AT THE OLD HALL.
Yes, there thou art below the hill,
By evergreens encircled still,
Old hall that time hath deigned to spare,
Mid rugged rocks and forests fair,
And nightshade o’er the casement creeping,
And owlet in the crevice sleeping,
And antique chairs and broidered bed,
By housewife’s patient needle spread.—ANON.
Old Lyon Hall lay at the foot of the Porcupine, an offshoot of the
Alleghanies, in one of the wildest and most picturesque counties in
Virginia.
It was built in the Tudor style of domestic architecture, very
irregularly, with many gable ends, gothic windows and twisted chimneys.
Its walls of old red sandstone contrasted gloomily with the dark hue of
the evergreen trees that bristled up above it, and gave the mountain its
descriptive name.
Heavy woods, bare, gray crags, and tumbling torrents surrounded it, and
gave a savage and sombre aspect to the scene. Below the Hall a turbulent
little river, spanned by a rustic bridge, rushed and roared along its
rocky bed.
The Hall was very old. It had been built nearly two hundred years ago by
a Scotchman named Saul Sauvage Lyon, who had received a grant of the
land from James the First. It had remained ever since in the family of
the founder, whose descendants had frequently distinguished themselves,
as soldiers, or statesmen, in every epoch of the country’s history,
either as a colony or a commonwealth.
Some few years since, being the date of this story, the master of the
Old Lyon Hall and Manor was General Leonard Lyon, a retired army
officer, and a veteran of the war of eighteen hundred and twelve.
General Lyon had married very early in his youth, and had enjoyed many
years of calm domestic happiness. But now his wife and children were all
dead, and his only living descendant was his grandchild, the beautiful
Anna Lyon, “sole daughter of ‘his’ house.”
Added to the great sorrow of bereavement was vexation, that, for the
want of male heirs, his old family estate must at last “fall to the
distaff.”
But there might be found a remedy to this lesser evil.
General Lyon had a younger brother, Chief Justice Lyon, of Richmond. And
the chief justice had an only son.
Young Alexander Lyon was a bright, handsome, attractive lad, a few years
older than his cousin Anna.
Under all the circumstances, if it was not perfectly proper, it was at
least natural and pardonable that old General Lyon should wish his
grand-daughter to become the wife of his nephew, so that while she
inherited his estate, she might perpetuate his name.
Quite early in the childhood of the boy and girl, the general proposed
their betrothal to the chief justice, who eagerly acceded to the plan.
And so the affair was settled—by the parents. It was not considered
necessary to consult the children.
Alexander was sent to Yale College, where, for a few years, he led
rather a fast life for a student.
And Anna was placed at a fashionable boarding school in New York, where
she had a great deal more liberty than was good for her.
Twice a year the young persons were permitted to meet—when they spent
the midsummer vacation at old Lyon Hall, where the chief justice and his
wife also came on a visit to the general, and when they kept the
Christmas holidays at the splendid town house of the chief justice at
Richmond, where the general also went to pay back his brother’s visit.
This arrangement was of course very agreeable to all parties.
But as the boy and girl grew towards manhood and womanhood, it was
thought well to change this routine. And so, sometimes in the midsummer
vacation, the whole party, consisting of both families, would go for a
tour through the most attractive places of summer resort. And at
Christmas they would keep the holidays in Washington.
On all these occasions the young lady and gentleman, under the auspices
of their elders, entered very freely into the fashionable amusements of
the season, with the understanding, however, that they were not to fall
in love, or even to flirt with any one but each other.
Miss Lyon and Mr. Alexander seemed at first to have no particular
objection to this arrangement. They had always been fond of each other,
much fonder than of any one else. But ah! theirs was not the love that
would excuse, much less justify marriage.
It has been said that when two persons of like complexion and
temperament intermarry, wise nature and sacred love have had nothing to
do with the union. And the truth spoken to-day is as old as the creation
of man.
Anna and Alexander were of the same complexion and the same temperament;
both were plump, fair, blue-eyed and yellow-haired, both lively and fond
of pleasure, and both, on the surface, and in matters of little moment,
were amiable and yielding, but below the surface, and in affairs of
importance, resolute and determined as destiny and death. In person and
in character they were as much alike as twin brother and sister.
This similarity, while it made their association as relatives very
agreeable, utterly precluded the possibility of their becoming lovers,
in the common sense of the word. They did not know this, when their
hearts were entirely free from any other attachment that might have
awakened their consciousness.
There was no immediate hurry about the projected marriage. It was
certain to take place, the parents concluded, and so they neither
worried themselves nor their children prematurely.
