The changed brides by Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth

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

84“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.

85Whenever 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.

86The 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.

87In 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 88ever. 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 89come 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, 90what 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.

91“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 92prayers 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 93will 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 94him; 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.

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.

95But 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.”

96“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, 97and 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 98her, 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 99such 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 100being 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.

101“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 102in 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 103was 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.

104

113

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.”

129“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 130would 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.

131Even 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 132little 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 133“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 134to 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.”

135The 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 136such 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.

137“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.

138“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.”

139And 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.

140“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?”

141“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, 142did 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.

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, 143Drusilla 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.

144Alexander 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 145contemplating 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 146married 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.

147For 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.

148“‘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.

149“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.

150“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.

151“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.

152“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.

153

“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.

163Drusilla 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.

164The 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.

165The 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?”

166“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 167end 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.

“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 168through 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? 169You 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 170mother’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.

171“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.

172It 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.

173“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 174and 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.

175Birds 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.

176

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 191let 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.

192“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.

193“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 194phrase 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 195to 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 196imperious-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.

197“‘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.

“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.

198“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 199suite; 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.”

200“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.

201Presently, 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 202half-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.”

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.

203“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 204for 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, 205if 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.”

206He 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 207with, 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 208between 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 209the 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 210dangerous 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?”

211“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.

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 212probably 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.”

213“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.

214They 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 215Surfacish, 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?”

216“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.”

217“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.

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, 218might 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.

219“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 220his 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.

221After 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.

222

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, 233then 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.

234And 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.

235“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.

236This 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 237Minister, 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 238ride 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.

239But 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 240the 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.

241

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 249through 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.”

250The 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.”

251“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.

252“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.

253“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.”

254“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.

255

262

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 271done 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 272fingers 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.”

273“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 274head 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:

275“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 276the 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.

277He 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, 278present 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.

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?”

279“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.”

280“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.

281She 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.

282“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:

283“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.

284

“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!”

294“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.”

295“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.

296Alexander 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.

297She 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!

298So 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 299the 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 300as 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 301table. 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 302little 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.

303

The loving little wife, the zealous little housekeeper, did not sit down in idleness and repining while her husband 308was 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, 309how 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 310gathered. 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 311the 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.

312“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! 313And 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?”

314“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.

315She 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.

316This 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.

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.

317There 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.

318“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?”

319“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?”

320“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?”

321“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!”

322“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 323be 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! 324what 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.

325“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.”

326“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.

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.

327She 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 328Bible 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?”

329“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.

330“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 331of 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 332as 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 333week, 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.

334The carriage started.

And this time Alexander was gone for good.

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, 335and 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, 336and 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 337creative 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:

338Next 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.

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 339mistress’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 340of 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, 341and 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 342her 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 343young 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,—

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.”

344Drusilla 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:

345“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!”

346

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.

356“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 357on 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 358needn’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, 359gal, 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.”

360“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.”

361“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 362couldn’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:

363“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 364smothering 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 365that 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.

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 366sorrow, 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 367upon 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.

368Thirdly, 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’.

369So 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.”

370“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.

371“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.

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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.

446Drusilla 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 447league 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.

448Tired 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.

449“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.

450“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.

451Drusilla 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.

452“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 453are, 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.”

454“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!”

455“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.”

456Drusilla 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 457watch 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.

458“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.

459Drusilla 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.

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, 460raising 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——?”

461“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.

462“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.

463“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, 464which 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.

465“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?”

466“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?”

467“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.”

468“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.

469“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 470into 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 471one 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, 472mercilessly 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.

473“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?”

474“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 475it 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.’”

476The 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 477they 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.

478

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 493grand 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.

494“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.

495Dick 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.”

496“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.

497Dick 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?”

498“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?”

499“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.”

500“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, 501he 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, 502so 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. 503The 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.”

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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.

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

All this will be given for only TWO DOLLARS a year, or a dollar less than Magazines of the class of “Peterson.” Its

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.”

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.

One copy, for one year	$ 2 00
Five copies, for one year	8 00
Eight copies, for one year	12 00

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.