GENERAL LYON’S CONSOLATION.
In this dim world of clouding cares
We rarely know till wildered eyes
See white wings lessening up the skies
The angels with us unawares!—MASSETT.
After the last guests were gone, the house was very quiet.
General Lyon went up to his study.
Drusilla lingered a little while below to give orders to the servants.
“Close up all the rooms on this floor now. Disturb nothing until
morning. I wish everything to be kept very still so that the General may
rest and recover from the fatigue of this exciting day. Marcy, have the
tea served in my sitting room. Leo, do you be up early in the morning
and see that the breakfast parlor—the little one—is made very tidy
before we come down. The other rooms had best be left closed until the
General goes for his daily ride. Then they can be restored to order.”
Having thus given her directions to ensure the comfort of the old
gentleman, Drusilla went up into the nursery where her little Leonard
was laughing, crowing and screaming in his nurse’s arms.
“I do think as he’s beside himself, ma’am,” said Pina. “He’ll never get
over this wedding as long as he lives. When I had him out on the lawn
there, and the band was playing and the ladies and gentlemen were
dancing, he jumped so as I could hardly keep him from leaping out of my
arms.”
“He did enjoy it as much as any of us, didn’t he, Pina?” said the young
mother, standing and smiling over the nurse and child.
“Oh, didn’t he though, ma’am? Look at him now; it’s in him yet! And such
a time I had bringing him in the house. He did not want to come in at
all, even after the music went away. He didn’t cry, ma’am, but he made
such signs, and then he fought. Yes, indeed he did, ma’am, he fought me
in the face because I brought him in.”
“Why, Pina, I can hardly believe it!”
“But, you may, ma’am! Oh, he’s got a will of his own, I do tell you! I
couldn’t make my peace with him until I had lighted all the wax candles
in the place! See what an illumination there is, ma’am! Enough to blind
any body but a boy baby. And such work to get him undressed. He wouldn’t
have his finery off forever so long. He wanted to dance in it. And then,
after I had loosened it and got it off little by little with sheer
conjuration, would you believe it, ma’am? he wanted to dance in his
sacred skin, like a North-American Indian! I have got his night-gown on
at last; though _how_ I ever got it on with his prancing and dancing,
goodness knows. But, as for his little red shoes, I’ll defy mortial man
or woman to get _them_ off his feet except by main force! When I try to
do it he kicks so fast you would think there were nineteen pair of feet
in nineteen pair of boots instead of one!”
“Lenny will let his mammy take off his boots,” said Drusilla, kneeling
by the baby’s feet and making an essay.
Lenny would let his mamma do a great many things to him, but he would by
no means let her remove his red shoes. His little legs flew so fast in
resistance that you could not have told one from the other.
“He means never to part with them, ma’am,” laughed Pina.
“We can take them off when he goes to sleep,” smiled Drusilla.
“But there’s no sleep in his eyes, ma’am, nor won’t be for hours! He’ll
keep awake to watch his boots and to dance! Goodness gracious me! My
arms are almost pulled out of their sockets holding him while he
dances.”
“I will take him presently, Pina, as soon as I change my dress,” said
Drusilla.
And she went and took off her wreath of roses, her necklace and
bracelets of pearl, and her rich moire antique dress; and put on a neat
white muslin wrapper, whose pure color and perfect fit became her well.
Then she took her dancing babe; but not to put him to sleep just yet.
Little Master Leonard had a duty to do before he could be put to bed.
She carried him into the next room, which was her own pretty private
parlor.
The room was very inviting. A small, cheerful wood fire, very acceptable
this chilly May evening, was blazing on the hearth.
The tea-table with its snowy, damask cloth, its silver service and clear
China, was standing before the fireplace.
A large easy chair, with a foot cushion was drawn up on the right side;
and Drusilla’s own little sewing chair was on the left.
Marcy was in attendance.
“This is all quite right. Now do you wait here until I bring the General
in, and then you can serve tea,” said Drusilla, as with her baby in her
arms she passed out into the hall and on towards General Lyon’s study.
She opened the door.
The little room was dark and chill, but the lights from the hall shone
in, and revealed to her the form of the old man, seated at the writing
table, with his arms folded on it, and his head bowed down upon them. It
was an attitude of depression, of sleep or of death.
Of death! a dread pang seized her heart, and held her spell-bound in the
doorway as she gazed on him. He had not heard her approach. He was not
disturbed by the inflow of light. He remained, indeed, as still as
death!
She was afraid to stir, almost to breathe! She had heard of old men
dying just so! Oh, had not his own brother, his _youngest_ brother, died
that way not three years since?—died sitting in his chair by his
Christmas fire, surrounded by his whole family and friends? died with
nothing on earth to provoke death? died from no excitement, no grief, no
disease apparently?
