THE NEXT FEW YEARS.
When she commenced to love she could not say,
Ere she began to tire of childish play.—WORDSWORTH.
The little girl grew to be a great favorite with the old lady; first,
for her beloved and only son’s sake.
“Poor Alick was so fond of the child,” she said; though why she called
the gay and prosperous young collegian “poor,” only aged mothers can
tell.
Afterwards she loved the little one for its own sake.
“The child is such a quiet little creature,” she said, “and so
intelligent and obliging.”
Little Drusilla had the freedom of the house. When her tasks were over
in the housekeeper’s room she might wander where she would, and was
tolerated like a pet kitten.
She would creep into the old lady’s sitting-room, and nestle down at her
feet, ready to hold a skein of silk for her to wind; to pick up her
scissors when she should drop them; to ring the bell for a servant, or
to do anything else that her little hands and willing mind could
accomplish.
And so it came to pass that she became useful and even necessary to her
benefactress.
“You have no idea how many steps about my room the little creature saves
me,” said Mrs. Lyon to the child’s mother.
“I am very glad to hear it, madam; it is her duty to make herself
useful,” replied the housekeeper.
“And then she is so much company.”
“I hope she knows her place, madam, and is not pert.”
“She is a little dear, and I would not be without her for anything; so
don’t be troubled.”
“I trust in you, madam, to send her away whenever she becomes annoying
to you.”
“Quite right; when she becomes annoying I shall do so,” laughed the old
lady.
Whenever Mrs. Lyon got letters from Mr. Alexander she read them to
little Drusilla; and in no one could she have found a more attentive,
intelligent and sympathizing listener. In almost every letter the young
gentleman wrote:
“Give my love to my little pet, and kiss her for me,” or words to that
effect.
Whenever Mrs. Lyon wrote to Mr. Alexander she would smilingly ask the
child what message she had to send; and little Drusilla would answer:
“Please say I sent him a love and a kiss; and I ask our Father to bless
him whenever I say my prayers.”
And the message would be faithfully transmitted.
Sometimes when Mrs. Lyon chanced to be out of her room the little girl
would creep to the door of Judge Lyon’s study, and peep shyly in.
And whether the old lady happened to be there or not the old gentleman
would call the child in, and pat her head, and talk to her, and feel in
all his pockets for stray pennies to give her.
Little Drusilla had but one use for pennies—“to drop in the purse” that
was carried around on Sundays in the Sunday school.
Mrs. Sterling, seeing how really welcome her child was, “in hall and
bower,” no longer tried to keep her confined to the housekeeper’s room.
So the winter passed away, and the spring opened.
Early in the season the family, with their whole establishment of
servants, migrated to Crowood, the fine old country-seat of the chief
justice, situated in the dense forest-land of the valley. Of course Mrs.
Sterling and her child went along with them.
Among woods, fields, and streams, birds, shrubs and flowers, little
Drusilla seemed in her native element, and with her fellow-creatures.
Her enjoyment of nature was intense and her delight unbounded. Her joy
overflowed and communicated itself to every one in the family. Even the
old justice said:
“The child makes me long to have my grandchildren about my knees; for,
after all, this little one isn’t ours.”
“Well, if she isn’t she’s a pet of poor Alick’s, and that makes _me_
think a deal of her,” answered Mrs. Lyon.
The old lady was a great flora-culturist, and had one of the most
beautiful flower-gardens in the country. It was her pleasure to tend it
herself; and she passed much of her time in dibbling and digging,
weeding and watering, planting and transplanting her favorite specimens.
And on these occasions the child was always at her heels, with little
spade, rake, hoe, watering-pot, or guano basket; and she soon learned to
know the name, and watch the growth of every variety of flower as well
and as carefully as her benefactress could.
Mrs. Lyon was also a poultry fancier, and had some of the finest broods
in the neighborhood. Moreover, she chose to look after her hen-roosts
and nests in person.
And whenever she visited her poultry yard for this purpose little
Drusilla would walk behind her with a basket, which she would carry full
of corn for the chickens, and bring back full of fresh eggs for
breakfast. And the child knew the relative merits of bantam, dominicho,
duck-legged, or Spanish broods, as well as their mistress. Shanghais and
Cochin Chinas were unheard of in that day.
