WHAT WAS DONE WITH DRUSILLA.
Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp with truth and loyalty—SHAKSPEARE.
Alexander arrived at his town house early in the afternoon. He was met
by his confidential servant, Dorset, an old man who had been in the
service of the family for nearly thirty years.
“Well, Dorset, so the poor woman is gone?” sighed the young gentleman,
as he entered the house.
“Yes, sir; and not too soon, with reverence be it spoken. She had grown
very foolish and helpless within the last few days. She died without
illness or suffering, sir. She went to bed as usual one night and was
found dead next morning. Miss Drusilla, sleeping by her side, heard no
sound and felt no movement, and knew nothing of what had occurred until
she arose for the day.”
“How shocking! The second sudden death in the family within twelve
months. And the third in all. Where is the poor girl?”
“Miss Drusilla? She has not left the corpse, sir, since the death. She
is watching by it now.”
“That is very wrong. It should not have been permitted.”
“Dear sir, who was to hinder her? There is no one, or I should say,
there _was_ no one in authority here to prevent her.”
“That is very true. But go now and tell the poor child that I am here,
waiting to see her.”
“Will you go to your room first, sir?”
“No, I came up by the boat and made my toilet just before landing. I
will wait here for Drusilla.”
Dorset went away with the message.
And in about ten minutes, Drusilla, pale, drooping and woe-worn, entered
the room.
Alexander arose and took her in his arms and silently folded her to his
bosom. And she bowed her head upon his shoulder and wept softly.
“My poor child! My poor, dear child, you don’t know how sorry I am for
you,” said Alexander, tenderly caressing her, and repeating the same
words over and over again, until at length through her sobs and tears
she answered them.
“Yes I do; oh, yes indeed I do know how good you are and how much you
pity us both—poor mother, dying as she did, and—me too.”
“My dear Drusilla, you shall never want a friend while I live, or a home
while I have one,” he murmured, smoothing her disordered hair with his
hand.
“I know that too. It is not that. I am not afraid. But oh! if I had not
slept that night, perhaps she would not have died,” cried the girl,
breaking into fresh and passionate sobs and tears.
“Drusilla, my dearest, you talk wildly,” he said, trying to soothe her.
“Oh, no, no, no, I know what I am saying. If I had only sat up and
watched her that night, I might have seen the change and saved her
life.”
“But, Drusilla, I learn that your poor mother was in her usual health of
body when she went to bed.”
“Oh, yes, sir, so she was; else I certainly would have sat up with her.
Oh, I wish I had! I wish I had! I would give my life now to have done
it. Oh, my poor mother! my poor dear mother. I slept on by your side and
let you die—die alone, without help, without even a word of love. Oh, my
mother!” cried the girl, utterly losing her self-command, and weeping
and sobbing and raving as if her heart would break or her brain madden.
Alexander let the wild gust of sorrow spend its strength, and then he
said:
“Drusilla, if you had been sitting by your mother’s bed, gazing on her
sleeping face, you would never have suspected that she was dying and
never known the moment of her death. My child, she had a fatal malady of
the brain that was certain to end just as it did. She passed away
peacefully in her sleep. Hers was an easy death. Drusilla, do not add
causeless regrets to natural grief with these _ifs_. Nearly all persons
do so, however. I never knew any one to die whose mourning friends did
not add irrational remorse to rational sorrow by the means of these
_ifs_. _If_ we had done this; _if_ we had not done that; _if_ such a
doctor had been called, or such a remedy administered. These
retrospective _ifs_ are illusions. Do not let them deceive you.”
These words he spoke, while with a gentle mesmeric touch he smoothed her
hair and her brow, and held her head close to his bosom.
She had neither the power nor the will to leave her resting-place; but
her wild weeping softened into low sobs, that became fewer and farther
between, until at last they ceased entirely.
Alexander looked down and saw that she was fast asleep.
Like a baby she had cried herself to sleep on his sheltering bosom. She
was no longer pale; her long-curved eye-lashes, gemmed with tears, lay
on her flushed cheeks, and her slightly crimson lips showed the little
pearly teeth within; her dark brown disordered hair fell around a
forehead and down a neck as white as ivory.
Even in that solemn hour, Alexander, looking down upon her, loved her
for her wondrous beauty, seen in its new phase of sleep.
But he had grace to know that such feelings were sacrilege against this
pure maiden and sacred orphan; and so he gently arose and crossed the
room to a large sofa and laid her on it. And then he touched the bell.
Dorset answered it.
“Send one of the women servants here,” said Alexander.
The man bowed and went away, and was succeeded by a fat, motherly,
middle-aged person who answered to the name of Molly.
Alexander silently pointed to the form on the sofa.
