BRIDAL FAVORS.
Love was to her impassioned soul,
Not as to others, a mere part
Of her existence, but the whole,—
The very life-breath of her heart.—MOORE.
The world was not for her, nor the world’s art
For one as passionate as Sappho’s heart.
Love was born with her, in her, so intense,
It was her very spirit, not a sense.—BYRON.
On Saturday morning Alexander walked out to renew his acquaintance with
his native city.
Mrs. Lyon said to her pet:
“If you know any very fine sacred music, my dear, I wish you would
select some pieces and practice them this forenoon, so as to be able to
execute them well this evening for Alexander.”
And Drusilla, glad to have her morning’s work laid out, sat down to go
over portions of Handel’s Messiah.
Alexander came home to luncheon, and in the afternoon attended his
mother and Drusilla for a drive.
They dined and tea’d together, and adjourned to the drawing-room, where,
at Mrs. Lyon’s command, Drusilla sat down to the piano and sang to her
own accompaniment on the instrument the all glorious “Te Deum.”
Alexander was enraptured. It is scarcely too much to say that he was
transported—listening to the heavenly notes of her voice and gazing on
the inspired beauty of her face. As for her she seemed all unconscious
of everything around her, as though her soul were winging its way to
Heaven in those strains of divine music.
When the last notes of her voice died away, there was silence in the
room for some moments. It was gently broken by Alexander murmuring in
her ear:
“My child, sacred music is your forte. Consecrate your glorious gift to
the worship of the Most High.”
Drusilla bowed her head; and after a few moments said:
“They want me to sing in the choir of St. John’s church. Would you like
me to do so?”
“My child, that must be as you please. Would you like it?”
“Indeed I do not know until I hear your will,” she murmured.
“Then I will you to sing there,” he smiled.
“And I am sure I shall like it,” she said. “And now shall I sing the
Hallelujah for you, and will you help me? There should be four voices,
though.”
“You shall sing no more to-night, my bird; but come to the centre table,
where I have some gleanings of travel to show you.”
Alexander’s servant had in fact just placed upon the table a large
portfolio containing interesting views of natural scenery and of works
of art, collected in their travels. And in examining these the remainder
of the evening passed.
On Sunday all the family went to St. John’s church together. But as
Drusilla was not yet a member of the choir she sat in the Lyons’ pew.
On Monday morning, Mr. Alexander himself took his protegée back to her
school. He was known there as a “patron,” and his request that his young
ward, Miss Sterling, should confine her musical studies to the sacred
branch of the art, met with a prompt acquiescence.
Leaving Drusilla under the charge of her teachers, he returned to his
home to find it very dreary in the absence of his “child.”
“A letter from your uncle, the general,” said Mrs. Lyon, as she received
him in the drawing-room.
“He says that Anna declines to hasten her visit upon ‘any gentleman’s
account;’ and so they will not be with us before Christmas eve.”
“Humph!” said Mr. Alexander, seating himself with much indifference.
“I do not know that I can blame her. Certainly it is not _her_ place to
run after _you_, Alick, even if she _is_ your promised bride. She must
stand upon her dignity, I suppose.”
“Ah, well, just as she pleases; but I cannot but compare her with one
who consults her heart and not her dignity where I am concerned.”
“Don’t be a coxcomb, Alick, my dear. You mean little Drusa? She’s a
child and has everything to learn yet of proper self-respect in her
association with gentlemen. But we are not talking of her just now. I
hate to send you from me, Alick; but I really do think you are bound to
pay Anna the respect of going to Old Lyon Hall. I would go myself, if I
felt equal to the journey, and take you as an escort; but as I am, I
must let you go alone. There is a coach leaves to-morrow at seven in the
morning. What do you think of taking a place in it?”
“I would as lief as not.”
“Upon my word! If Anna is as indifferent in this matter as you are, I
think it is a pity you two were ever betrothed,” said the old lady,
looking over the tops of her spectacles.
Alexander laughed.
“Our betrothal is such an old story, mother, and we are used to it.
Besides it rests upon such a solid foundation—having one foot upon
Crowood and the other on Old Lyon Manor—that we feel secure in it. And
wherever there is security there must be indifference.”
“Where did you learn to sneer, Alick?”
“I am not sneering. Heaven forbid. My Cousin Anna is a beautiful and
accomplished young lady, for whom I have great respect and esteem. When
I see her I shall press her to name an early day for the nuptials. And
no doubt we shall get along as well as most people.”