Alexander had to finish his college course, to graduate and to make the
“grand tour,” as was usual with young gentlemen of his position.
When he should have accomplished all this, he would be about
twenty-three years of age and his bride elect would be about
eighteen—both quite young enough to marry, the old folks argued.
The plan was partly carried out.
Alexander Lyon graduated with honors and embarked for Europe. He
travelled over quite a considerable portion of the Eastern Continent. He
was gone two years, at the end of which he returned to claim his
promised bride.
Active preparations were made for the marriage. But fate seemed to be
against it. A few days before the one set apart for the ceremony, while
the whole of both families were assembled at Old Lyon Hall to do honor
to the occasion, Chief Justice Lyon was suddenly struck dead by
apoplexy. Instead of a wedding there was a funeral, and the family went
into mourning for a year.
At the end of that time preparations were again made for the marriage,
which was again arrested by the hand of death.
A malignant fever was prevailing, and Mrs. Lyon, the widow of the chief
justice, was one of its first victims.
At length, at the close of this second term of mourning and seclusion,
the household awoke as from a nightmare dream and busied itself with
blithe bridal affairs.
The splendid city mansion and the fine old country house of the late
chief justice were both renovated and refurnished in costly style for
the reception of the new mistress.
It was settled that the marriage should take place early in November. In
accordance with the old-time prejudices of General Lyon, it was to be
solemnized, in the evening, in the great drawing-room of Old Lyon Hall,
in the presence of a large party of friends, who were afterwards to be
entertained with a ball and supper. The bride and groom were to leave
the next morning for a short tour, after which they were to go to
Richmond and settle down for the winter in their town house, where they
were to be joined by the general.
Such was the arrangement. But “man proposes and”—you know the rest.
The autumn weather that had been glorious with the “excess of glory” in
a genial, refulgent and prolonged Indian Summer, suddenly changed. The
wedding-day dawned threateningly. No sun shone on it. Heavy black clouds
darkened the sky; wild, mournful winds wailed through the woods; violent
gusts of rain dashed suddenly down at intervals and as suddenly ceased.
The inmates of the old Hall watched the weather in hope and fear. Would
it clear up? Or would it grow worse? they asked themselves and each
other. Certainly there was no sign of its clearing; quite the contrary,
for as the day declined the storm thickened.
Fires were kindled in every room of the old house.
In the great drawing-room the two broad fire-places, one at each end,
were piled high with huge hickory logs, that were burning and blazing
and filling the long room with glowing light and genial warmth, all the
more comfortable and delightful in contrast to the tempestuous weather
without—shining on the tall brass andirons and fender; shining on the
polished oak floor, with its rich Turkey rugs laid before each
fire-place and sofa; shining on the wainscotted walls with their
time-honored family portraits; shining on the bright black walnut
furniture; and on every surface and point that could reflect a ray of
light.
This fine old-fashioned drawing-room was as yet vacant, waiting for the
evening crowd of wedding guests, if indeed the state of the weather and
the roads should permit them to assemble.
Fires were kindled in the long dining-room, where a sumptuous supper was
laid out for the expected company; and in all the bed-chambers which had
been opened and aired, cleaned and decorated for such of the guests as
should come from a distance, and need to change their dress and perhaps
to lie down and rest.
In one of the most spacious and comfortable of these upper-chambers,
late in the afternoon of this day, sat the bride elect.
She reclined in an easy chair, with her feet upon the fender and her
eyes fixed moodily, dreamily upon the glowing fire before her, and
listened to the beating storm without.
Here in this room, also, the ruddy blaze shone on dark wainscotted
walls, relieved by crimson damask window curtains, and on a polished
oaken floor, bare of carpets, except for the rugs that lay upon the
hearth before the dressing-table and beside the bed.
This was indeed a lonely, silent, sombre scene in which to find a maiden
on her bridal evening. The tempest raged without, and the wind and rain
beat against the walls and windows as if they would batter them down. In
the pauses of the storm she could hear the rushing of the swollen
torrents and the roaring of the rising river. She knew that the roads
must be almost impassable and the streams unfordable. In truth, no one
had bargained for such weather on the wedding-day.
Of the hundred and fifty guests who had been invited, not one had yet
appeared; not one of her bridesmaids; not the minister who was to
perform the marriage ceremony; not even her bridegroom! And yet all
these had been expected at an early hour of the afternoon.
Everything was ready for their reception and for the rites and festivals
of the evening. Every nook and corner of the genial old home smiled its
welcome in anticipation of the arrival of these expected guests; and yet
not one of them came.
