WAITING AND HOPING.
Silence, silence, still, unstirred—
Long, unbroken, unexplained;
Not one word, one little word
Even to show him touched or pained.
Silence, silence, all unbroken—
Not a sound, a word, or token—OWEN MEREDITH.
Still overshadowed with the gloom of their visit to the Tower, our party
entered their private parlor at their hotel.
They found their favorite sofa occupied by a group of visitors.
But before General Lyon had time to recognize or welcome them, a hearty
hand was clapped upon his shoulder, and a cheery voice shouted in his
ear:
“So here you are at last! We have been waiting for you these two hours.”
“Colonel Seymour!” exclaimed General Lyon, in unfeigned surprise and
delight.
“Yes, and Mrs. Seymour and Miss Seymour.”
“Old friends, I am glad to see you.”
“So am I to see you.”
And there was a general and hearty shaking of hands.
“Now be seated again all of you. When did you arrive?” inquired the
General.
“Bless you! Just now, I may say. Landed at Liverpool last night, slept
at the Adelphi, took the train this morning and reached London this
noon.”
“And where are you stopping?”
“At Mivart’s for the present. And before we got settled there, I took a
Hansom cab and drove off to the American Embassy to inquire where you
hung out. I saw a young fellow of the name of Troubador——”
“Tredegar,” amended Dick.
“Ah yes, thank you—so it was Tredegar. Well, I saw a young fellow of the
name of Tredegar, who told me where to find you; and so I drove back to
Mivart’s as fast as ever I could—and how those Hansom cabs can fly over
the ground!—and I changed my Hansom for a four wheeler, and just giving
Nan time to put on her finery, I took her and her mother in and drove
here!” exclaimed the visitor, eagerly talking himself out of breath, and
briskly wiping his face with his pocket-handkerchief.
“And we are all so charmed to see you. We never had a more complete
surprise, or a more delightful one,” said Anna.
And all her party cordially assented to her words.
“I hope you did not have to wait for us long,” said Dick, anxiously.
“Two mortal hours, I tell you, at the risk of being turned out every
minute, too.”
“How was that?” quickly inquired the General.
“Why, you see, first of all, that fellow in the white neckcloth and
napkin told me somewhat shortly that neither General Lyon nor any of his
party were at home.”
“‘I know that, because they are here,’ I answered.
“‘But they are not in, sir,’ he replied.
“‘Then we will wait till they are,’ I rejoined.
“‘They’ll not be here, till five o’clock,’ he added.
“‘All right. We will sit down and make ourselves comfortable until that
hour,’ I remarked.
“‘That’s the General’s dinner hour,’ growled the fellow.
“‘Which is extremely lucky, as we can dine with him,’ concluded I.
“The fellow looked as if he suspected me of being the confidence man,
and meditated calling in the police. However he contented himself with
beckoning to an under waiter, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in my
direction, and muttering something very like an order to the other one
not to lose sight of me. And so he or the other fellow kept an eye on me
all the while.”
“The insolent scoundrel!” exclaimed General Lyon, indignantly.
“Not at all. He was an honest fellow—had your interest at heart and
looked after it. How did he know but I might have walked off with the
piano?” answered the visitor, patting his host on the shoulder to soothe
down his anger, and adding, “I know I, for one, looked like a suspicious
party, in my weather-beaten sea-suit. And just see what an old-fashioned
bonnet my wife wears; and as for Nanny, I have a painful impression that
she is overdressed,” he sighed, glancing from the rich, light-blue
taffeta gown, and white silk mantle and bonnet of Miss Seymour’s costume
to the plain grays that formed the street dress of the other ladies.
“Miss Nanny is charming in any style,” said the General, gallantly,
bowing to the mortified girl.
“However,” continued Colonel Seymour, “I was anxious to see you all, so
I waited. I suppose if we had been fashionable folks we should have left
our cards and gone away; but being plain people, we preferred to wait
for your return. So here we are, and here you are! We expected to see
you, but you didn’t expect to see us, did you now?”
“No; but we are not the less overjoyed on that account. And of course
you must stay and dine with us.”
“Of course. I told the waiter so,” laughed the colonel.
“Now, dear Mrs. Seymour and darling Nanny, you must both come up with
Drusilla and myself to our rooms to take off your bonnets,” said Anna,
rising and conducting her visitors from the room.
At a sign from the General, Dick went down-stairs to order some
necessary additions to their dinner, in honor of their guests.
“Now, old friend, tell me what put it into your head to cross the ocean
and give me this great pleasure?” inquired General Lyon, when he found
himself alone with his neighbor.