“Humph! when _I_ was young lovers were in love. I suppose you have
‘changed all that now.’ Pray, Alick, did you see any lady in Europe whom
you very much admired?”
Alexander laughed.
“Why, of course, mother! Scores and scores! But they are last summer’s
leaves and blossoms, dispersed and forgotten. At least I shall bring to
my bride a heart single to her service. For if I am not madly in love
with Anna, I am not in love with any one else, unless you call my
fatherly fondness for little Drusilla—”
“Nonsense!” shortly interrupted the old lady—“that child! Don’t be
profane, Alick. Have some reverence for innocence like hers.”
Mr. Alexander fidgetted and made no answer.
“But I didn’t mean to scold you, dear; only I would have you respect
holy childhood, and let a girl be a child as long as possible. I hope
and believe that you and Anna will make a happy couple. When you see
her, of course you will say everything that is kind to her from me; and
be sure you cannot say too much. You will either prevail on them to come
immediately to us, or you will stay with them until they are ready to do
so,” said Mrs. Lyon.
Alexander agreed to everything she proposed.
And then their interview was interrupted by the entrance of some
visitors.
The next morning Alexander went up the country to old Lyon Hall, where
he used his powers of persuasion to such good purpose as to prevail on
Miss Anna, and of course on her grandfather, to return with him
immediately to Richmond.
“If he will not go back with us, we must go with him, I suppose,
grandpa. It would be a pity to deprive Aunt Lyon of her son’s society by
keeping him here, so soon after his arrival from foreign parts,” said
Miss Anna, expressing a sentiment with which the old gentleman sincerely
sympathized.
So the whole party reached the city by the following Saturday.
The Christmas holidays were spent as merrily as ever before. Drusilla
was brought from school to join in the festivities of the season, and
she was loaded with presents and caresses.
Mr. Richard Hammond also came, and was quite as much up to every species
of fun and frolic as ever he had been in his earlier boyhood.
He was very much with Anna, but neither her lover nor her relations
seemed to take any exception to his attendance. She was so nearly
married now that there could be no danger of his supplanting her
betrothed, and besides, he was her near cousin, poor fellow, they
argued, and so Mr. Dick was allowed to dance attendance upon Miss Anna,
while Mr. Alexander amused and interested himself in his “child.”
The wedding of the affianced pair was fixed to take place early in the
new year, at Old Lyon Hall, whither the whole of both families would
meet to do honor to the nuptials.
“Anna, you have not invited me to the wedding,” said Dick one day, as
they stood together in the recess of the bay window.
“Well, I invite you now, Dick! Come and be Alick’s best man.”
“I’d see him drowned first, dash him! I’d sooner be his headsman!” said
the young man, grinding his teeth.
“Then why do you wish to come to his wedding?” asked Anna, elevating her
eyebrows.
“Did I say I ‘wished’ it? Don’t jump to conclusions, Anna. I don’t wish
it. I merely reminded you that I was not invited. You remember the fairy
that was not invited to the princess’s christening? She came all the
same, but her christening gift proved no blessing. I shall go to your
wedding, Anna, but the wedding present that I shall lay upon your table
will be no peace-offering,” he whispered between his white lips.
She turned pale, and then red, and then she laughed to conceal her
agitation, as she answered:
“Don’t be melo-dramatic, whatever you are. None but stage-struck
apprentices ever are so. All that sort of thing is obsolete. If a young
man is crossed in love, he had better marry for money. Alick and I must
marry and settle like other sensible people. He will devote himself to
improving the race of oxen and the growth of corn, and amuse his leisure
with politics; I shall draw prizes for poultry, butter, and perhaps
flowers. Life is prose, not poetry, Dick.”
“Look at that child. _She_ does not think as you do,” said Richard,
bitterly.
Anna raised her eyes and saw, at the opposite end of the room, in a
recess filled with row above row of blooming flowers, this group:
Alexander was reclining in an easy chair, holding in his right hand a
small volume, from which he was reading in a subdued voice, and
encircling with his left arm the shoulders of his “child,” who was
sitting on a low seat beside him. His eyes were on his book, but hers
were on him. Forgetting her timidity, forgetting herself, her inspired
face was raised to his, with glowing crimson lips apart, and slender
black eyebrows arched, and large, starry eyes fixed on him, as she
listened breathlessly to his words. He finished a sentence, and then
turned to speak to her. And instantly her eyes fell, and her color rose
even to her brows.
“Yes, I see; if she were a little older, or I a little more in love, I
should be jealous,” thought Anna within herself. But she said nothing.
At the end of Christmas holidays Drusilla was sent back to school.
