Mr. Hammond,” replied Alexander, making a
sweeping bow that included the whole circle, and then stepping back.

“How came this hapless young creature here, Anna?” questioned the old
man, turning to his grand-daughter.

“Permit me, if you please, to answer,” said Richard Hammond, coming
forward.

“Dick! be silent! If you speak again till I bid you, I will never speak
to _you_ again! This is _my_ thunder, I tell you, and you have nothing
to do with it. Grandpa, order him to be still!”

“Be quiet, Richard. Proceed, Anna!”

“Then listen, sir. You must know that this poor child, living alone in
the isolated country house where her husband had immured her, suspected
nothing of his wicked addresses to me until the day before yesterday,
when suddenly she received authentic information—no matter from whom——”

“It was from——” began Richard.

“Hold you tongue, Dick! She received authentic information, I say, of
his intended marriage with me. Believing herself as I believe her to be,
his wife in law, as she is in right, and wishing to save him from the
sin he meditated and the punishment she feared would be its consequence,
willing also to save me from the precipice of ruin upon which I
unconsciously stood, this young fragile creature, notwithstanding her
delicate health and broken heart, all unfit as she was to travel, came
by stage-coach the whole distance from Washington to Saulsburg, and
finding no conveyance there, walked all the way through this dreadful
weather on this dark night, over the worst roads in the country, from
Saulsburg to this house. She came to me in my chamber, privately told me
her story, shielding her faithless husband as much as she could; and she
besought me to withdraw from the marriage, and save him from guilt and
myself from fatal wrong.”

“Then why has she attempted to force herself upon me in this shameless
manner? And why have you aided and abetted her in the fraud?” fiercely
demanded Alexander, his temper impetuously breaking through all his
efforts to maintain a proud composure.

Anna disdained to reply to him. Not one syllable would she condescend to
address to Alexander Lyon. But turning again to her grandfather she
said——

“Drusilla did not do so; she will never attempt to force herself upon
Mr. Lyon. The young wife came, as I said, to save him from committing a
felony, and me from taking a fatal step; and not to force herself upon
an unwilling husband. It will be well for him, when he shall come to
himself, if he can by any means, woo her back.”

“How happened it, then, my child?” inquired the General.

“It was I, who for reasons that will be apparent, urged her to assume my
dress and take my place in the wedding ceremony, and thus win back the
sacred rights of which she had been so basely cheated!”

“But—still—how was this to be done in such a way, my dear?”

“By rectifying in this second marriage the informality that rendered the
first one illegal.”

“And I contend,” burst forth Alexander, “that this second marriage is no
more legal than the first one was; _less_ so, if anything! for this is
an imposture, a substitution of one person for another, besides being
quite as irregular as the first marriage in the same particular of
lacking a license!”

“He mistakes, my dear grandfather, there was a license,” said Anna,
quietly.

“Yes; a license authorizing the marriage of Alexander and Anna Lyon.
Such was the document placed in the hands of the minister!” angrily
exclaimed Alick.

“I _beg_ his pardon,” said Anna, still looking at, still speaking to her
grandfather. “The license of which _he_ speaks I burned with my own
hands this evening. The license of which _I_ speak duly authorizes the
nuptial rites to be solemnized between Alexander Lyon and Anna Drusilla
Sterling, and it is now in the possession of the minister.”

“It was then taken out by somebody else in my name. It can be of no sort
of legal effect,” cried Mr. Lyon.

“Again I entreat his forgiveness; but this one was procured by Alexander
Lyon himself, dear grandpa.”

“It is FALSE!—I mean it is a mistake, Anna!” exclaimed Alexander,
correcting himself. “I procured no such paper.”

“I fancy that he has forgotten the circumstance, dear sir; but I will
refresh his memory!” replied Anna. Then turning to the sorely
embarrassed minister who had stood all this time an unwilling witness to
this painful scene, she added: “Dr. Barbar, will you have the goodness
to return the envelope handed you by Mr. Hammond?”

The good clergyman complied. Anna opened the envelope, and took from it
its enclosure, which she handed to General Lyon.

The old gentleman put on his spectacles to examine it. Having silently
read it, he exclaimed:

“Why, this is—this is exactly what you represent it to be, my dear Anna!
But it bears date—Heaven bless my soul, of last January!”

Alexander started and turned ghastly pale, reeled, and recovered himself
by a great effort.

“How is this, my Anna? What does it all mean, my dear?” inquired the old
soldier.

Alexander, putting a strong constraint upon himself, bent forward to
hear the answer.

“It means this, my dear sir: You heard Mr. Lyon say that at the time of
his first marriage with this fair child he supposed the union to be
perfectly legal; but that afterwards he chanced to discover that through
‘the accidental omission of an important form,’ that ceremony to have
been quite invalid.”

“Yes! yes!” said General Lyon, impatiently.