“Ah! Lors-a-messy! poor gall! So she’s gone to sleep at last. Well, sir,
that will be the first sleep she’s had since Sunday night, and this is
Wednesday. Night and day has she watched by the corpse and nobody to
hinder her,” said the fat woman, holding her sides and panting, as she
gazed on the sleeping orphan.
“_You_ should have hindered her,” said Alexander.
“Me! Lors-a-messy! I couldn’t ha’ done it except by main force, which I
had no right to use.”
“Well; let that pass. What I wish to know now is, whether she can be
undressed and put to bed comfortably without being waked up.”
“Lors-a-messy, yes, sir! When they’s been watching and weeping three
days and nights and then draps down and falls asleep, they might’s well
be in a trance, far’s waking up goes. Bless you, sir, you could hardly
wake her up if you was to fire off a pistol over her head.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, but I have no wish to try the experiment.
I will carry her up stairs myself. Do you go before and open the doors,”
said Alexander, tenderly raising the sleeping girl in his arms and
carrying her, preceded by Molly, up two flights of stairs, to Drusilla’s
own little room. Here he laid her on the bed, and leaving her to the
care of the woman, retired.
He went to the dinner that had been hastily prepared for him. And when
he had got through with it he went into the late justice’s study and
called up Dorset to a consultation about the funeral.
In answer to his master’s question, Dorset said that the late
housekeeper was laid out in her own room; that orders had already been
given for a plain, respectable funeral, which was fixed for the next
day. And Dorset hoped that Mr. Lyon approved of what he had done.
“Quite so. You have saved me so much trouble, that I almost think my
presence here might have been dispensed with,” said Alexander.
“If you please, sir, I only wrote to you to ask what should be done with
Miss Drusilla, seeing that this would no longer be a proper home for
her,” said the old man.
“True; I must think about that after the funeral. Of course she can’t
leave the house while her mother’s corpse remains in it,” said
Alexander, musingly.
And he mused so long that he forgot the presence of Dorset, until he
happened to look up and see the old man still standing respectfully
waiting orders.
“Oh!—you may go now,” he then said.
And the old servant bowed and retired.
The next day at noon the funeral took place. The clergyman’s widow was
carried to her grave in the cemetery attached to the church to which she
belonged.
Drusilla, the sole mourner, rode in a coach with Alexander. Her head,
heavy with sorrow, rested on his shoulder, and his arm encircled her
waist. She never thought whether this was right or wrong. She was borne
down with grief, and she leaned upon him who was her only earthly
support and comfort.
She had never even thought of putting herself into “decent mourning” for
her lost mother. She was still wearing black for old Mrs. Lyon, and so
she really needed no new outfit, except the black crape bonnet and heavy
crape veil; and these the forethought of the women servants had provided
her with.
Alexander sustained his “child” through all the last trying scene by the
open grave. And when it was closed he took her home.
On entering the house he gave her into the charge of the motherly Molly,
with orders that she, Drusilla, should take a cup of tea, and go to her
room and lie down for the rest of the day. This was Thursday.
On Friday Alexander wrote to his cousin, giving an account of the
housekeeper’s death and burial, and saying that henceforth he intended
to adopt Drusilla, and that he should take her back to school on the
following Monday.
Could Alexander have foreseen the bitter mortification he was destined
to meet there he would as soon have plunged into a fire as entered that
school-house.
Drusilla, grieving incessantly, kept her room until Sunday, when she
came down to breakfast for the first time since the funeral.
Alexander received her as if she had indeed been his daughter or his
beloved younger sister. He kissed her and placed her in her seat. In the
course of the meal he told her that on the next day he should take her
back to the Irving Institute to resume and continue her studies until
she should graduate.
Drusilla tried to express her acquiescence in the plan, and her thanks
for his kindness, but her voice faltered, and her eyes filled with
tears.
He looked wistfully in her face and read her thoughts, and answered
them.
“You weep at the idea of being sent away from——” He hesitated, and then
continued: “from all you have left to love at a time when you want so
much consolation. My dear child it is necessary for more reasons than
one. But I shall spend the winter here as usual, Drusilla, and I will go
to see you at the school at least twice a week.”
“I know that you are very good and all that you do is perfectly right. I
do not question these. But I must weep a little, and I feel you will
have patience with your child,” she murmured.
“My child never tries my patience,” said Alexander, tenderly.
They arose from the table.
Alexander was rather a negligent Christian, but on this day he attended
Drusilla to church.
On Monday morning he ordered the carriage, and took her to school.
When they arrived they were shown as usual into the visitors’ parlor,
where they waited while the parlor-maid took Mr. Lyon’s card up to the
principal.