“Example,” answered Colonel Seymour;—“nothing but example. You and your
family left the neighborhood to go to Europe. And I and mine were very
lonesome, I can tell you, after you were all gone. So one day I up and
said to my wife:
“‘Polly, if we are ever to see the Old World, we had as well see it now
as at another time. We are not growing younger, Polly. Indeed I
sometimes fancy we are growing older.’
“‘Why, la, Benny,’ she said, ‘can’t you live and die like your fathers
without leaving your own country?’
“So I answered right up and down:
“‘No, Polly, I cannot. And as we _must_ go to Europe some time, to show
it to our girl, if for no other reason, we can’t choose a better time
than this when our old neighbors are over there. We’ll go and join them
and have a good time.’
“Well, upon the whole, Polly didn’t dislike the idea of the trip; and as
for Nancy, she was all for it. So we up and came.”
“You must have decided and acted with great promptitude to be over here
so soon after us.”
“Didn’t we, though! We set the house in order the next day, which was
Tuesday; packed up Wednesday, went to New York Thursday, and sailed for
Liverpool on Saturday.”
“What! and had not previously engaged berths in your steamer?”
“No; didn’t know that was necessary until I went into the agent’s
office. And then it was by a stroke of luck we got the rooms. A family
who were going out by that steamer that day were unavoidably delayed,
and had to give up their berths. And I engaged them.”
“Well, certainly, you were more lucky than you knew.”
“Yes, ‘a fool for luck,’ it is said.”
“Well, now, neighbor, shall we follow the example of the ladies and go
to my dressing-room to refresh our toilets? As for myself, I have been
poking into the vaults and dungeons of the Tower, and I feel as if I
were covered with the dust of ages!”
“Yes, and I am just as unbearable with railway smoke and cinders.”
“Come, then,” said the General, rising and conducting his visitor to his
own apartment.
Half an hour afterwards, all the friends assembled in the parlor, where
the table was laid for dinner.
At half-past five it was served. It consisted of a boiled turbot with
shrimp sauce; green-turtle soup; roasted young ducks and green peas;
pigeon-pasty; cauliflowers, asparagus, sea-kail and, in short, the
choice vegetables of the month; and, for dessert, delicate whipped
creams, jellies, and ices, and candied fruits, and nuts; and port, and
sherry, and champagne, and moselle wines.
The “fellow in the neckcloth and napkin,” as the colonel described the
waiter, seeing how well these visitors were received by General Lyon and
family, tried to make up for his mistakes of the morning by the most
obsequious attentions, all of which the good-natured Seymour received in
excellent part.
Old Seymour was blessed with a keen appetite and a strong digestion. He
had always enjoyed his homely farm dinners of boiled beef, or bacon and
greens, washed down with native whiskey-toddy, and now he much more
keenly enjoyed the rare delicacies set before him.
After coffee was served they arose from the table, and the service was
removed.
“I suppose, my dear, there is no such thing as a treat in the form of
your sweet music to be hoped for this evening?” sighed the colonel, as
he took his seat in a resting chair.
“Why not, Colonel Seymour?” smiled Drusilla.
“Oh, to be sure, I see a piano in the room; but of course it is a hotel
piano, which you would no more care to touch than I would to hear!”
“Suppose you let me try this ‘hotel piano.’ Let us not yield to a
prejudice, but give the abused thing a fair trial,” said Drusilla,
smiling as she sat down to one of the finest instruments of the most
celebrated manufacturer in London.
She executed in her best style some of Colonel Seymour’s favorite
pieces. And the old colonel, as usual, listened, entranced,
“Why, that is one of the best toned pianos I ever heard in my life—quite
as good as your own fine instrument at home!” exclaimed the old man in
surprise. “But what amazes me is that it should be in such good tone. I
never could abide either school pianos or hotel pianos in my life
before.”
“This is neither,” answered Drusilla, laughing. “We hired this from a
celebrated music-bazar.”
“Ah, that accounts for it!” said the colonel. “Now, my dear, begin
again! Consider, I haven’t heard the sound of your sweet voice in song
for a month before to-night!”
“And that is just the reason why he crossed the ocean, Drusilla, my
dear, and nothing else in life!” said Mrs. Seymour. “He may talk about
showing Nanny the old world and improving her mind and all that, but
it’s no such thing! It was the love of your music that lured him all the
way from America, like the lute of What’s-his-name did the spirits out
of What-do-you-call it!”
Drusilla smiled on the old lady and recommenced her pleasant task, and
played and sang for the old gentleman during the remainder of the
evening.