But Mrs. Lyon’s pride of prides was her drove of cows—unexcelled and
even unapproached in all the country around. And to these especially,
the old lady often gave her personal attention.
And whenever she walked down to the cow-pen in the afternoon
milking-time, to see for herself that her cows were in a good condition,
and that her milk-maids did their duty faithfully, little Drusilla
walked behind her, with a little basket in her hand full of small, sweet
apples to treat the pets. And with her own little hand she would hold a
small apple up to the great mouth of some prize cow, and laugh to see
the long red tongue thrust out and folded around the morsel to be
crunched up by the teeth. And the child knew the name and pedigree of
every prodigious prize cow there, and could tell the distinctive points
of the Durham, Alderney, Ayrshire, or other breeds.
In a word she became the old lady’s “shadow,” and she learned all the
old lady could teach her without giving her teacher the least trouble,
but on the contrary a great deal of assistance. She gained much
practical knowledge, if but little book learning.
Strangers who saw them together invariably took the little girl to be
the old lady’s grand-daughter; and Mrs. Lyon was always rather pleased
by the mistake.
And little Drusilla was “as happy as the day was long.”
So passed the spring and half the summer.
But in the middle of July the chief justice and his wife went to the
mountains, to old Lyon Hall, on a visit to the general and his daughter,
where they expected to be joined by Mr. Alexander.
Little Drusilla wept over the departure of her friends; but when they
were gone she occupied herself with the commissions Mrs. Lyon had left
to her—left with the purpose of interesting and amusing the lonely child
during her own absence. These were to weed the flower beds, feed the
chickens, and take small sweet apples to the favorite cows at the
afternoon milking-time.
All these pleasant tasks did the little girl gladly and faithfully
perform.
Nevertheless the days seemed long, now that her dear old friends were
gone.
But days and weeks, however tedious, pass away in time.
At the end of six weeks, on the first of September, the chief justice
and his wife come back to Crowood.
Mrs. Lyon could not enough praise the fidelity of her little handmaiden.
There was not a weed to be found in all the flower beds; the chickens
were fat, and the cows in a good condition (though this last item was of
course due more to the fine grazing than to the little treats of sweet
apples tendered to them by the little Drusilla.)
The old lady and the child became better friends than ever. Mrs. Lyon
had a great deal to tell about Mr. Alexander, and little Drusilla was
never tired of listening.
And so three more pleasant months were passed at Crowood, and then the
family went back to the city. They were comfortably settled in their
town house by the first of December.
Mrs. Lyon went out in the carriage to shop, and took Drusilla, and
purchased for her pretty, bright colored merino dresses, suitable for
childhood.
Christmas came, and brought General Lyon, Miss Anna and Mr. Alexander,
on their annual visit. And Mr. Richard Hammond came, an uninvited but
not an unwelcome guest.
Little Drusilla was now always with Mrs. Lyon. The housekeeper had
fairly given the child up to the old lady.
And Mr. Alexander, who, on this occasion was the first of the Christmas
party to arrive, found Drusilla in the drawing-room, neatly dressed in a
crimson merino frock, with a ruffled white apron, and with her pretty
hair curled and tied back with crimson ribbons.
After affectionately greeting his mother and father, he turned to the
child.
“Why—is this? No, it isn’t. Yes, it is actually my little Drusilla. Why,
what a bright little bird you have grown, to be sure!” he exclaimed,
snatching her up in his arms and kissing her boisterously, as she clung
around his neck, smiling in delight, and timidly hiding her face.
“Well, I will say, mother, she does you credit. You have quite
transfigured her. What have you been doing to her to improve her so
much?”
“Giving her a little more sunshine, that is all, Alick,” smiled the old
lady, greatly pleased because the son of her old age was so.
“I declare I never saw such a change in any creature. I left her a year
ago, a dingy little chimney swallow. I come back, and find her a
brilliant oriole. Indeed, I didn’t know her at first, and I shouldn’t
have known her at all, but for her eyes and forehead; _they_ will never
change. I say, father, by the way, talking of her forehead, look at it.
