SURPRISES.
Were her eyes open? Yes, and her mouth, too;
Surprise has this effect to make one dumb,
Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through
As wide as if a long speech were to come.—BYRON.
The family party first separated to go to their several chambers to lay
aside their outside wrappings and to prepare for their early Sunday
dinner.
Then they met in the drawing-room.
Drusilla, who had more to do than the others, was the latest to join
them.
Her baby, that had slept soundly during the long ride from church, was
now awake and required attention.
While she was engaged in her sweet maternal duties, she received a
message from General Lyon requesting that his godson might be brought
down into the drawing-room before dinner.
So as soon as the young mother had made herself and her child
presentable, she went down-stairs, followed by the nurse carrying the
babe.
On the threshold of the room she paused in pleased surprise, and not so
much at the value of the presents displayed before her, as at the new
instance of kindness on the part of her friends.
On a round table covered with a fine crimson cloth were laid the
christening offerings, of great splendor for their kind.
There was a richly chased silver casket filled with gold coins from
General Lyon. There was a baby’s silver gilt service—consisting of
waiter, pap bowl, water jug, and drinking mug, cream pot, sugar basin,
sugar tongs and spoons—from Dick. And there was a coral and bells of the
finest coral, purest gold, and most superb workmanship, from Anna.
“Dear uncle! dear Anna and Dick, how kind, oh how kind, you all are to
me and my boy! I cannot tell you how much I feel your kindness. I am
very grateful; and I hope, oh, I hope, my dear little Leonard will live
to thank you!” fervently exclaimed Drusilla, pressing the hand of her
aged benefactor to her heart, and lifting her eyes full of loving
gratitude to her young friends, who stood side by side enjoying her
delight.
“My dear, it gives us as much pleasure to offer you these little tokens
of our affection as it can possibly give you to receive them,” answered
General Lyon, drawing her towards him and touching her forehead with his
lips.
“It does indeed, sweet cousin,” added Dick.
And Anna, for her answer, silently kissed the young mother.
“And now to dinner, which has been announced for twenty minutes,” smiled
the old gentleman, drawing Drusilla’s arm within his own and leading the
way to the dining-room, where a feast of unusual elegance was laid in
honor of the occasion.
The day closed in serene enjoyment.
When Drusilla retired to her room that evening, she found that the
christening presents had been transferred from the round table in the
drawing-room to an elegant little cabinet that had been purchased to
receive them, and placed in the nursery.
Before she went to bed she knelt down and thanked Heaven for the mercies
that now blessed her life.
As her head rested on her pillow, with the face of the sleeping babe
near her, softly seen by the subdued light of the shaded lamp, she
wondered at the peace that had descended upon her troubled spirit and
made her calmly happy.
Had she then ceased to love her faithless husband?
Ah, no! for pure love like hers is of immortal life and cannot die. But
she had ceased to sorrow for him, for sorrow is of mortal birth and
cannot live forever.
She felt safe under the fatherly care of the fine old head of the
family, cheerful in the company of her affectionate young friends Dick
and Anna, and happy—oh, deeply, unutterably happy!—in the possession of
her beautiful boy. She felt no trouble.
“Baby fingers, waxen touches pressed it from the mother’s breast.”
She never heard from Alick; but then, as she did not expect to hear from
him, she was not disappointed.
She never heard from Cedarwood either; but then as she had left
directions with the servants only to have letters written to her in case
of necessity, she felt that, in this instance, “no news is good news.”
Mammy was growing rather restive and desirous of returning to her home,
but Drusilla besought her to remain a little longer at Old Lyon Hall.
“Wait,” she said, “until the next spell of fine weather, when baby will
be able to travel, and I too will return to Cedarwood. I must not stay
away from the home provided for me by my husband, nor yet tax the
hospitality of my dear friends longer.”
Mammy looked puzzled, for though the faithful old household servants had
carefully forborne to speak of unpleasant family affairs in the presence
of the nurse, whom they looked upon as a stranger and an alien, still
she _had_ heard enough to give her the impression that young Mr. Lyon
had abandoned his wife. Therefore Mammy was rather bewildered by this
talk of returning to Cedarwood.
“I do not think as the General and the young people will consent to part
with you, ma’am; and indeed I think it will a’most break all their
hearts to lose little Master Leonard,” said the nurse.