At eleven o’clock the visitors arose to take their leave, but of course
did not do it immediately,—they stood and talked for half an hour
longer. And, in that standing conference, it was arranged that General
Lyon should see about getting suitable apartments at the Morley House
for the Seymours; and, if none should now be vacant, that he should
bespeak in advance the first that should be disengaged.
It was farther agreed that the two parties of friends should join
company in all sight-seeing excursions, and that they should always
lunch together.
And here a friendly quarrel, each old gentleman insisting upon being the
permanent host of the lunch table. Finally the dispute ended in an
amicable arrangement that General Lyon and Colonel Seymour should each
be the host on alternate days.
Then indeed the Seymours took leave and departed.
And the Lyons went to rest.
Drusilla entered her own bed-chamber. Little Lenny was asleep in his
crib. Pina was nodding in her seat.
Drusilla had neither the will nor the power to sleep. She threw herself
in her resting-chair and gave her mind up to thought. She was glad to be
alone. The day had been a very harassing one—at once exciting and
depressing in its events and experiences. Yet all that had occurred to
her sank into utter insignificance compared with the single incident of
one instant—the cold stare with which her husband had met her eyes. More
than all his double dealing with her; more than his long neglect of her
at Cedarwood; more than his cruel repudiation of her on her wedding
night; more than his two years of scornful abandonment—did this cold,
hard, strange stare chill her love and darken her faith and depress her
hopes. Drusilla’s sad reverie was interrupted by a gentle rap at her
door. It had been probably repeated more than once before it broke into
her abstraction. Now thinking it was the chambermaid coming on some
errand connected with fresh water or clean towels, she was about to bid
the rapper come in; but quickly reflecting that the hour was too late to
expect a visit from the damsel in question, and feeling startled at the
thought of an unknown visitor at midnight, she cautiously inquired:
“Who is there?”
“It is I, Drusa, dear. I know you are still up, for I see the light
shining through your key-hole, and you never sleep with a light
burning,” said the voice of Mrs. Hammond.
“Come in, dear Anna,” said Drusilla, rising and opening the door.
“Now, if you really prefer to be alone, tell me so, my dear, and I will
not take it amiss, but leave you at once,” said Anna, hesitating, before
she took the easy-chair offered her by Drusilla.
“No; how could you think so? How could you think I could prefer my own
company to yours? I know you came to cheer me up, and I feel how kind
you are. Sit down, dear Anna.”
“Well, Drusa, you have seen we have not had one moment to ourselves
to-day; and we may not have to-morrow. I knew—I felt instinctively that
you would be too much excited to sleep to-night, so I came to you, my
dear—partly, as you say, to cheer you up, but partly, also, to talk of
something that happened to-day.”
“Yes—thank you, dear Anna.”
“You have confidence enough in me, I hope, Drusilla, to feel that you
and I can talk upon some ticklish subjects without offence, since I
speak only in your interest.”
“Yes, Anna.”
“Well, then, we met Alick in the Tower. That seems certain. But _did_ I
hear and see right, and _did_ the guide point out our Alick and called
him Lord Kilcrackam?”
“Lord Killcrichtoun. Yes, Anna.”
“And furthermore, _did_ I dream it, or did I hear something said between
you and grandpa—something that did not reach my ears quite distinctly,
because I was not very near you at the time, and you spoke quite low, as
you always do—something in short, to the effect that our Alick is the
same young American gentleman who claimed a certain Scotch barony in
right of his mother?”
“Yes, it was Alick who claimed, and made good his claim to the barony of
Killcrichtoun. I should have thought Dick, as much as he is about town,
would have found it out before this.”
“Oh dear, no, he has not. It would have been the merest chance if he
had, in a town where there is so much more—so very much more—to be
talked about than a young man’s succession to a petty lordship. By the
way, how did _you_ know it, Drusilla?”
“The first day of our being here I was standing at the front window and
saw him leave the house and walk across the square. I was very much
startled, and called the waiter, and, pointing to Alick, inquired if
that gentleman were stopping here. The man told me that he was here for
the present, but would leave in the evening, and that he was Lord
Killcrichtoun. And then there flashed upon me all at once the idea that
he was the very same young American gentleman who had claimed the
title.”
“And you never told us about it,” said Anna, in surprise.
“I—shrank from the subject; and, besides, I did not think you would care
to hear. You remember little Lenny’s losing a lock of hair?”
“Certainly; and it was cut off by his father, I suppose.”
“Yes, in the absence of Pina, and while Lenny was in the temporary
charge of the chambermaid.”