If there be any truth in phrenology _she_ must have intellect.”
“I don’t think it requires an appeal to phrenology to prove that the
child has rare intelligence,” said the chief justice.
“Intellect is a snare as well as beauty; goodness is the quality most to
be desired,” remarked Mrs. Lyon, gravely. Then, speaking to the child,
she added:
“Now run away into the garden and play for half an hour or so. This
clear, frosty air outside is good for little girls.”
Mr. Alexander put his pet down, and then the little creature ran out of
the room.
“I must beg you both, my husband and son, not to say such things as you
have been saying in the child’s presence again. I have too real a regard
for her to wish to have her spoiled.”
“All right, mother; I wouldn’t do anything to spoil her for the world,”
said Mr. Alexander.
And the chief justice also acquiesced, for the old lady was
queen-regnant in her own family kingdom.
An hour later General Lyon and Miss Anna arrived. And at night Mr.
Richard made his appearance. And with the coming of Dick the holidays
really commenced.
On Christmas morning a great many presents were interchanged. And while
rich jewelry, furs, shawls, dresses, laces, slippers, caps, gowns and
gloves were given and received, little Drusilla ran from one group to
another, deeply interested and sincerely sympathizing in the pleasure
and satisfaction of her friends.
“I have not forgotten you this time, little one; see here, what a lot of
pretty stories to read these long winter evenings,” said Mr. Alick,
unwrapping a parcel from which he took a large volume of “Fairy Tales,”
profusely illustrated with splendidly colored engravings.
What child’s heart does not dote on Fairy Tales and on colored pictures?
Little Drusilla’s eyes fairly leaped with joy, and she caught the young
man’s hand and kissed it eagerly, and pressed it to her heart, and put
it on her head. Apparently she could not do enough to express how much
she was obliged to him.
“Oh, nonsense; I’m not the Emperor of Morocco or Khan of Tartary, to be
worshipped after that fashion,” laughed the young man, “and my knuckles
must be knobby sort of kissing. Up here, crimson lips, and kiss me on
the mouth, if nothing but kissing will relieve your mind. Come, Miss
Anna won’t be jealous, not now, at least, though I don’t know what she
might be if you were seventeen instead of seven.” And he took her up in
his arms, and kissed her very fondly.
“And now see here,” he said, as he put her down again, “here is
something else I have got for you—a pretty little _papier mâché_ writing
desk, furnished completely. See, here is an inkstand and a sand box,
here are pens of several sizes, and pencils of all qualities, and here
are envelopes and note-paper of every color and shade. Now I know you
can write a little, as well as read a great deal. So, when I go away
again, I want you, instead of sending me messages, to write me nice
little notes, and give them to my mother, and she will put them inside
of hers, and send them to me. Do you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” said the child, gravely, as the tears stole down her cheeks.
“Now, then, what are you crying for?”
“Because you are so good to me, and—and you are going away again, and I
shall not see you for—for—for a year,” sobbed the little Drusilla.
“Whe-ew! here’s borrowing trouble! Why, I shall not go for six weeks
yet, and who knows but the world may come to an end before that time,
and we may all go to Heaven together? Come, stop crying. What! you
can’t? Hey day! Do you love me as much as all that comes to?”
“Yes, sir,” sobbed the child.
“Well, then, if you do love me, mind what I say, and stop crying. It
blubbers your face all up, and makes you ugly, and I couldn’t possibly
love an ugly little girl.”
Drusilla wiped her eyes by rubbing her fists into them, and then, little
woman-like, turned her head aside, and stole a furtive glance at the
mirror opposite, to see if she had made herself as ugly as Mr. Alexander
said, and finding that she _had_, she began to compose herself.
And in a few minutes afterwards she seemed deeply interested in sorting
the contents of her writing desk.
This was one of the merriest Christmas seasons that the young people of
the Lyon family ever passed. The weather was very fine. Everybody was in
good health and high spirits. Amusements were many and various. And
where-ever the young party went they took little Drusilla with them. She
was the family pet.