Anna, under the charge of old Mrs. Lyon, did a vast deal of shopping in
the city, besides sending to New York for articles that could not be
procured in Richmond.
When all this was done, she returned with her grandfather to Old Lyon
Hall, where they were soon to be joined by the judge and Mrs. Lyon, and
Mr. Alexander, for the wedding.
The day after the general and his grand-daughter left, Mrs. Lyon said to
Mr. Alexander:
“Alick, Anna wishes little Drusilla to be her sixth bridesmaid.”
“I object to that. The girl is too young to have marrying and giving in
marriage running in her head.”
“Nonsense, Alick, you can’t keep this affair out; of course she knows
you and Anna are about to be married.”
“Of course she does, for she has heard nothing else talked of for a
month past,” said Alexander, in a tone of vexation.
“Then let her be Anna’s sixth bridesmaid.”
“No, mother, if you please. It would take her from her studies.”
“But, Alexander, you forget. She must be at the wedding any way, for it
would never do to slight the child by omitting to take her to it.”
“I do not see that. Let her know that it is by _my_ will that she is to
be left at school, and she will easily submit to the disappointment.”
“Well, Alick, I think that would be cruel.”
“But I know it to be necessary for her own sake, mother.”
The next morning the father, mother and son, attended by their men and
maid servants, set out in their travelling carriage for Old Lyon Hall.
Travelling by easy stages, and stopping at all the most comfortable inns
on the road, to eat or sleep, they at length arrived safely on the
evening of the third day at the old mansion.
The house was full of company, and all alight from attic to basement. So
many young friends of the bride were staying with her for the wedding.
Our city party was very cordially received. Anna herself took the old
lady to her room, and waited on her in person. But—
“Where is Drusilla?” was one of the first questions she asked of
Alexander.
“At school. Where is Dick?” he answered and retorted.
“At his office in the city, I suppose. But—Drusilla! why is she not
here?”
“I would not let her come. But—Dick! why is _he_ not here?”
“I would not let him come. And—Drusilla was to have been my bridesmaid!”
“And—Dick was to have been my groomsman!”
And here the young cousins looked in each other’s faces and laughed.
It was a merry party that gathered in the drawing-room that evening.
Young ladies and gentlemen were grouped in small circles around various
tables, engaged in diverting parlor games of one sort or another.
The general and the old lady were playing chess together.
The chief justice, only, complaining of cold and fatigue, excused
himself from joining in any game, though he declined to go to bed, and
sat in the most comfortable arm-chair in the warmest corner of the
fire-place, sipping hot punch from a glass on a stand at his elbow.
When his moderate glass was empty he spread his white handkerchief over
his face, and lay back in his chair and dozed, undisturbed by all the
musical chatter and silvery laughter around him.
At ten o’clock there was a tray of refreshments brought in, and handed
first to the old lady, who was served by the general.
Next the tray was handed to the judge. The servant who carried it stood
in silence for a moment, and then said:
“If you please, sir, his honor is asleep.”
Mrs. Lyon immediately turned and playfully whisked the handkerchief from
her husband’s head and asked him what he meant by being so rude as to
fall asleep.
There was no response by word or motion.
She bent forward and looked in his face, and then screamed.
Her scream brought all the company in alarm around her. Her hand was on
the old man’s pulse, and her face was pale and wild with fright.
General Lyon gently replaced her in her seat, and went back to the
judge.
And in one moment more it was ascertained beyond a doubt that Chief
Justice Lyon was dead.
You may imagine what a terrible shock this sudden death gave. How the
wedding-party broke up in confusion and dispersed in sadness; how the
unavailing skill of the family physician was called in, to do no more
than pronounce upon the cause of death—apoplexy; how the funeral was
solemnized in his own old ancestral halls; and how his body was laid at
last in the family vault at old Lyon Hall.
Drusilla, who had not been permitted to attend the wedding, had been
sent for to come to the funeral. She came, sorrowing bitterly over the
sudden death of one who had been the kindest old friend to her.
She did not go back again to school. Mrs. Lyon, overwhelmed by the loss
of the life-partner with whom she had lived so long, needed constant and
affectionate attention, and entreated that her favorite should be left
with her.
Under the circumstances of her bereavement Alexander could refuse his
mother nothing. So Drusilla remained in attendance upon her
benefactress.
The widow, exhausted by grief and unable to travel, staid with the
general and his grand-daughter all the winter.
Alexander, engaged in setting his late father’s family affairs in order,
preparatory to administering on his estate, went backwards and forwards
between Richmond and Old Lyon Hall.