And here was the elder brother, a man of like constitution, who had been
severely tried this day by the parting from his beloved and only
surviving child, and now had come away to this chill, dark room, and had
sat in solitude for an hour or more!
Drusilla’s conscience smote her terribly for what she called the false
and fatal delicacy that had prevented her from following him immediately
to his retreat.
Oh! if he should be dead, dead alone in this bleak room, she would never
forgive herself, though she had done all for the best.
All these thoughts and feelings flashed like lightning through her brain
and heart in the moment that she stood panic-stricken in the door.
Then full of awe, scarcely breathing, she crept near him, laid her hand
upon his shoulder, and murmured softly:
“Uncle.”
“My darling,” responded the old man, looking up with a smile.
“Thank Heaven!” fervently aspirated Drusilla.
“What is the matter, my darling? What troubles you?” gently questioned
the old gentleman, perceiving her alarm.
“I—I found you sitting here in the cold and dark, and I feared that
something ailed you. Nothing does?”
“Nothing, my child, except a little natural but unwise regret.
Certainly, she had to marry. It is a woman’s destiny. And it is so well
that in marrying she will not have to leave me. Still, still I feel it,
darling. She was all I had left in the world.”
“She will be back in three weeks, dear uncle; back so soon that we shall
scarcely have time to get the house set in order again for her
reception. And now will you look at little Lenny? He has come to bid you
good-night, and to ask you to come and take tea with his mamma,” said
Drusilla, seating the boy on the old man’s knee.
By no manner of baby-babble could little Leonard possibly bid his
godfather good-night, or invite him to tea; but he _would_ put his
little arms around the veteran’s neck, and press his lips to the
veteran’s mouth, and laugh, and own his love and joy.
“Ah! may heaven forgive me for being so forgetful, so ungrateful as to
say that I had no one but my Anna left me in the world, when I have
little Lenny and his dear mother,” said the old man, pressing the child
to his bosom, and drawing Drusilla to his side. “But oh! my dear, you
know how it is—how it always has been, and always will be with poor
human nature in all such cases. The shepherd of the Scripture parable.
He thought not of his ninety and nine sheep, safe in the fold, but he
mourned for the one lost.”
“But Anna is not lost to you, dear uncle. She is only lost to sight, and
that only for a little while. Think, dear uncle, in the marriage of Anna
and Dick you have not lost a daughter, but gained a son.”
“That is true, my dear.”
“Think how devoted they are to you. They are as loyal to you as subjects
to a sovereign.”
“I know—I know.”
“They will never leave you unless you send them away.”
“I know; I see what a morbid old fellow I have been.”
“No, no, not so, I think. Surely it is very natural that you should have
such feelings; but it is also very desirable that you should rally from
them.”
“And I will, my dear, I will.”
Little Leonard, fatigued by his former exertions, and perhaps also a
little awed by the solemnity of the discourse, had remained still for at
least three minutes. But now he recommenced to prance and dance and
express his impatience in every possible way that a baby of six months
old could.
“You are almost too much for my stiff old arms, little fellow!” smiled
the General, as he supported the leaping baby.
“Come, let us go to my room and have some tea,” said Drusilla, rising
and leading the way, followed by the old man with the child over his
shoulder.
“This is snug, this is cozy, this is really very comfortable indeed,”
said the General, as he followed Drusilla into the pretty, cheerful
sitting-room and saw the bright fire and the neat tea-table.
“Yes, this is pleasant after our day of excitement. Now kiss little
Leonard good-night and let him go to sleep,” said Drusilla, as she rang
her little silver hand-bell.
Pina came in to take little Leonard, who leaped to meet her arms, for he
was very fond of her.
General Lyon pressed the babe to his bosom and kissed him fondly, and
then handed him over to his nurse, who bore him off to the nursery.
Then Marcy came in with the tea urn.
Drusilla made tea for the old gentleman.
The sound of Pina’s rocking-chair and cradle-song came soothingly to
their ears, as to the child’s for which they were intended.
“This is very sweet and peaceful, dear, and I thank you for it all,”
said the General, softly smiling.
“No, but, dear uncle, it is all your own; and it is I who should thank
you for the happiness of sharing it,” quietly replied Drusilla.
“No, no, no,” said the General, shaking his head.
“Yes, yes, yes,” laughed the little lady.
They lingered long over that quiet, pleasant tea; and then, after she
had rang for a servant, and had the table cleared, she went to the piano
and sang and played to the old gentleman for an hour or more.
She sang all her favorite comic songs, but carefully eschewed the
sentimental ones; for she wished to raise his spirits and not to melt
his heart. Towards the last of her singing he came and stood behind her;
and although he did not know enough of the notes to turn the pages for
her at the proper moment, he stood and beat time to the music and
sometimes joined in the chorus.