“He had some reason for what he said. Listen, dear sir: When this man
first prevailed over this poor child to intrust herself to his care, he
seems to have meant honestly by her. He procured this license for their
marriage; and he took her before a regularly ordained minister of the
church. But by some strange oversight he never handed the license to the
minister, who, being a Northern man and a new comer into Virginia, and
ignorant of the law of the State which required a license to be shown
before a marriage ceremony could be legally solemnized, never asked to
see the document, but married them, as he would have done in his own
State, without it. Months later Mr. Lyon discovered this oversight, and
having tired of his fair bride, he resolved to profit by it in freeing
himself from his obligations to her.”

“And so this is the license he took out for his first marriage, but
never used?” inquired General Lyon, who for the last few moments had
maintained a wonderful composure.

“Yes, sir.”

“But how came it into your possession?”

“Sir, the poor child found it among her husband’s papers, and cherished
it with a fond superstition, as she cherished her wedding-ring. When she
came to me with her piteous story she put that piece of paper into my
hands as a proof that she was no impostor. I saw at once how it might be
used to get her rights, especially as her first Christian name, like
mine, is Anna. So I burned my own license and substituted hers and
closed the envelope, which you, dear sir, unconscious of its contents,
delivered into Dick’s charge to be handed to the minister. Then, using
such arguments as I thought must prevail over a wife and a Christian, I
persuaded Drusilla to take my place, as I said. And now I am happy to
announce that through my means, and mine only, the omission of that
important form in Drusilla’s first marriage ceremony has been supplied
in the second, and that she is now unquestionably the lawful wife of
Alexander Lyon.”

Drusilla lifted her head from Anna’s supporting bosom, and looked at her
husband where he stood, enraged, baffled and covered with confusion.
Then she left Anna’s sheltering arms and went towards him, and with
outstretched hands, face pale as death, and beseeching eyes, she
pleaded:

“Oh, Alick! Alick love! it was not for myself! it was not for myself I
did this! Oh Alick! try to pardon me, dear! and I will pray to die and
set you free!”

And as if no one had been present but themselves, she sank at his feet.

“BEGONE!” cried Alexander, furiously stamping, and turning away.

“Sir! you have disgraced yourself and the name you bear!” sternly
exclaimed General Lyon, stooping and raising the poor little fallen
figure, and supporting it on his arm.

But Alexander was absolutely beside himself with fury. Forgetting that
he stood in the presence of old age and young womanhood, forgetting that
he was a man and a gentleman, he strode towards his heart-broken wife,
and with livid face, starting eyes and brandishing hand, he exclaimed:

“How dared you do this thing? How dared you bring me to this open shame?
How dared you brave me thus? How dared you, I demand?”

She did not speak; but with clasped hands and uplifted eyes, seemed to
implore his forbearance.

“You have repaid years of kindness by the blackest ingratitude; you have
deceived me by the most infamous treachery; you have sought your object
by the basest fraud; you have ventured to take the place of the lady I
loved and wished to wed, and so, stolen my hand by the meanest trick! I
asked you where you found the effrontery to do all this?” he demanded,
grinding his teeth with rage and shaking his hand over her head.

Still she uttered no word in her defence; but still with appealing hands
and eyes, mutely besought his mercy.

Dick, who had been champing and stamping, and held in leash only by
Anna, during this assault, now utterly broke bounds, and cried out:

“Come come, Lyon! I’m blest if I’ll stand by and see a lady brow-beaten
so, if it is by her husband! If you don’t stop this instantly, I’ll——”

“Be quiet, Richard Hammond, and let the man speak to his wife,” said
General Lyon authoritatively, with covert irony, as he laid his hand on
Dick and held him back.

Richard yielded, seeing in this unnatural forbearance of the old
soldier, only the ominous calm that portends the fiercest storm.

But, as for Alexander Lyon, so absorbed was he by his own raging
passions, that he perceived nothing of this bye-scene. Still brandishing
his hand above her drooping head, he continued to pour out his wrath
upon his wife.

“You never loved me! You never loved any one but yourself! You never
loved me, certainly, or you never would have betrayed me in this base
manner,” he exclaimed.

Her white lips quivered—parted, but only inarticulate murmurs issued
from them.

“But do not flatter yourself, girl, that your treachery shall serve your
purpose. Such a marriage, so procured, can never stand in law. And here,
in the presence of these witnesses, I utterly refuse to acknowledge its
validity, or to recognize you as my wife! Here, I renounce you forever!”

Her pleading hands were lifted in an agony of deprecation, and then
dropped by her side, in despair.

“Had you accepted the position I gave you, although I should never have
seen your face again, yet I would have provided handsomely for your
support. But now, since you have put this foul deception upon me, for
all the help you can get from me, you may—PERISH!” he hissed.