Late in the following spring Mrs. Lyon went to Crowood, taking Drusilla
with her.
The first few days at the old country-seat, where she had passed so many
tranquil, happy seasons with her lost husband, renewed all her grief.
But Drusilla, guided by a happy instinct, drew her out among her
flowers, and fowls, and cows and other pets and hobbies.
Most fortunately, I say, all these had been grossly neglected during her
absence, as though under the circumstances of her bereavement, her
annual visit was not expected. And the old lady, the mourning widow,
seeing the condition of her favorites, ceased to weep like Niobe, and
began to scold like Xantippe.
And of course she got better directly.
It took her and her handmaid Drusilla, assisted by a staff of men and
maids, the whole summer to bring flowers, poultry and cows up to the old
lady’s standard of perfection. And by the time this was done her health
and cheerfulness returned.
There was nothing, now that the chief justice was off the bench forever,
to call her to the city. So she determined to make Crowood her permanent
residence. With this view she wrote to the housekeeper, who had remained
in charge of the city house, to pack up her personal effects and forward
them to Crowood, and then to come down herself, as the house was to be
put into the hands of architects, decorators, and upholsterers, to be
thoroughly renovated for the use of the young pair, whose wedding-day
was again fixed.
Mrs. Lyon was the more urgent for her housekeeper to hasten to Crowood,
because there was a contagious fever of a very malignant type raging in
Richmond.
In answer to her letters, Mrs. Sterling sent down, by a wagon express,
about seventy trunks, boxes and bundles, and within a week followed
them.
“I am very glad you have arrived, Sterling. I had not an easy hour while
you remained in the city, exposed to that terrible fever. And Drusilla
would have been as anxious as I was if she had known the danger; but I
kept it concealed from her. It was of no use to trouble the child,” Mrs.
Lyon said, in welcoming her housekeeper.
But the poor old lady of Crowood congratulated herself before the danger
was over.
Apparently, Mrs. Sterling had brought down the seeds of fever in her
system, for the day after her arrival she was taken with a shivering
fit, followed by a glow of heat, head-ache, nausea and prostration, and
in twenty-four hours she was in a raging fever and delirium.
The old lady was not a coward; she was a conscientious Christian. Now
that the fever had come, she faced it. She sent for the country doctor,
and instead of trusting the sick woman to the care of servants, she,
with Drusilla’s assistance, nursed the patient in person. This course of
conduct was more magnanimous than prudent.
Mrs. Sterling, “tough as a pine knot, and with no more nerves than it,”
as the country doctor said, survived the fever and got up, though with a
broken constitution, for all those whom that dreadful pestilence spared
to life it ruined in health.
But Mrs. Lyon contracted the disease, and it made but short work with
the feeble old lady.
In the beginning of her illness her son was summoned in haste from
Richmond; but though he used his utmost speed in hurrying to her
bedside, he only arrived in time to hear her last wishes and receive her
dying blessing.
“You must not grieve after me, Alick, my dear. Think what a long and
happy life I have had up to this time. But think, now that your father
is gone, how lonely I must be. I want to be with him, Alick.”
These were almost her last words. She fell into stupor and revived only
once more, long enough to lay her hand on her son’s head and bless him.
By her expressed wish her body was carried to Old Lyon Hall, and placed
in the vault beside that of her husband.
And the wedding was put off for another year.
“There is a fatality in it. We shall never be united, or if we should be
the union will bring nothing but woe,” said Anna to her grandfather.
“Wait until it is put off a third time, my dear, before you make such a
fatal prediction,” answered the general.
After the burial, Mr. Lyon went down to Crowood, where his presence was
necessary to the settlement of some local business.
There more melancholy news met him. Mrs. Sterling, whose brain had been
seriously affected by the fever, was now certainly losing her reason,
and Drusilla was almost broken-hearted between the death of her dear
friend and the infirmity of her dear mother.
It is said that madness often reverses the whole moral character. Mrs.
Sterling who, in her proper senses, had been one of the most active,
energetic and domineering of women, was now one of the meekest,
gentlest, and most harmless of lunatics. Her illusions were all
innocent, and some of them amusing. Sometimes she fancied herself the
mistress of Crowood. At other times she imagined that Alexander and
Drusilla were married, and making a visit to her there.
Her pleasing illusions did not prevent her from performing all her
household duties, only she discharged them in the capacity of mistress,
not manager.
Mr. Lyon consulted the country doctor, who told him that in Mrs.
Sterling’s case there was a gradual softening of the brain that must
prove fatal.