“I know they will not like it, because they are so kind to us—so very
kind, and therefore I have shrunk from mentioning it to them; but my
duty is clear—I must go to my own home and I must advise them of my
purpose without delay.”
“Well, ma’am, certingly, if they wants your company ever so, they ain’t
got no power to keep you ag’in’ your will; and so, ma’am, if you is set
to go home first fine spell arter Christmas, I reckon as I can wait and
see you safe through,” said the nurse, graciously.
“Thank you; it will be a great favor,” replied Drusilla.
The time was drawing near to the Christmas holidays—a season always
hitherto observed by the Lyons with great festivity—when they had been
unbounded in their hospitality and munificent in their presents.
On this occasion, some five or six days before Christmas, General Lyon
sent Dick to Richmond, armed with a handful of blank checks signed and
left to be filled up at pleasure, and commissioned to purchase the most
elegant and appropriate holiday gifts that he could find for every
member of the family and every household servant; but above all, to get
a handsome perambulator, a crib bedstead, and—a hobby horse for Master
Leonard.
“Good gracious me, grandpa!” had been Anna’s exclamation on hearing of
this last item, “what on earth do you think a baby of a few weeks old
can do with a hobby horse?”
“I don’t know, my dear, but I wish to give it to him.”
“He won’t be able to sit on it for three years to come.”
“And I may not live to see that time, my dear, and as I wish to give it
to him I must do so now. It can be kept for him, you know. And now,
while we are on the subject, I wish to ask you to have one of the many
rooms in this house fitted up as a play-room for him. Let it be as near
the nursery as possible; and whatever childish treasures I may purchase
may be put there and kept until he is old enough to enjoy them.”
This conversation had taken place in the presence of Drusilla; but as no
part of it had been addressed to her, she only expressed her gratitude
for the intended kindness by glancing thankfully from one speaker to the
other.
But she felt more strongly than ever that, however reluctant she might
be to announce her intended departure from such kind friends, it was
incumbent upon her to do so before they should make any material change
in their household arrangements for her sake.
So after a little hesitation she commenced:
“Dear friends, while ever I live in this world I shall remember your
goodness to me, and with my last breath I shall pray Heaven to bless you
for it. But——”
“We have pleased _ourselves_ in this, my dear; so say nothing more about
it,” smiled the old gentleman, laying his hand kindly on her head.
“Thanks—a thousand thanks, dear sir; but I feel that I must soon leave
you——”
“Leave us!” echoed General Lyon, Anna and Dick all in a breath.
“It is time for me to return to my home,” she said, gently.
“Your home, Drusilla!” said General Lyon, in a grave and tender voice.
“Poor child, where will you find so proper a home as this, where your
relations with us give you the right to stay, and where our affection
for you makes you more than welcome?”
“Nowhere, indeed, sir, but in the house provided for me, by—_my
husband_,” answered Drusilla, breathing the last two words in a scarcely
audible tone.
“Ah! he has come to his senses; he has written and entreated you to join
him. For the sake of my faith in human nature I am glad that he has done
so,” said the General.
“Oh, no, he has not yet written to me,” smiled Drusilla.
“But you have heard from him?”
“No, not since that night.”
“Then what do you mean, my dear, by talking of the home he has provided
for you?”
“I mean the cottage to which he took me when we were first
married—Cedarwood, near Washington.”
“Where you suffered such cruel mental anguish as I should think would
render the very thought of the place hateful to you, my poor child,”
said General Lyon, compassionately.
Drusilla gave him a pleading look that seemed to pray him to say nothing
that might even by implication reproach her absent husband; and then she
added:
“There were other memories and associations connected with Cedarwood,
dear sir. The first few weeks of my married life were very happy; and my
housekeeping and gardening very cheerful and pleasant.”
“But all that is changed. Why go back there now?”
“Because it is my proper home.”
“Yet—he—that man has not invited you to return?”
“No, but then I left of my own accord, and now that I am able to travel,
it is my duty to go back, though uninvited. I must not wait to be asked
to return to my post,” said the young wife.
The General was silent and thoughtful for a moment and then he said,
firmly:
“My child, you must think no more of this.”
She looked at him; but hesitated to oppose him, and when she did answer
she spoke gravely and gently:
“Dear sir, it is _right_ for me to go.”
“Drusilla, think no more of this, I say,” he repeated, and this time
with an air of assured authority.
“Dear uncle, why do you say so?”