“Not so,” said the fine old gentleman, General Lyon, drawing the arm of
the outraged and half crushed young creature, closer within his own.
“Not so, by your leave. I charge myself with the care of _my niece_,
Mrs. Alexander Lyon. Her home shall be _here_, with my grand-daughter
and myself—_here_, where she shall live in peace and safety—loved and
honored, until such times as you—madman!—shall come to your senses, and
sue more humbly for the forgiveness of the wronged wife, than you ever
did for the love of the unhappy maiden.”

“You had better be quite sure that the girl in your arm _is_ a wife
before you offer her the protection of your roof and the society of your
grand-daughter!” sneered Alexander, bitterly.

“Sir, you have struck the last blow to your own honor and my patience.
Alexander Lyon, if you were not the son of my dead brother I would curse
you where you stand! But go!” said the old man, lifting, up and
stretching out his arm with an imperious gesture. “Leave this house, and
never desecrate its halls again with your presence! and never again let
me see your face!”

Cursing and stamping with fury, Alexander turned and flung himself from
the room.

In the hall outside his voice was heard calling loudly to his servant to
put his horses to his carriage and bring it around to the door.

General Lyon gazed down upon the poor young wife at his side, and said:

“Look up my child. Here is your home and your father and your sister. Be
of good comfort, trust in God, and all will be well.”

She answered nothing, but sunk heavily within his aged arms, that yet
were quite strong enough to support her sinking form. She had succumbed
to one of those fainting fits which, through the agonies she had so long
endured, had now become habitual to her.

“Grandpa, she has swooned! Marcy, come here quickly. You are strong;
help to carry her to the sofa. Matty, go to the spare room opposite mine
and turn down the bed; see to the fire, and come back and tell me when
all is ready,” exclaimed Anna, rapidly issuing her orders, while she
hastily took off Drusilla’s bridal wreath and veil, and unloosened her
dress.

Marcy who had been in the group of servants assembled to witness the
marriage ceremony, was quickly on the spot, and with her assistance Anna
bore the insensible form of Drusilla to the sofa and laid her on it.

General Lyon followed, looking anxiously upon the pale face of the
sufferer.

Dr. Barbar and Mr. Hammond were left standing on the rug, and for the
time being, forgotten by their host and hostess.

All available means were used to revive the swooning girl, but all in
vain. Anna bathed her face with eau de cologne, and applied strong
smelling salts to her nose; and Marcy smartly slapped her hands, but
without effect.

While they were thus engaged Matty entered the drawing-room, and
announced that the bed-chamber was ready.

“We must take her there and undress her and put her to bed, Mercy; and
then we shall have a better opportunity of applying restoratives,” said
Miss Lyon.

“Yes, Miss, for it’s little we can do here,” admitted Marcy.

“Dear grandpa,” said Anna, addressing the old gentleman, who still stood
watching with interest the face of the patient, “dear grandpa, you have
been so worried this evening. Do sit down and rest and order some
refreshment for yourself and for Dr. Barbar and Dick, who are being
neglected. I shall take Drusilla to the Rose Room and see that every
proper attention is given her.”

“But she seems to be dead or dying,” said General Lyon, uneasily.

“No, dear sir; she is only in a swoon, which is very natural under all
the circumstances; but not at all dangerous.”

“I hope you are certain of this?”

“Quite certain, sir. Now, Marcy, help me to lift her,” said Anna.

But Dick Hammond, who heard and saw all that was going on, hastened
forward to offer his services as bearer.

“Anna, do let me carry her up stairs. I can do so with so much more ease
to her than you and Marcy could,” he said. And without waiting for
leave, he tenderly raised the unconscious form and gently bore it after
Marcy, who led the way up to the Rose Room.

Anna bade good night to Dr. Barbar, and then turned and kissed her
grandfather and asked for his usual blessing.

“God bless you, my dear child, for you have done a righteous deed this
night. Take care of the poor desolate girl upstairs, and if I can be of
any service to her, do not hesitate to call on me, even if you should
have to wake me up in the night. My house, my purse, and myself, Anna,
are at her orders no less than at yours, as long as she has wants and I
have means,” answered the grand old man, as he pressed a kiss upon his
child’s brow and dismissed her.

Anna hurried up stairs and met Dick on the landing. He had just
deposited his charge on her couch and left her room.

“Hallelujah, Dick!” exclaimed Anna.

“Hallelujah, Anna!” responded Dick, as their hands met in a hearty,
congratulatory clasp.

“It is all right with us now, Anna?”

“All quite right now, Dick, darling.”

Dick looked gratefully and then pleadingly in her face, as he took her
hand again and gently drew her towards him.

But she laughingly broke away, exclaiming:

“Not now, Dick; not now, darling. I must go to my patient. We must not
neglect that poor girl, to whom we owe all our happiness.”

“Indeed we must not,” earnestly agreed Dick.

“Then good night, Dick. I will see you in the morning.”