A part of Alexander’s business at Crowood was to take Drusilla back to
school. But it was now certain that she must not be separated from her
mother.
For Drusilla’s sake, he wished that Mrs. Sterling might have the best
medical advice. So he decided to take her to Richmond, to be examined by
the faculty there. But as she persisted in imagining herself mistress of
Crowood, instead of the hired housekeeper of the master, to be directed
by his will, she refused to leave the place.
Then Alexander, taking advantage of the hallucination in regard to the
supposed marriage of Drusilla and himself, let a day or two pass, to
enable her to forget the first proposal, and then invited her to pay
himself and her daughter a visit at their new house in the city.
This the harmless lunatic readily consented to do. And she immediately
began to prepare for the journey with a regularity and dispatch not to
be excelled by the sanest mind. It was evident that her mental infirmity
did not incapacitate her for the functions of her office.
They went to Richmond and took up their abode in the town house, that
had been thoroughly renovated and refurnished in honor of that expected
marriage which had never yet come off.
Mrs. Sterling was delighted with all she saw, and complimented her
imagined son-in-law on his taste and liberality, and congratulated her
daughter on her excellent husband and comfortable home.
Poor Drusilla could only throw an appealing glance at the master, which
seemed to pray forgiveness.
But Alexander laughed and pressed her hand, as he whispered:
“Never mind, my dear! Perhaps her imaginings are not _all_ lunacy. They
may be _second-sight_. Who knows?”
He spoke half in jest and half in earnest, and drew her to his bosom,
and held her there for a moment. But when he felt the wild beating of
her heart against his own, and when he saw the deadly paleness of her
cheek as it rested against his breast, he suddenly released her, half
repenting his act.
Mrs. Sterling seemed to think such billing and cooing very foolish,
though quite natural, between bride and bridegroom, for as she looked at
them she murmured:
“Ah, poor souls, they think it is always going to be just so. La! look
at any middle-aged married couple you know, and see the difference.”
Meanwhile Mr. Lyon, holding his “child’s” hand, stooped and whispered to
her.
“Drusilla, my little darling, I hope I have not hurt your feelings, have
I?”
She shook her head and tried to speak, but only gasped instead, and hid
her face in her hands.
“You are growing out of all this now, I know. Almost a young woman, you
are, turned fourteen, but it is hard to think you so; you seem still to
be my own precious child,” he whispered gently.
Still she did not answer, but wept softly behind her hands.
“Drusa, my daughter, you are not displeased with me, are you? I would no
more willingly displease you than I would the highest lady in the land,”
he continued.
“Oh, no, no, no! You could not do so. Don’t mind me. I do not know why I
weep. I don’t indeed. I am a fool, I think.”
“That’s certain,” said Mrs. Sterling, dryly, “and so is he. Young people
are apt to be fools in their honeymoon, but time cures them.”
There was a very dry method in the madness of Mrs. Sterling.
The housekeeper took possession of her old rooms, but as they too had
been re-papered, painted and furnished, she scarcely recognized them
again.
Drusilla had the little chamber that had been given her by Mrs. Lyon,
and was now renovated, as a spare room.
Alexander had his own superb suit of apartments.
Mr. Lyon called in the best medical science and skill to the aid of Mrs.
Sterling. But the unanimous opinion of the faculty endorsed that of the
country doctor, and there was little hope of the patient’s recovery.
When the month of December opened, Mr. Lyon wrote to his uncle and to
his betrothed, inviting them to come as usual, and spend the Christmas
holidays at his house in Richmond, and reminding them that the meeting
would be one of a quiet family party, excluding all other visitors, and
abstaining from all gayety, in respect to the memory of the departed.
Anna wrote back on behalf of her grandfather and herself, saying that
she could not make a visit to a house where there was no lady to receive
her, and she begged that Alexander would come for once and pass his
Christmas at Old Lyon Hall.
Of course Mr. Lyon could do nothing but accept this invitation.
And he dutifully went to pass the season with his promised bride.
And these were the most dismal Christmas holidays he had ever known. He
missed his genial father, his loving mother, and yes, it must be
confessed, he missed his “child,” and he could not help contrasting the
warm devotion of his little “daughter” with the cool indifference of his
promised wife.
His visit to Old Lyon Hall came to a sudden end. He received a letter
from one of the servants of the city house.
Mrs. Sterling had died suddenly, if he pleased, and what was to be done
with Miss Drusilla?
Mr. Lyon showed that letter to Anna, made his excuses to the general,
and set off at once for Richmond.