“And you never mentioned it to us.”
“Dear Anna, you know I never bring up Alick’s name unnecessarily.”
“Well, but I must tell Dick all about it if you have no objection.”
“None in the world. I wish him to know it.”
“But I am astonished at Alexander, merging the honest manliness of an
American citizen in the empty title of a Scotch barony! However, it is
all of a piece with his late mad proceedings. Now, there, I see from
your reproving countenance that I must utter no more blasphemies against
your idol; but now if the divine Alexander is Lord Killcrichtoun, what
are _you_, my dear?”
Drusilla looked up with a startled expression, then reflected a few
moments, and finally answered:
“I am his wife: beyond that I have never thought.”
“You are Lady Killcrichtoun; and now here is the difficulty: Your cards
bear the name Mrs. Alexander Lyon. Everywhere my grandfather has
introduced you as such; all the invitations sent you are addressed to
you by that name: and more, our lady ambassadress expects to present you
at her Majesty’s next drawing-room as Mrs. Alexander Lyon. Now what’s to
be done about that?”
Drusilla did not answer, but she reflected—so long that Anna broke in
upon her meditation with the question: “You have a right to share your
husband’s title—a right of which he cannot deprive you, for it is
legally your own. Shall we not then introduce you as Lady
Killcrichtoun?”
“No,” answered Drusilla, gravely. “The name I now bear is also legally
my own, having been given me by my husband in our marriage. I will
retain it. I will never attempt to share his new rank until he himself
shall give me leave to do so. If, without his sanction, I were to take
my part in his title, I should seem to be pursuing him, which I will
never consent to do, dear Anna.”
“But then, my dear, do you consider that if you refuse to do this, you
will enter society in some degree under false colors.”
“Dear Anna, there is no necessity for my entering society _at all_. I
would rather live in seclusion as Drusilla Lyon than go into the world
as Lady Killcrichtoun, and of course I _can_ live so.”
“And if you _do_ live so, you will never see Alick; but if you go out,
you will meet him every day; for of course he is the gayest man about
town here, as he used to be at home. And you may depend he will be
received everywhere; for in this country a title is a title, and though
the barony of Killcrichtoun may not be worth five hundred a year, Alick
has an enormous outside fortune, which fact cannot be hid under a
bushel. And going about as he does, _alone_, he will be thought a single
man, and, under all the supposed circumstances, a very eligible match.
Now, Drusa, if I were you, I would put a stop to all that by going
constantly into society, and going too as Lady Killcrichtoun.”
“No,” repeated Drusilla, “I will never share his title until he
authorizes me to do so. And as to going out under my present name, I
will be guided by General Lyon. As he is responsible for me, he must be
the final judge in this matter.”
“So this is your decision?”
“Yes, dear Anna.”
They might have talked longer, but Pina, who had been fast asleep in her
chair all this time, now tumbled off it and fell upon the floor with a
noise that terrified both the friends and started them upon their feet.
“It is only that girl—how she frightened me! I thought it was some one
breaking into the room!” exclaimed Anna, trembling as Pina picked
herself up and stood staring in dismay.
“Poor girl! how thoughtless of me to have forgotten her! Go to bed,
Pina, it is half-past twelve,” said Drusilla, kindly.
And the maid, still more than half asleep, tumbled off to her cot in a
closet adjoining her mistress’s chamber.
Anna also arose, and, bidding Drusilla good-night, passed to her own
room.
Drusilla went to bed, but not to sleep. She lay revolving the problem
that Anna had left her to solve. Should she enter London society _at
all_ under her present circumstances?
As yet, neither her party nor herself had gone to any sort of private
entertainment. They had left cards on the people to whom the General had
letters of introduction. And they had received calls from many of them.
Also they had many notes of invitation to dinners, balls, concerts, and
fêtes of every description; but, as yet, none of these notes had fallen
due. So Drusilla stood uncommitted to the world by either name or title.
Now the question with her was this,—Should she go to parties at all?
If she should, she was resolved it should be only under her simple name.
But then, if being the wife of Lord Killcrichtoun, she should go only as
Mrs. Lyon, would she not be, as Anna said, appearing under false colors?
Would it not be better, all things considered, that she should live
secluded?
Ah, but then Alexander was in the world, and the temptation to go where
she might enjoy the happiness of seeing him daily, even though he should
never speak to her, was irresistible! She could not deny herself that
delight.
Then, finally, she determined to speak to her old friend, General Lyon,
on the subject; and with her mind more at ease, she fell asleep.