“I might answer, it would be too painful to me to part with you and your
boy.”
“Thanks for saying that, sir. I too, feel that to leave this safe, sweet
old home, and these loving friends, will be very painful; duty often is
so; but not for that must we fail in it.”
“Drusilla! I repeat that you must not think of taking this step! Not
only has your unworthy——”
She looked at him so deprecatingly, that he broke off his speech and
began anew.
“Well, well, I will not wound you if I can help it, my dear!—I say, not
only has your husband not _invited_ you to return to your home, but he
has positively _forbidden_ you to do so. Do you remember, poor child,
the terms he used in discarding you?”
“Words spoken in the ‘short madness’ of anger. I do not wish to remember
them, dear General Lyon,” she sweetly answered.
“My child! do you know where to write to him?”
“Oh no, sir.”
“Do you think that he will write to you? or do you hope that he will
join you at Cedarwood?”
“Oh, no, dear uncle! at least, not for a long time. But I hope that he
will feel some interest in his child, and he will inquire about it, and
when he finds out what a beautiful boy it is, he will come to see it;
and then, then—for the boy’s sake he will forgive the mother.”
“Forgive! Heaven of Heavens, girl! what has he to forgive in you?”
indignantly demanded Anna.
“That which a man seldom pardons—although it was done from love to him
and his child,” answered Drusilla, in a low voice.
“Then you really have a hope that he will rejoin you at Cedarwood?”
inquired General Lyon.
“At some future day, sir, yes.”
“And in the meanwhile you live alone there?”
“No, sir, not quite; but with my boy and servants.”
“And how do you propose to support the little establishment, my dear?
Come, I wish to know your ideas; though I dare say, poor child, you have
never thought of the subject.”
“Oh yes, dear sir, I have. In the first place, I have nearly fifteen
hundred dollars in money, left at home; that will keep us in moderate
comfort for two years, especially as I have abundance of everything else
on the premises—furniture, clothing and provisions, in the house; and a
kitchen garden, an orchard, poultry yard and dairy, on the place. So, at
the very worst, I could keep a market farm,” smiled Drusilla.
“But in the meanwhile live alone, or with only your infant babe and your
servants?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then I tell you, Drusilla, that you must not, shall not do so,”
repeated the General, with emphasis.
“Oh, sir, why would you hinder me?” she pleaded, lifting her imploring
eyes to his face.
“For your salvation, dear child,” he answered, very gently.
“But how for my salvation, dear uncle?”
“Drusilla, you cannot know, only heaven can know, how difficult, how
_impossible_ it is for a young forsaken wife to live alone and escape
scandal.”
“But, dear sir, if I do right, and trust in the Lord, I have nothing to
fear.”
“Poor child! I must answer you in the words of another old bore, as
meddlesome as perhaps you think me. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as
snow, thou shall not escape calumny.”
“But, sir, in addition to all that, I mean to be very discreet, to live
very quietly with my little household, and to see no company whatever,
except you and Anna, if you should honor me with a visit, and to make no
visits except here.”
“But you must go to church sometimes; and when your babe is ailing, you
must see a doctor; also it will be necessary occasionally to have your
chimneys swept; and the tax-gatherer will make you an annual visit.”
“Of course, dear sir,” she smiled.
“And yet you hope to preserve your good name?—Ah, my dear child, no
forsaken wife, living alone can do so, much less one so very young and
inexperienced as yourself. If the venomous ‘fangs of malice’ can find no
other hold upon you, they will assail you through—the Christian minister
who brings you religious consolation for your sorrows; the family
physician who attends you in your illness, to save your life; to the
legal adviser who manages your business; the tax-gatherer, the
chimney-sweep, or anybody or everybody whom church, state, or need
should call into your house.”
“Ah, sir! that is very severe! I hope it is not as you think. I believe
better of the world than that,” said Drusilla.
“When the world has stung you nearly to death or to madness, my dear,
you may judge more truly and less tenderly of it. And now, Drusilla,
hear me. You do not go to Cedarwood; you do not leave our protection
until your husband claims you of us. Let the subject drop here at once,
and forever.”
Drusilla bowed her head in silence; but she was not the less resolved at
heart to return to Cedarwood, and risk all dangers, in the hope that her
husband might some day join her there.
But Destiny had decided Drusilla’s course in another direction.
The event that prevented her return to Cedarwood shall be related in the
next chapter.