At last, when she thought he had had enough of it, she arose and closed
the piano.
Then, after an interval of a few minutes, she took her Bible and laid it
on the table before him.
He bowed his head, opened it and read a chapter aloud. And then they two
joined in offering up their evening worship.
“Well, my darling,” said General Lyon, as he arose to bid her
good-night, “I have to thank you for much comfort. This first evening
that I dreaded so much has passed off very pleasantly. God bless you, my
child.” And so he withdrew from the room.
Drusilla sat on for a little while gazing dreamily into the fire, and
then she also retired to rest, drawing her sleeping infant to her bosom.
Very early the next morning Drusilla arose, dressed and went down-stairs
to make sure that one room at least of all that had been thrown into
confusion by the wedding should now be in order for the General’s
breakfast.
She found that Leo had followed her directions, and the small breakfast
parlor, that occupied an angle of the house and had windows opening to
the east and south, was prepared for the morning meal.
And the doors of all the disordered rooms were closed.
She went out and gathered a bouquet of early spring flowers and put them
in a vase and placed them on the breakfast table.
And then she plucked a few young buds of mint and made an exquisite
julep, and sent it up by Leo to her uncle’s room.
Jacob, who had been sent at sunrise to the post-office, now returned.
And Drusilla opened the mail-bag, which was found to contain nothing but
newspapers, which she folded and laid by the side of her uncle’s plate.
And then she sat down to await his coming.
He came at last, smiling on her as he entered, and took his seat at the
table.
“You are the angel of the house, my child,” he said—“the angel of the
house! What should I do now but for you!”
“Dear uncle, what should _I_ do without _you_? What should I have done
that dreadful night but for your sustaining arm? All my puny efforts to
serve you can never cancel that debt. I shall never forget that night,”
earnestly answered Drusilla.
“I shall never forget that night, Drusilla, for it was then I
received—‘an angel unawares.’”
She could not reply to these words, but blushed so intensely that the
old man forbore farther praise, and merely saying:
“But it does not become you and me to compliment one another, my
darling,” he took up his newspaper.
Upon the whole, this was a very cheerful breakfast. When it was over,
the old gentleman ordered his horse, and went for his daily ride.
Drusilla took advantage of his absence to set all the servants briskly
to work to open the closed rooms, and clear away the debris of
yesterday’s great festival, so that by the time he should return the
whole house should be restored to order.
The abundant remains of the feast were distributed to the poor around.
Moreover, she sent a note to the Seymours, asking them to come and spend
the evening. And the messenger that carried it brought back their
acceptance of the invitation.
Drusilla and her uncle dined tête-à-tête.
In the evening the Seymours came according to agreement; and Drusilla
gave them music. They stayed till ten o’clock, and then took leave.
“No wonder that old comrade of mine should go mad over your music, my
darling. I am not a music-maniac myself, generally, but I am always
profoundly affected by yours,” said the General, when they were gone.
Again Drusilla blushed deeply under the praise, but then recovering
herself with a light laugh, she answered:
“Why, you see, uncle, I think this is the way of it. You and the Colonel
inspire me. Such appreciating hearers as yourself and your friend must
necessarily inspire even the very poorest performer to do her very
best.”
“Tut, tut, tut, my child; you know better! But, there, I will say no
more on that subject! Good night, my darling,” he said.
And so closed the first dreaded day of Anna’s absence. And all the
succeeding days were quite as pleasant.
Drusilla would not let her old friend be lonesome. She planned visits
for him and herself to his favorite houses; and she invited his favorite
friends to dinner or to tea. She often accompanied the old man on his
morning rides, her gentle white mare ambling by the side of his steady
old horse. She often invited him to take a seat in the open carriage
when she went out in the afternoon to give her little boy an airing.
And she played and sang indefatigably to please Colonel Seymour, so that
he might come over every evening, “rain or shine,” to keep her uncle
company.
Anna’s and Dick’s letters came two or three in a week. They were not
very long, for they were written _en route_; but they were interesting
and affectionate. They were filled with graphic sketches of their
journey, and with warm expressions of tenderness for the “dear ones at
home,” and messages of kind regard to good friends around. The bride and
groom were moving rapidly from point to point along the Canadian
frontier, so that in answering them the General and his niece had to
direct their letters a few stages in advance of the travelers. As, for
instance, the answer of a letter post-marked Lewisburg, would be
directed to Montreal.
Thus, through one happy divertisement or another, but chiefly through
Drusilla’s affectionate solicitude the “days of absence” slipped
imperceptibly away; they had now brought the close of the last week of
the honeymoon. The travelers were expected home on Saturday evening, and
the house was in perfect order and beauty to receive the wedded pair.