A longer interval than usual on such occasions passed before the door
swung open, and the stately Mrs. Irving entered. She bowed to Mr. Lyon,
and started slightly on seeing Drusilla, and betrayed as much surprise
and annoyance as it was possible for so cultivated and self-possessed a
lady to exhibit. She sat down, however, and waited for her visitor to
open his business.
“I have brought your pupil back to you, Madam,” said Mr. Lyon, bowing
and waving his hand towards Drusilla, who immediately arose and curtsied
to her former schoolmistress, and then resumed her seat.
“Ah!” said the lady, very coldly, “I regret to say that it is not
convenient for us to receive Miss Sterling.”
Alexander looked surprised, not so much at the words as at the coldness
with which they were uttered.
“I am sorry to hear you say so, Madam. Your house is full then, I
presume.”
The lady hesitated for a moment, and then seeing that Mr. Lyon was
looking at her and waiting for an answer, she said:
“No, it is not full.”
Alexander was more surprised than ever.
“Then, Madam, may I ask why—but I beg your pardon; you have certainly
the right under any circumstances to decline a pupil. I would be glad to
know, however, whether Miss Sterling’s tuition fees were in arrears at
the time she was temporarily withdrawn, or if they are so now?”
“No, sir; Mrs. Lyon settled the account.”
“Then why—Again I beg pardon; I have no right, perhaps, to ask your
reason for declining to receive my ward. But I will venture to say that
if there was any misunderstanding as to the cause of her withdrawal
twelve months ago, I am happy to assure you that it was from no
dissatisfaction with the school or its teachers, or its discipline; and,
in short, that no offence was meant, and I hope none was taken.”
“None, I assure you sir; for we all quite understood that Miss Sterling
was taken from school to attend upon her guardian, Mrs. Lyon.”
Alexander’s surprise grew into amazement. If the school was not full, if
the school-bills were punctually paid, if no offence had been given or
taken, why in the name of wonder should the school mistress decline to
receive back into her charge a profitable pupil.
“Madam,” he said, rising to go, “I cannot demand an explanation of your
refusal to receive my ward—”
“And I would rather not give one, sir,” interrupted the lady, forgetting
in her haste that it was not courteous to cut short a gentleman’s words,
and that she herself would have rebuked any pupil of her school for
doing such a thing.
“I was about to say, Madam, that I could not demand such an explanation
as a right, but that I would ask it as a favor. I will take Miss
Sterling back to the carriage and return here immediately if you will be
so kind as to await me.”
“But, sir—” commenced the lady.
Alexander only bowed low in response, took the hand of Drusilla and drew
it under his arm and led her from the room and the house, and placed her
in the carriage.
He told the coachman to stop there, and then he went back to the parlor,
where he found the principal of the school still waiting.
“Madam,” he commenced, gravely but courteously standing before her,
“there is something more in your refusal to receive my ward than
appears. I respectfully ask you to tell me what it is.”
“And I entreat you, sir, as you are a gentleman, not to press the
question,” said Miss Irving very coldly.
“Believe me, Madam, if I only were concerned I would press no unwelcome
question upon any lady; but this is the case of an orphan girl who, for
no fault of hers, has received a mortifying repulse. Forgive me if I
still must press for an explanation.”
“Sit down, sir, and if you must have it, I do not think Drusilla
Sterling a fit or proper associate for the young ladies who are under my
care.”
“Madam! Is it possible that in a democratic country like this, the mere
fact that a young girl happens to be the daughter of a respectable
housekeeper should exclude her from the school where young ladies are
educated? Consider; her mother, though in some sort a domestic servant,
was still a most respectable person, the widow of a Baptist preacher,”
said Alexander, with ill suppressed vexation.
“Sir, it is not the girl’s position, but her character, that is so
objectionable.”
“MADAM!” exclaimed Alexander, firing up.
“You have, by forcing me to an explanation, sir, brought all this
unpleasantness upon yourself. I would willingly have spared my own
feelings and yours by keeping silent,” said the lady, very gravely.
“Madam, you have now said too much not to say more. Who is it that dares
to question the blameless character of my young ward?”
“Common rumor, sir!”
“Common rumor!” exclaimed the young man, starting up. Then controlling
his excited passion, and re-seating himself, he inquired grimly—“What is
the nature of this injurious rumor?”
“Her name is associated with yours in a manner that must be fatal to the
reputation of any young girl.”
Alexander stared blankly at the lady for a moment, and then exclaimed:
“Heaven and earth, Madam, what is it that you mean?”
“Sir, it is not courteous to cross-question me in this manner,” said
Mrs. Irving, blushing between embarrassment and anger.
“Not courteous! Am I to be on courteous terms with one who is
stabbing.—Madam, if you were not a woman—But let that pass. I now
_insist_ upon knowing what you mean by saying that Drusilla Sterling’s
spotless name is associated with mine in a manner that must be fatal to
her,” indignantly exclaimed Alexander.