“Good night, my liege lady. But stay. If I can be of any use, pray
command me at any hour of the day or night.”

“That I will, Dick. Once more good night.”

And Anna flitted past him and went into the Rose Room.

There she found that Marcy and Matty had already divested Drusilla of
her bridal robes and clothed her in a loose white wrapper and put her
comfortably to bed.

They now stood one on each side rubbing her hands.

“How is she?” inquired Anna, approaching and bending over the pallid
face.

“No change yet, Miss; but we must be patient and keep up this friction,
and she will come to presently,” answered Marcy.

Anna went into her own chamber and quickly changed her splendid dress
for a wadded white merino wrapper, and then returned to the sick
chamber, and took her place beside the bed, saying;

“Matty, you may retire to rest. Marcy and myself will remain here
to-night.”

Matty who was yawning fearfully, gladly availed herself of the
permission and left the room.

And Miss Lyon willingly, gratefully, undertook the long night’s watch
over the suffering young creature to whose almost incredible energy and
heroism she owed her own preservation from a fatal marriage and her
hopes of happiness with the man she loved.




                            CHAPTER XLVIII.
                      BALM FOR THE BRUISED HEART.

   Nay, but Nature brings her solace, for a tender voice will cry,—
   ’Tis a purer life than his, a lip to drain her trouble dry.
   Baby lips will laugh it down, his only rival bring her rest,
   Baby fingers, waxen touches, press it from the mother’s breast.
                                                           —TENNYSON.


The great old-fashioned hall clock was striking the quarter before
twelve when Richard Hammond re-entered the drawing-room.

He found General Lyon and Dr. Barbar still there, seated in large
arm-chairs each side of the fire-place. They seemed to be discussing the
events of the evening.

“Yes, old friend, my dog of a nephew, like that other grand rascal of
old, has ‘spoiled the feast, broke the good meeting, with, most admired
disorder,’” sighed the general.

“Ah, my dear sir, he is young, and we must be charitable. Even David,
the man after the Lord’s own heart, had to pray that the sins of his
youth might not be remembered against him. Give the young man time to
recollect himself and to reform. But I feel very sorry for the poor
wife—she seems but a mere child.”

“She is but sixteen or seventeen,” said General Lyon.

“Ah dear, how sad! She seems to love him much.”

“She loves a villain then, and must suffer accordingly.”

“Will he never be reconciled to her, do you think?”

“Can she ever be reconciled to _him_? That is the question. ‘My spirit
shall not always strive with man,’ saith the Lord. And if the Divine
Spirit wearies of the fruitless struggle with Evil, how much sooner
shall the human spirit sink? For myself, I should not wonder if she
should experience such a revulsion of feeling as should make the very
thought of that man hateful to her. But in any case her home is here,
under our protection, until such time as he shall repent and show
himself worthy to reclaim her hand, if that time ever should come. Ah!
here is Dick. How did you leave our young charge, my boy?” inquired the
general, for the first time conscious of Richard’s presence.

“I left her in good hands, sir; otherwise much as she was when taken
from this room. I understand, sir, that since her domestic sufferings
commenced she has been very subject to these fainting fits. They are
said to be not dangerous; but for my part, I should think there was
reason to fear that her heart is affected,” answered Richard, seeking a
seat between the two old gentlemen.

“Dick, you were more engaged in this exposure of Alexander than Anna was
willing to admit. You knew of his previous marriage before you came down
here?” inquired the general.

“Yes, sir; but only a few days before; and I came down here for the
express purpose of divulging it to you; and I brought with me the
minister who performed the first ceremony, as proof of it. But before I
saw you I chanced to meet Anna, who proposed to me another plan, which I
thought to be a better one than my own.”

“Yes, Anna’s plan was assuredly the only one by which the ends of
justice could be reached in this singular case.”

“Shall I tell you, sir, how I came to be informed of the first
marriage?”

“Oh no, Dick, not to-night—to-morrow. Gentlemen, it is on the stroke of
midnight. And though my sorry nephew has ‘spoiled the feast,’ et cetera,
I see no reason why we should watch and fast the night through. We will
have supper and then to bed. And although you are the only wedding
guests, we will adjourn to the banqueting room,” said General Lyon,
arising and leading the way to a brilliantly lighted and elegantly
decorated saloon, where a sumptuous supper was laid out.

The host led his two guests to the upper end of the table, and invited
them to be seated.

The two Jacobs, father and son, stood ready to wait on them.

But what took away their appetites—whether it was the excitement of the
evening, or the dreariness of a rich repast laid for many, and honored
with the presence of but three; or the embarrassing variety of
delicacies spread before them, is uncertain; but they could not eat. A
broken biscuit and a glass of wine, was all that each took. And then,
with mutual good nights and good wishes, they separated.

General Lyon went to rest.

