MEETING EVERY DAY.
We that were friends, yet are not now,
We that must daily meet,
With ready words and courteous bow,
Acquaintance of the street,
We must not scorn the holy past,
We must remember still
To honor feelings that outlast
The reason and the will.—MILNES.
Next morning, over an early breakfast, our party discussed, with their
tea, toast, muffins, and fried soles, the programme of the week.
How crowded their life in London was getting to be. Every day, every
hour, nay, every moment, we might say, pre-engaged!
“We go to Westminster Abbey first. The Seymours are to go with us, and
are to join us here at ten o’clock. It is After nine now,” said the
General, as he chipped his egg.
“They will not be behind time, you may depend on it,” laughed Dick. “We
shall be able to get off by ten o’clock, and get into the Abbey by a
quarter past. It will take us at least three hours to do Westminster,
which will bring one o’clock or a little later, when we can get lunch at
Simmon’s, in Threadneedle Street,—an old-established house, celebrated
for its green turtle and its punch this century past. After which we
will still have time to see St. Paul’s, and to get home in season for
our five o’clock dinner.”
“And remember, Dick, that we must not be later, for we have a box this
evening at Drury Lane, to see the Keans.”
“All right, Anna! we are not likely to forget that.”
“And let us see! what is the programme for to-morrow?” inquired the
General.
“I do not think that has been arranged yet,” said Drusilla.
“Then let it be the British Museum and the Royal Academy.”
“Oh, no, grandpa! We must go to Windsor to-morrow; and I’ll tell you
why. It will take a whole day and night to go to Windsor, see it all,
and return. And to-morrow is the only whole day we have at our disposal.
For on Thursday we are engaged to dinner at Lord Esteppe’s, and to a
concert at Mrs. Marcourt’s. On Friday we are to breakfast with the
Warrens and to go to a ball at our Minister’s; and on Saturday we are
promised to the Whartons for their fête at Richmond. Now out of either
of these days we might take a few hours to see any London sights; but
for Windsor we must have an unbroken day, and to-morrow is the only one
of this week, or of next week either for that matter, left at our
disposal.”
“That is very true, my dear. Bless my soul, how we are crowded with
engagements! It is very flattering, of course, and very pleasant, I
suppose; but—it is just a little harassing also. Dick, have you ordered
a barouche?”
“No, sir; but I have finished breakfast, and if you will excuse me I
will go and do so now; or, rather, I mean I will walk around to the
livery stable and choose a good one myself,” answered Mr. Hammond,
rising from the table and leaving the room.
With an excuse for her absence, Anna followed him.
As the General was still toying with his breakfast, Drusilla lingered to
keep him company.
The waiter had retired and the two were alone, a circumstance so
unusual, and so unlikely to happen again, that Drusilla thought this to
be her best opportunity for consulting him upon the difficulty that now
perplexed her mind.
So while the old gentleman sat trifling with a delicate section of his
fried sole, Drusilla abruptly entered upon the subject:
“Uncle, we are all invited to a great many places; and we have accepted
all the invitations. But before I go to any party I would like to have a
talk with you.”
“Well, my dear, talk away! what is it about?” inquired the old man,
somewhat surprised by the gravity of her manner.
“Uncle, is it quite right that I, a forsaken wife, should go so much
into the world?”
“My child, I thought that question had been asked and answered two years
ago at Old Lyon Hall.”
“So it was, you dear uncle, answered in a way to give me pleasure as
well as peace. But the circumstances are different now from what they
were then. Then we were in your own familiar neighborhood, among your
own old country friends and neighbors, who loved and honored you so much
that they would have received with gladness and courtesy any one whom
you might choose to present as a member of your family. But here, dear
uncle, it is different; we are in a foreign city and among strangers.”
“Yes, my child, but among strangers who are hospitable and courteous;
and to whom I have brought such letters of introduction as must secure a
hearty welcome both to myself and every member of my family. Have no
fears or doubts, little Drusa. You who are blameless must not be ‘sent
to Coventry’ as if you were faulty.”
Drusilla sighed and continued:
“Uncle, there is another circumstance that complicates the case very
much.”
“Well, my dear, and what is it?”
“At home I was known as Mrs. Lyon, which was my true name; but here,
since Alick has made good his claim to the Scotch barony, I have another
name and title,” said Drusilla, so solemnly that the General laid down
his fork and laughed heartily as he answered:
“And so, my dear, you want us to introduce you as Lady Killcrichtoun!”
“Oh, no, _no_, NO!” exclaimed Drusilla, earnestly, “not so! I do not
want that! I would not consent to it! Indeed I would not! Anna can tell
you that I said so last night!”