Nor, when she listened to the howling of the tempest without, could the
young bride elect wonder at their absence.
Her rich and varied wardrobe and her rare and costly jewels were all
packed in half a dozen large travelling-trunks that stood ready for
removal outside her chamber door in the upper hall.
Her wedding-dress of rich white velvet, her large veil of fine lace, her
wreath of orange-flowers, and all the accessories of her bridal costume
lay out upon the bed. Yet she doubted that she should be called to wear
them that night: and she sat still gazing into the fire, listening to
the storm, and making no motion towards her toilet.
She looked a beautiful young creature as she sat there, with her
graceful form, her perfect features, her pure complexion, her soft blue
eyes and pale yellow hair.
Of what was she dreaming as she sat gazing into the fire, and heaving
deep, heavy sighs? Surely not only of the storm and the trifling delay
of her marriage, for she must have known that it could only be a
question of a few hours, and that whoever might stay away, her
bridegroom would certainly keep his appointment. What serious subject of
thought had she? what _possible_ subject of grief? Idlest with youth,
health and beauty, with high birth, great wealth and many
accomplishments, about to form the most brilliant marriage of the year,
with a gentleman who seemed her equal in all respects, if not her
superior in some, about to preside over the most splendid establishment
in the city and the grandest old house in the country, and to reign
everywhere a queen in society, what imaginable cause of discontent could
she have?
Ah, friends! did ever any of these things, in themselves alone, satisfy
the hunger of any human heart—make any living creature happy?
The darling daughter, the rich heiress, the beautiful bride elect, sat
and sighed and gazed, and gazed and sighed as if her heart would break.
There were secrets in the life of this motherless girl unknown to her
nearest relatives, unsuspected by her appointed bridegroom. Of that more
hereafter.
She sat there without moving until dark afternoon deepened into black
night, and the raging of the storm became terrific. How long she would
have sat thus I do not know, for just as the little toy of a clock upon
her mantle-piece chimed nine her door opened, and her own maid, Matty,
entered the room.
“I told you not to bring lights until I should ring for them,” said Miss
Lyon, impatiently turning her head.
“I know, Miss Anna; I didn’t bring no lights. I come to tell you how
Marse Alesander has jus’ arroved.”
“He has come—and through all this storm?” exclaimed Anna in a startled
voice.
“Yes, Miss, which Old Marse as’ed if you was ready, and sent me up to
’quire.”
“I can be ready soon, Matty. But—has any one else come?”
“No, Miss.”
“Not the minister?”
“The which, Miss?”
“The Reverend Doctor Barbar.”
“No, Miss.”
“Then I don’t see the use of my disturbing myself yet awhile. There can
be no marriage without a minister,” said the bride elect, with something
very much like a sigh of relief.
“You may go, Matilda,” she added to the girl, who still lingered at the
door.
Matty vanished, and Miss Lyon resigned herself to her reverie.
A few minutes passed, and Matty reappeared.
“What now?” demanded the young lady.
“Please, Miss, ole Marse have sent Jacob, with the close carriage, to
fetch the min’s’er, and say he will be here in half an hour if you will
get ready.”
“Matty, where is your master?”
“In his study, Miss.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Where is Mr. Alexander?”
“He’s gone up to his own room, Miss, to fix hisself.”
“Very well,” said the young lady, as she arose and left her chamber.
She passed up the broad upper hall that was now ruddy and cheerful with
the light of many fires, that shone through the open doors of the
waiting bedrooms, and she went straight to the little room with the bay
window, at the front end, over the main entrance.
She opened the door and found her grandfather seated in his big
arm-chair by his writing table, on which lay books, papers, pens, and so
forth.
But the old gentleman was neither reading nor writing. He was simply
sitting and waiting.
He was a very fine-looking old man, tall and stout, with a full face,
noble features, fair complexion, and snow white hair and beard. He wore
an evening dress of black broadcloth, with a white vest and white
cravat. His white gloves lay beside him, ready for use.
“All alone, gran’pa?” inquired Anna, smiling.
“Yes, my pet—yes, my darling,” said the old gentleman, rising and
handing his grand-daughter to a seat with as much courtesy as if she
were a princess. “But why are you not dressed, Anna? It is late, very
late.”
“Oh, gran’pa, what an awful night for a wedding! And there is no one
here, and no one likely to come.”
“Yes, my dear, but it is the night appointed, and your bridegroom is in
the house, and the minister will soon be here.”