Old Jacob showed Dr. Barbar to the best vacant bedroom, and young Jacob
led Dick Hammond to the second best.

It is to be hoped that the two old gentlemen slept well.

Dick did not close his eyes.

The revulsion from despair to hope, to certainty of happiness, was
almost too much for him. He lay rolling and tossing from side to side
all night; telling himself over and over again that it was no dream;
that Anna was free; and that he might at last be made happy with her
hand; and wondering how long it would be before he could coax Anna to
name the happy day, and his uncle to give them his blessing. He heard
the old hall clock strike every hour, and thought the night would never
come to an end.

At four o’clock on that winter morning, it was still very dark, when he
heard rousing raps at his door.

“Well! who’s there?” he cried.

“It’s me, Master Dick,” answered the voice of Marcy.

“Well! what do you want?”

“Please sir, Miss Anna——”

Dick was out of bed in an instant, drawing on his pantaloons.

—“Says how young Mrs. Lyon is seemingly ill, and will you please to wake
up the coachman, and tell him to take the fastest horse and ride quick
as possible to Saulsburg for Dr. Leech.

Dick was dressed and at the door by the time Marcy had done speaking.

“Can I see Miss Anna for an instant?” he inquired.

“I will ask her,” answered Marcy, hurrying down the passage.

Dick hastened after her, and waited outside Drusilla’s door while Marcy
went in to inquire.

Anna came out with a large shawl wrapped around her.

“Oh, hurry, Dick! don’t stop to talk! the poor child is very ill, and
delay may be her death!” exclaimed Anna, as she appeared.

“I merely stopped to tell you, Anna, that I shall trust to no servant,
least of all to slow old Jacob! I shall saddle my own fast horse, and
fly for the doctor myself.”

“You’re a trump, Dick. Heaven bless you, be off?”

And Anna disappeared within the sick chamber. And Dick ran down to the
stable, saddled his horse, leaped upon his back, struck spurs to his
flanks and was off like an arrow in the direction of Saulsburg. “He
skelpit on through dub and mire,” so eager in his errand, that he
scarcely noticed the storm was over, and the clouds were breaking
overhead; a few pale stars were shining out, and day was faintly dawning
in the East.

When he came to the toll-gate, as once before, he cleared the bar with a
bound, and dashed onward, to the infinite indignation of old Andy who
had just opened his shutters in time to witness the feat, and who turned
to his old wife, then busy over the fire cooking the breakfast, and then
exclaimed:

“Eh, Jenny, woman! the warlocks are flitting back frae the witches’
Sabbath. There gaed are noo!—on a broomstick, or something unco like it,
right over the toll-gate bar and awa’! We’ll hear the news the day,
woman!”

Heedless of what the guardian of the road might think of him, Dick raced
on, sending flakes of mud from his horse’s heels.

The sun was rising behind the farthest range of mountains, and sending
his dazzling beams obliquely through the Wild Gap and athwart the Wild
River, as Dick rode into Saulsburg and drew rein before the picturesque
inn.

He had not the slightest idea whereabouts in the village or its
neighborhood the country doctor lived.

So he inquired of the hostler who came to take his horse:

“Do you know where Dr. Leech hangs out?”

“I dunno where he hangs out, sir; but you can ax him hisself. He lives
right down the street there, sir,” answered the man, pointing to a
small, neat cottage, with a still smaller surgery beside it, and the
name of “LEECH” over the door.

Dick left his horse and went and knocked up the doctor, and, in a few
urgent words, told him his services were instantly needed at Old Lyon
Hall, where there was a lady in extremity, and entreated him to hasten
immediately to her relief.

The good doctor needed no second bidding, but loudly called to shop-boy
and horse-boy to have his saddle-bags and his horse got ready, and then
rushed into the house to put on his great-coat and hat.

When Dick had seen the doctor fairly started on his journey, he turned
his steps to the little inn, entered it, and ordered breakfast.

“And have my horse well rubbed down and watered and fed. I must mount
him again in an hour,” he added.

At this time of the day there always happened to be more servants than
guests at the “Foaming Tankard,” and so Dick and his horse were both
promptly served.

But while Mr. Hammond sat enjoying the fragrant coffee, light rolls,
sweet butter, luscious ham and fresh eggs that formed the repast, for
which his early ride had given him so keen an appetite, he was suddenly
interrupted.

It was “mammy” who burst in upon his privacy with more haste than
ceremony, demanding:

“If you please, sir, wasn’t you the gentleman as come down with us in
the night coach from Drainsville and got off at Frostville?”

“Yes! and wasn’t you the lady that scalped me and broke both my legs?”
laughed Dick.

“I hope you surwived it, sir? But that wasn’t what I comed to ax you.”

“Yes; having a good constitution, I got over it. But what _did_ you come
to ask me?”