“And you are right, my child, entirely right; and I commend your good
sense in making such a resolution. But where then is your difficulty, my
dear?”
“Why, just in this—my husband being now Lord Killcrichtoun, would I not,
by entering society as Mrs. Lyon, be appearing under false colors; and
rather than do that had I not better eschew society altogether?”
“No, my dear; a thousand noes to both your questions! You are known to
yourself and to your nearest relations and best friends, and to myself
who introduce and endorse you, as Mrs. Lyon. And by that name I shall
continue to call you and to present you. Who knows you to be Lady
Killcrichtoun? or even Alick to be Lord Killcrichtoun? Do you know it?
Do I? _Does he himself?_ He calls himself so; but that don’t prove it
_is_ so. The newspapers affirm it; but that don’t prove it. The world
accepts him as such; but that don’t prove either—at least to us who have
always known him only as Mr. Lyon, and haven’t examined the evidences
that he is anybody else. Similarly we have known you only as Mrs. Lyon,
and shall take you with us everywhere and introduce you as such; at
least until Alick himself assures to you your other title.”
“Thank you, dear uncle. Again your decision has given me pleasure as
well as peace. I _did_ wish to go everywhere with you and Anna; but I
was resolved to go only as Mrs. Lyon, though I was afraid that by doing
so I should appear under false colors. But your clear and wise
exposition has set all my anxieties at rest. I am glad you still wish me
to go into company,” said Drusilla, earnestly.
“My dear, I have a motive for wishing you to go. Drusilla, my child, you
and I may surely confide in each other?”
“As the dearest father and child, dear uncle, yes.”
“Then, Drusa, my darling, in these two years that you have been with us,
I have studied you to some purpose. I see you very cheerful, my child,
but I know that you are not quite happy. Something is wanting, and of
course I see what it is;—it is Alexander, since you still love him with
unchanging constancy.”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes,” breathed Drusilla, in a very low tone.
“I know you do. Well, as you love Alick, so he needs you, whether he
knows it or not. You are the angel of his life, and the only power under
Heaven that can save him. I know Alexander well. I have known him from
his infancy, and of course I know all the strong and all the weak points
in his character.”
Drusilla raised her eyes to the old man’s face with a deprecating and
pleading expression.
“Fear nothing, my child; I am not going to abuse him, at least not to
you; in saying that he has his weak points, I say no more of him than I
might say of myself or any other man. But it is through their weakness
men are often saved as well as through their strength. Listen to me, my
dear Drusilla.”
“I am listening, sir.”
“Well, then, Alick’s chief weakness is that he can only admire through
the eyes of the world, for which he has always had the greatest
veneration.”
“Do you think so, sir? Ah, surely he was not considering the world’s
opinion when he married me, his housekeeper’s daughter,” pleaded
Drusilla.
“No; passion, if he is capable of feeling at all, makes even a worldly
man forget the world sometimes. And, pardon me, my dear Drusilla, if I
say that he married you for your personal attractions, for your perfect
beauty and brilliant genius—of that in your nature which is fairer than
beauty and brighter than genius, and better and lovelier than both, he
knew nothing at all; he has yet to learn of them.”
Drusilla, blushing deeply under this praise, which was but just tribute,
kept her eyes fixed upon the floor. General Lyon continued:
“Yes, my dear, he is worldly—he worships the world and sees through the
eyes of the world. What was it that blinded him to your sweet domestic
virtues and tempted him from your side? It was the brilliant social
success of Anna—of Anna, for whom he cared not a cent, and whom he had
really jilted for your sake; but with whom he actually fancied himself
in love as soon as he found her out to be belle of the season, the queen
of fashion, and all that ephemeral rubbish.”
Drusilla sighed, but made no answer.
“He has got over all that nonsense, believe me. He regards Anna now,
probably, very much as he did when he jilted her for you and before her
splendid season in Washington had so dazzled and maddened him. He has
gotten over _that_ nonsense; but not over the worldliness that led him
into it; for that is a part of his nature. And now, Drusa, I will tell
you why I wish to introduce you into the most fashionable society here.”
Drusilla looked up with eager attention.
“_Because_ in society here you are sure to eclipse Anna and every other
beauty of her type.”
“Oh, uncle!”
“My dear, I am speaking fact, not flattery. Anna is beautiful; we will
grant that; but she is of that large, fair style, so rare in our country
that it made her a belle there, but which is too common here to make her
more than one of the pretty women of the season. On the contrary, _your_
style, Drusilla, more common in America, is extremely rare here. You
will be new. You will make what women call a ‘sensation.’ Alick will see
it, and he will discover his folly, if he never finds out his sin in
having left you. There, Drusilla! there is the old man’s policy, worthy
of a manœuvering chaperon, is it not?”