Bright seasons must terminate, as well as dark ones, and the merry
Christmas holidays came to an end, and the happy Christmas party
separated.
Again little Drusilla was inconsolable, until time reconciled her to the
absence of her friend.
But she obeyed his order, given half in jest and half in earnest. She
wrote a little letter to him to be put in every one that his mother
sent. And real love-letters they were too, though scratched in the most
awkward of infantile hands.
“I love you so; I do love you so much; I do love you more than anybody
in the world; every time I say my prayers I thank Our Father for making
you, and I pray to Him to bless you and to keep you good. And I do all
you tell me to do, and it makes me feel glad. And I don’t do what you
tell me not to do. And when anybody wants me to do anything well that is
hard, they speak your name and then it seems easy for me. I let mother
cut off all my long curls and did not cry, for she said that my hair
would grow out so much nicer by the time you come back. But oh, how long
it will be before you come back. But I won’t cry after you, for you say
it makes me ugly and you couldn’t love an ugly little girl. Mother says
I must not wish to be pretty; but oh, I do, because you like pretty
people. But if I am good you will always like me, won’t you? Is there
any little girl at college that you like as well as me? You’ve got the
little dog, I know. You took him with you. To think you could take the
little dog and couldn’t take me. It does seem hard, because I love you,
oh so much more than the little dog could. I’m not jealous of the poor
little dog; don’t think that, only it seems so hard, when I love you so
much.”
Such was the sort of ardent nonsense the little child wrote to her big
hero; but after all, it was no worse nonsense than many of her grown-up
sisters write to the heroes of _their_ imaginations.
Old Mrs. Lyon never looked into little Drusilla’s scrawls—or, if she
did, she never took the trouble to decipher them.
Mr. Alick would smile over them; because they pleased him. He liked to
be loved. The preference of any dumb brute was pleasing to him; how much
more so then the worship—for it was little less—of this fervent,
earnest, enthusiastic little girl?
“How devoted to me the little quiz is, to be sure. Christopher Columbus!
if this sort of thing should grow with her growth and strengthen with
her strength, what will become of me? Bosh! by the time she is seventeen
or eighteen some young prig of a parson will cut me out and there an
end.”
And Mr. Alick laughed at the conceit, and thought of the black-eyed girl
he had danced with at the last party.
But for all that he could not do without the child’s love or the child’s
letters; and he cherished both.
This first year of Drusilla’s life with the Lyon family was a sample of
several that followed.
Every Spring the family went to Crowood, taking the housekeeper and her
child and all the servants with them; and Drusilla renewed her
acquaintance with woods and fields and streams; and increased her
knowledge of plants, poultry, cows, and animate and inanimate nature
generally, from personal observation.
Every midsummer she was left princess regent of the poultry yard, etc.,
while her benefactors went to visit their relatives in Old Lyon Hall in
the mountains.
Every autumn the family returned to Richmond to spend the winter.
And every Christmas came the grand family re-union, in which, to the
child’s worshipping eyes, Mr. Alexander was the central figure. This
Christmas gathering became to her the crowning glory of the year, for
then she saw him. He became thus associated with all that was best and
brightest in her life. He brought her the books and pictures for which
already her intellect and imagination had begun to hunger. He always
examined into the progress of her education; though that was scarcely
necessary, for the constantly improving style of her letters to him
revealed her steady advance. I believe that with her bright
intelligence, she would have studied well from the pure love of
knowledge, even if Mr. Alexander had never patronized her; but now all
cooler motives were lost in the ardent desire to please her friend. And
indeed she did please him; he was proud of her, vain of her, not as if
he had been her father, but as if he had been her creator. He seemed to
think, as she grew in beauty and bright intelligence, that he had made
her what she was. To his apprehension, he was the sun and she the
sun-flower, ever turning towards him for light and life.
Every one, who is not blindly selfish, likes to patronize where to do so
costs little or nothing. Mr. Alexander’s patronage of this child amused
and interested him; cost him nothing; but won for him a vast return of
love and gratitude.