“Please, sir, no offence; but is it as the boys say, you come from Old
Lyon Hall this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Arter a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“For a lady in ’streme ’stress?”

“Yes.”

“Young Mrs. Lyon, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Then, sir, that was my own lady; and I jest knowed how it would be! I
jest did! Sir, she left here in an old ramshackly concern as broke down
with her afore she so much as got a mile from the place; and then she up
and set out to walk all the way through the storm to the hall; and which
if I’d a knowed, I’d a seen the old hall and everybody into it farther
afore I’d a let her a risted of her life by so doing. But that there
blamed boy,—Lord forgive me for swearing,—arter he’d upset her in the
road, took all the rest of the evening to haul off the old wreck of a
carriage, and never got back here till I had gone to bed. So I never
knowed nothing about it till this morning, which a purty state my nerves
has been in ever since.”

And mammy, having talked herself out of breath, dropped down in a chair
and panted.

“You were this lady’s nurse?” inquired Dick, buttering a roll.

“In course I was, sir; perfessionally so; and recommended by the highest
gentlemen of the physical persuasion.”

“Then, my good woman, I wonder why your patient didn’t take you along
with her.”

“So do I, sir. That was a very sensible remark of yours; but you see,
sir, she preferred to leave me here in care of the baggidge, which I
will say this—that mind can’t conceive, nor tongue tell the trouble I’ve
had to pertect them there two little red morocky trunks from being
stoled or left behind!”

“Indeed?”

“True as I tell you, sir; so I don’t much wonder at the madam wanting of
me to stay behind to watch them.”

“No, nor I,” said Dick, slily. “But, my good woman,” he added, “I think
now that the best thing you can do is to go to your mistress.”

“Which such is my intention so to do sir; and I would be obliged to you
if you would be so good as to speak to that there pig-headed
landlord—begging your pardon, sir, but so he is—to let me have a decent
horse and wagon, that won’t break down, to take me and the baggidge to
the old hall, which, if you are going back there, sir, yourself, you can
show me the way.”

“Yes,” said Dick, with good-natured alacrity, seeing at once how
important it might be that Drusilla should have her nurse and her
wardrobe. “Yes I will attend to it at once.”

And he arose and rang the bell, and told the waiter who answered it to
send the landlord to him.

The slow host came sauntering in with his hands in his pockets, and in
answer to Dick’s inquiries, deliberately acknowledged that he had “such
a thing,” and a bargain was soon struck for a wagon, horse and driver to
take mammy and her luggage to Old Lyon Hall.

“But the bill is not yet paid,” said the landlord, hesitatingly, “and so
I would rather keep a part of the luggage for security until it is
settled. One of the little trunks, now, might do.”

“Set you up with it, indeed!” fiercely exclaimed mammy, as much ruffled
as a hen when her nest is threatened.

“But who’s to pay the bill?” pursued the host.

“I shall,” answered Dick, coldly.

“No you won’t, sir, begging of your pardon; that wouldn’t be noways
proper. The young madam left her port-munny long o’ me to settle all
claims. Bring your ’count in here to me, mister landlord, and I’ll
settle of it myself.”

“And not to lose time while he is making it out you had better go and
get ready to start,” counselled Dick.

“So I had, sir; that’s another very sensible remark of yours. And I’ll
not keep you waiting one minute; I’ll be ready as soon as the wagon is,”
said the old woman, hurrying out of the room.

And in less than twenty minutes mammy reappeared ready for her journey.
The bill was paid, the wagon brought around and loaded with the luggage,
and the nurse and the team started, escorted by Mr. Richard Hammond on
horseback, and cheered by all the ragamuffins in the village.

It does not take long after a storm is over for the water to run off the
roads of that region, which are high roads in more senses than one; so
the travel was not so bad as might have been expected.

In little more than two hours the “procession” arrived at the toll-gate
where old Andy was on duty.

“Eh, sirs!” he exclaimed, on seeing Dick, “but ye’s a braw callant! Wha
gave ye commission to loup twice over me bar, and cheat me of me toll?
Eh, but ye’ll bide where ye be till ye pay me for a’, e’en to the
uttermost fearthing, before I let ye by; for ye’s no jump your wagon
over the gate, I’m thinking.”

“Certainly, of course, all right. You see I was in too great a hurry to
stop to make change, or to wait to have the gate opened when I passed
here last night and early this morning. But now open quickly to me. And
here! here is what will pay you for all the tolls and leave something
besides to buy a winter gown for the gudewife,” said Dick, laughing, and
tossing a ten dollar gold coin to the old man. “And tell her this from
me,” added the kind-hearted fellow, “that the girl she took so much
interest in is quite safe and well cared for.”

But Andy was not concerned about the safety of the girl, he was stooping
to pick up the gold eagle, and muttering to himself:

“Eh! how the lad flings about his gowd, to be sure! It’s weel a carefu’
body like mysel’ is nigh to gather it up. What was you saying anent the
young hizzy, sir?” he inquired, looking up.