Drusilla knew not what to reply. For her own part she didn’t like
anything that savored of “policy.” She longed—oh, how intensely!—for a
reconciliation with her husband; it was her one thought by day, her one
dream by night, her one aspiration in life! but she did not want it
brought about by any sort of manœuvering. Perhaps the General read her
thoughts, for he said earnestly:
“I see you do not quite approve my plan, dear child. You would rather
Alick’s own better nature should bring him back to his wife and babe;
but ah, my dear, who can appeal to that better nature so successfully as
yourself? and how can you ever appeal to it unless you have him to
yourself? And how can you have him, unless you attract him in the way I
suggest. Let him see you appreciated by others, that he may learn to
appreciate you himself. Let him seek you because others admire you; and
then when you have him again, you may trust your own love to win his
heart forever!—But here is Dick, and, bless me, yes; here are all the
Seymours, at his heels!”
Colonel Seymour and his family entered, marshalled in by Dick. And there
were cordial morning salutations and hand-shakings.
The carriages were waiting. Drusilla ran off to call Anna and to put on
her own bonnet.
And in a few minutes the whole party started on their sight-seeing
excursion.
The programme of the day was carried out. They went just to Westminster
Abbey and saw there the wonders and beauties of several successive
orders of architecture. They saw the most ancient chapel of Edward the
Confessor, containing the tomb of that Royal Saint, and the old
coronation chair and other memorials of the Saxon kings, and the remains
of many of their Norman successors.
They saw the splendid chapel of Henry the Seventh, with the beautiful
tomb of that fierce paladin, conqueror of Richard Third, and founder of
the sanguinary Tudor dynasty; and of his meek consort, Elizabeth of
York, surnamed the Good. And there also they saw, oh strange
juxtaposition! the tombs of that beautiful Mary Stuart, and of her rival
and destroyer, the ruthless Elizabeth Tudor; and the tombs of many other
royal and noble celebrities besides.
And they examined many other chapels, filled with the monuments and
memorials of kings and queens, knights and ladies, heroes and martyrs,
poets and philosophers, who had adorned the history of the country and
of the world, from the foundation of the Abbey to the present time.
At one o’clock, before they had inspected one-tenth part of the
interesting features of this venerable edifice, they took leave of
Westminster Abbey, promising themselves another and a longer visit, and
they went to “Simmons’” to lunch.
At two o’clock they visited St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Time and space would fail us here to give the slightest outline of the
wonders of that most wonderful cathedral. The mere ascent of St. Paul’s
from the crypt to the cupola might be, in some degree, compared to the
ascent of Mont Blanc—at least in toil and fatigue, if not in danger and
distance. To give the most cursory description of its marvels of
architecture, sculpture, paintings and decorations, would fill volumes
and be out of place here. After three or four hours spent there, our
party returned to their hotel, utterly wearied, dazzled and distracted;
and with only two images standing out distinctly from the magnificent
chaos in their minds—the mausoleums of Lord Nelson and the Duke of
Wellington, the great sailor and the great soldier of England standing
side by side in the crypt of the Cathedral.
“My dear,” said the General, that evening over his cup of tea, “when we
laid out our plans for this week we had no idea what was before us! No
wise man crowds so much sight-seeing into so little time. It is as wrong
to surfeit the brain as it is to overload the stomach. As for me I am
suffering from a mental indigestion, and I would rather not attempt
Windsor Castle, or any other stupendous place or thing, until I have got
over Westminster Abbey and St. Paul’s Cathedral. So what do you say to
postponing all sight-seeing for the remainder of this week?”
Drusilla and Anna eagerly assented; for, in truth, they wanted some
leisure for shopping and for arranging toilets in which to appear at the
minister’s ball. And Dick was too polite to offer any opposition.
So the next day, while the General and Dick stayed at home to lounge,
read, or smoke, Anna and Drusilla drove to the West End, and ransacked
all the most fashionable stores in Oxford, Regent, and Bond streets in
search of new styles of flowers, laces, gloves, and so forth.
And never did the vainest young girl, in her first season, evince more
anxiety about her appearance than did poor Drusilla, who was not vain at
all. But then the young wife knew that she would be sure to meet her
husband at the minister’s ball, and that her future happiness might
depend upon so small a circumstance as the impression she might make
there. For once in her innocent life, but for his sake only, she longed
for a social triumph.