“Gran’pa,” pleaded Anna, leaving her seat and coming and sitting on his
knee, and putting her arm caressingly around his neck—“dear gran’pa, I
cannot bear to be married under these evil auspices, without witnesses,
without bridesmaids, and on a dark night and in a heavy storm. Why
cannot the marriage be deferred until to-morrow morning? What difference
can a few hours make? At least, what difference that is not very
desirable? By to-morrow the storm will be over. The ceremony can be
performed early in the morning. I can be married in my travelling dress.
The supper will do for a breakfast. And we can start immediately upon
our wedding tour. Say, gran’pa, may not the marriage be deferred until
the morning? It is awful to be married in solitude, on a dark, stormy
night. Say, dear gran’pa! _May_ not the marriage be put off until the
morning?”
“My dear, no; it cannot be.”
“But—why not?”
“For many reasons. For one—Anna, I confess, old soldier as I am, to a
little superstition on some subjects. This marriage has been already put
off _twice_. If it should be put off a third time, it will never take
place. A marriage thrice deferred never comes to pass. There, my child,
go and dress. It is nine o’clock. You are two hours behind time.
Alexander is nearly ready, and the minister will be here in a few
minutes,” said the old gentleman, rising and gently leading his favorite
out of the room.
“‘A marriage thrice deferred never comes to pass.’ I wish _I_ was sure
of that, and could defer mine just _once_ more,” mused Anna, as she went
back to her room. “And yet,” she added, compunctiously, “that is unjust
and ungrateful to Alexander. Poor Alick! I dare say, in all these years,
he has never even dreamed of any other girl but me, while I—while I—Ah,
Heaven have pity on us! Well, well, I will bury the past deep in
forgetfulness, and I will try to make him a good wife.”
When she reached her room she found Matty and Matty’s mother, Marcy, who
was her own old nurse, in attendance. The fire was mended, the hearth
swept and the lamps lighted. The two on her dressing-table shone down
upon an open casket of jewels that blazed with blinding radiance.
Anna went wearily up to look at them.
“Mars’ Alic sent them in by his man, honey,” said Aunt Jenny in
explanation.
It was a splendid set of diamonds, consisting of ear-rings, breastpin,
necklace and bracelets.
“You will wear them, honey, dough dere ain’t anybody to see them?”
“Except the giver! Yes, auntie, I will wear them. Poor Alick!” sighed
Anna, sitting down on her dressing-stool, and resigning herself into the
hands of her attendants.
They went willingly to work. The task of arranging their mistress for
her bridal was with them a labor of love.
Old Marcy standing behind the chair brushed and braided the beautiful
hair. Young Matty on the floor, encased the dainty feet in silken hose
and satin slippers. And then the beauty stood up and let them remove her
wrapper and put on her robes and her wreath, and her veil. But with her
own hands she clasped the diamond necklace around her throat and the
diamond bracelets on her wrists, and put ear-rings in her ears, and the
brooch upon her bosom.
And when her toilet was completed she looked, if looks were all, a very
royal bride, fit to share a young monarch’s throne.
She sat down again and said:
“Matty, you may go and tell your master that I am ready.”
The girl left the room to take the message, but in the hall she ran
against some one who seemed on his way to speak to the bride. And so she
turned back to say.
“Miss Anna, here’s Jake asking if he can have a word with you.”
“Certainly. Tell the boy to come in,” said the young lady.
The son of the coachman, one of the younger grooms, entered, hat in
hand, bowing low.
“Well, my boy, what is it?” inquired his mistress.
“If you please, Miss, I telled her as she couldn’t, and she said as she
_must_, and I telled her as she shouldn’t, and she said she _would_,”
replied Jake, rather incoherently.
“‘Would?’ what?—who? I don’t understand you, boy.”
“Her, Miss. I telled her she couldn’t, nohow, but she ’lowed she _must_,
anyhow. And I telled her she shouldn’t then, there! and she ’lowed she
_would_, so there!”
“Would what, Jake?”
“See you immediate, Miss.”
“_Who_ would see me?”
“Her, Miss.”
“Who is she?”
“The young woman, which I think she is crazy, Miss, and not safe to be
seed.”
“Oh, dear! dear me, Jake, what young woman are you talking of?” said
Miss Lyon, impatiently.
“Her as runned in out’n the storm, Miss, and said how she must see you;
and I telled her she wasn’t fit to be seed herself, being drippen’ wet,
nor safe to be seed, being sort o’ cracked, and—oh my laws! there she is
now, a followed of me!” exclaimed the boy, breaking off in dismay, to
stare with wide mouth and eyes at the opening door.
Miss Lyon turned her head in that direction, and saw standing there a
slight, pale young creature, enveloped in a long gray cloak, with its
hood drawn over her head and shading her face.