“Tell your good wife that she is safe and well cared for.”

“Ou, ay! it wad be i’ some house o’ correction; only there’s nae sic a
useful institootion in the country,” growled Andy.

“Never mind where she is, or who she is. Tell your wife she is all
right!” said Dick, as he sauntered through the gate in advance of the
wagon.

The worst part of the road was past, and so in something less than an
hour the “cortege” arrived at Old Lyon Hall.

The doctor had been there already for some time, and he was then with
young Mrs. Lyon, who seemed to all around her to be at the point of
death.

Such was the report of General Lyon, who immediately rang for a woman
servant to show the nurse up to her patient.

“And I am very glad you thought to fetch her, Dick,” added the honest
old general.

Dick explained that such thoughtfulness was no merit of his; that this
woman had attended the young wife down from Washington, and had been
left temporarily at Saulsburg, and had availed herself of his escort to
come on to the hall.

So mammy was taken up to her patient, whom she found much too ill to be
scolded for her imprudence.

In fact Drusilla was, as they said, almost at the point of death. Her
life hung upon the slenderest thread for five days, at the end of which
she became the mother of a beautiful boy.

As her illness before his birth had been severe and dangerous, so her
convalescence afterwards was slow and precarious. For many more days she
lay in a mental and physical prostration, so profound that she was
incapable of noticing her child, and even of realizing its existence.
But her youth and her good constitution were very much in her favor.

Gradually, very gradually, she came out of this depressed state.

The first signs of reviving life she gave was the interest she showed in
her babe.

Before she had strength to speak above her breath, or sense to connect a
sentence properly, she would mutely insist upon having him laid on her
arm and next her bosom; and then with a serene smile she would sink into
a tranquil sleep.

And then, lest even the light weight of the infant should be too much
for her feeble strength, the nurse would steal the sleeping child from
the sleeping mother and lay him in the pretty berceaunette that had been
purchased and decorated for him by Anna.

As the weeks went on, the young mother continued to revive; and her
interest in her infant boy became a passionate love, that grew with her
growing strength.

When she was able to be dressed and to recline in her easy chair, she
would sit hours with the babe clasped to her bosom.

Strangely enough, that female martinet, the monthly nurse, never
objected to this.

And to all Anna’s remonstrances Drusilla would answer:

“Oh, Miss Lyon, you don’t know, you can’t know, what this soft little
form is to me, as I hold it to my bosom. It is such a soothing balm—such
a heavenly comfort.”

Sometimes Anna would take an opportunity to speak to mammy on the
subject; but mammy would answer:

“You let her alone, Miss. It’s all natur’ and all right. The baby’ll
save her life. It’ll draw all the soreness out’n her heart and heal it
up; mind me.”

But suddenly the thought came to the young mother that she was perhaps
injuring her child by holding him in her lap so constantly. And then all
her conduct with it changed. She would take him up only to nurse and get
him to sleep. And then she would lay him in his little decorated cradle;
but that cradle stood always by her side, so that, sleeping or waking,
her infant son was never out of her sight.

It was beautiful to see the interest that the old General and his
grand-daughter took in this young mother and child.

General Lyon visited Drusilla every morning, bringing some rare offering
of fruit ordered from the city, or flowers from his own conservatory.

Anna was seldom out of the chamber. Every forenoon she took her
needle-work and went to keep Drusilla company.

And often they might be seen sitting, working together, with the baby in
the cradle between them.

Dick, in his enthusiasm, said of this group, that it was “a sleeping
cherub watched by two guardian angels.”

“Watched by guardian angels,” in her home of peace, we will also leave
the young, forsaken wife.

Whether Drusilla ever was re-united with her husband, or whether Dick
was ever really reclaimed from the clutches of his “friends,” and
rewarded with the hand of Anna, will be duly related in the sequel to
this book, which will immediately appear, under the title of “THE
BRIDES’ FATE.”


                                THE END.

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                       T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS,

                       PUBLISHERS AND BOOKSELLERS,

                            PHILADELPHIA, PA.,

 Take pleasure in calling the attention of the public to their Choice and
  Extensive Stock of Books, comprising a collection of the most popular
  and choice, in all styles of binding, by all the favorite and standard
                      American and English Authors.


       To Collectors of Libraries, or those desiring to form them.

Many who have the taste, and wish to form a Library, are deterred by
fear of the cost. To all such we would say, that a large number of books
may be furnished for even One Hundred Dollars—which, by a yearly
increase of a small amount, will before long place the purchaser in
possession of a Library in almost every branch of knowledge, and afford
satisfaction not only to the collector, but to all those who are so
fortunate as to possess his acquaintance.

For the convenience of Book buyers, and those seeking suitable Works for
Presentation, great care is taken in having a large and varied
collection, and all the current works of the day. Show counters and
shelves, with an excellent selection of Standard, Illustrated, and
Illuminated works, varying in price to suit all buyers, are available to
those visiting our establishment, where purchases may be made with
facility, and the time of the visitor greatly economized. Here may be
seen not only books of the simplest kind for children, but also
exquisite works of art, of the most sumptuous character, suitable alike
to adorn the drawing-room table and the study of the connoisseur.

Our arrangements for supplying STANDARD AMERICAN BOOKS, suitable for
Public Libraries and Private Families, are complete, and our stock
second to none in the country.

☞ Catalogues are sent, on application, and great attention is paid to
communications from the country, and the goods ordered carefully packed
and forwarded with expedition on receipt of orders accompanied with the
cash.


                     To Booksellers and Librarians.

T. B. Peterson & Brothers issue New Books every month, comprising the
most entertaining and absorbing works published, suitable for the
Parlor, Library, Sitting-Room, Railroad or Steamboat reading, by the
best and most popular writers in the world.

Any person wanting books will find it to their advantage to send their
orders to the “PUBLISHING HOUSE” OF T. B. PETERSON & BROS., 306 Chestnut
St., Philadelphia, who have the largest stock in the country, and will
supply them at very low prices for cash. We have just issued a new and
complete Catalogue and Wholesale Price Lists, which we send gratuitously
to any Bookseller or Librarians on application.

Orders solicited from Librarians, Booksellers, Canvassers, News Agents,
and all others in want of good and fast selling books, and they will
please send on their orders.

Enclose ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred dollars, or more, to us in a
letter, and write what kind of books you wish, and on its receipt the
books will be sent to you at once, per first express, or any way you
direct, with circulars, show bills, etc., gratis.

Agents and Canvassers are requested to send for our Canvassers’
Confidential Circular containing instructions. Large wages can be made,
as we supply our Agents at very low rates.

Address all cash orders, retail or wholesale, to meet with prompt
attention, to

                      T. B. PETERSON AND BROTHERS,

                               306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Penna.

Books sent, postage paid, on receipt of retail price, to any address in
the country.

All the NEW BOOKS are for sale at PETERSONS’ Book Store, as soon as
published.

☞ Publishers of “PETERSONS DETECTOR and BANK NOTE LIST,” a Business
Journal and valuable Advertising medium. Price $1.50 a year, monthly; or
$3.00 a year, semi-monthly. Every Business man should subscribe at once.




                          PETERSON’S MAGAZINE


                       CHEAPEST AND BEST OF ALL!

                       Splendid Offers for 1872.

This popular Monthly Magazine _gives more for the money than any in the
world_. It has the best colored fashions, the best original stories, and
the best engravings of any lady’s book. _Great and costly improvements_
will be made in 1872, when it will contain

                  =ONE THOUSAND PAGES!
                    FOURTEEN SPLENDID STEEL PLATES!
                      TWELVE COLORED BERLIN PATTERNS!
                  TWELVE MAMMOTH COLORED FASHIONS!
                    ONE THOUSAND WOOD CUTS!
                      TWENTY-FOUR PAGES OF MUSIC!=

All this will be given for only TWO DOLLARS a year, or a dollar less
than Magazines of the class of “Peterson.” Its


                     THRILLING TALES AND NOVELETTES

Are the best published anywhere. _All the most popular writers are
employed to write originally for “Peterson.”_ In 1872, in addition to
its usual quantity of short stories, FIVE ORIGINAL COPYRIGHT NOVELETS
will be given, viz: BOUGHT WITH A PRICE, by _Ann S. Stephens_; THE
ISLAND OF DIAMONDS, by _Harry Danforth_; ONCE TOO OFTEN, by _Frank Lee
Benedict_; LINDSAY’S LUCK, by _Miss F. Hodgson_; and A WIFE, YET NOT A
WIFE, by the author of “_The Second Life_.”


                     MAMMOTH COLORED FASHION PLATES

Ahead of all others. These plates are engraved on steel, TWICE THE USUAL
SIZE, and contain six figures. They will be superbly colored. Also,
several pages of Household and other receipts; in short, everything
interesting to ladies.


                        TERMS—Always in advance:

 One copy, for one year                                           $ 2 00
 Five copies, for one year                                          8 00
 Eight copies, for one year                                        12 00


                       SUPERB PREMIUM ENGRAVING!

Every person getting up a club of five at $1.60 each, or eight at $1.50
each, will be entitled _to an extra copy of the Magazine for 1872_, and
also to a copy of the superb parlor mezzotint (size 24 inches by 18),
“Five Times One To-Day,” which, at a store, would cost four dollars.

☞ Specimens sent gratis, to those wishing to get up Clubs.

                          _Address_,
                      CHARLES J. PETERSON,
                              No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
      spelling.
 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69972 ***