“It is said, then, that you are her favored lover, with no intention of
becoming her husband,” coldly and curtly answered the lady.
“Heaven of Heavens!” exclaimed the young man, starting up and striding
across the room in his excitement, “was ever such an infamous
calumny!—Your author, Madam! I demand to know your author!” he at length
said, standing before her, pale with fury.
“I said common rumor,” quietly replied Mrs. Irving.
“No, but that will not do! Common rumor is an irresponsible thing. I
must have your author—one who can be called to account, and made to
swallow the calumny, though it should choke the calumniator.”
“Then, sir, I fear you will have to call my whole school, with its
patrons behind it, to account. For this rumor came in with the pupils
who returned to the school after the Christmas holidays. They heard it
at their homes, or in the social circles of the city where it was spoken
of. Of course, when this report came to the knowledge of the teachers,
they severely rebuked their pupils for such sort of conversation. I know
nothing of the truth or falsehood of this report; it is quite enough
that such exists to banish its subject, guilty or innocent, from young
ladies’ society.”
Alexander resumed his hurried walk to and fro in the room in much
distress of mind. Then, pausing once more before the lady, he said:
“Madam, I am wounded to the quick by these cruel and fatal slanders. But
would it not have been more womanly, more Christian in you to have
defended the good name of that innocent girl and friendless
orphan?—Friendless, but for my friendship, which seems to have been her
bane.”
“Sir, you must please to remember that my position as the principal of a
young ladies’ academy is a peculiar one. Had I even known your ward to
be blameless, I could not, in the face of such reports, have received
her without breaking up my school. Every pupil would have been removed
by her friends, nor could I have blamed them. I regret to have pained
you; but please also to remember that you brought this pain upon
yourself by insisting on an explanation.”
“And I was right! And I will drag the foul slander farther into the
light. _Some_ one originated it, and I will make it my first business to
discover and punish the originator. Good morning, Madam.”
And with a very ceremonious bow Alexander Lyon left the room.
When he entered the carriage, and seated himself by Drusilla’s side, she
turned to him with a sweet, bright confiding look, that smote him to the
heart.
“Oh, do not smile on me so, my child! I have been too thoughtless of
your good. But you shall have justice—full justice—grand justice! By the
heavens above, you shall, cost it what it may!” he exclaimed.
She looked at him now in much distress, and faltered forth the question:
“Will you tell me what has so disturbed you?”
He reflected for a moment, and then answered firmly, though kindly:
“_No_, Drusilla—not for the world. To tell you would be to wrong you.
Trust in me, my child.”
“Oh, I do, I do, as I trust in heaven!” she answered, fervently.
“And I will never betray that innocent trust, and may the Lord deal with
me as I shall deal with you, my child!” he said, reverently lifting his
hat.
In the meantime the carriage, bowling along at a rapid rate, brought
them back to the house.
“You have forborne to ask me what passed in my interview with the school
mistress, (Satan fly away with her!” he muttered between his teeth,)
“and you have done well. If the conversation had been proper for you to
hear, I should have repeated it to you,” said Alexander, as they entered
the house.
“But I trust in you,” Drusilla replied, as she bowed her head, and then
went up stairs to take off her bonnet.
Alexander Lyon went into the morning sitting-room and rang the bell, and
then dropped, half dead with trouble, into his leathern arm-chair.
Old Dorset answered the summons.
“Come here—close to me,” said the young man.
And Dorset; perplexed and disturbed by the looks and manners of his
master, approached.
“Dorset, you are an old, faithful and very discreet servant,” commenced
Mr. Alexander.
Dorset bowed humbly and silently.
“I wish to speak to you upon a very delicate subject, which I would not
name to any other person in the house, or even to you, except under the
most urgent necessity. Dorset——” He paused, as if he found the greatest
difficulty in proceeding. And Dorset bowed again, and waited in
respectful attention. “Dorset,” he resumed, “while Miss Sterling has
been in this house, have you heard any rumor prejudicial to her good
name?”
The old servant bowed his head upon his breast, and remained in a deep
silence of grief and mortification.
“That is enough!” said the young man, grimly; “your silence is more
eloquent than words. But now open your mouth and speak, to tell me who
started these reports, for, by the father of lies, I swear to visit them
heavily upon the head of the slanderer!”
The old servant shook his gray locks slowly and sadly, and then
answered:
“Ah, my dear master! in that case, I fear, you would have to punish the
dead, and I scarcely believe that you would do that if you could, or
could do it if you would.”
“What do you mean, old man?”
“Ah, sir, you might almost guess. The report started with that poor, mad
woman’s fancies about you having married her daughter.”
Alexander sprang from his chair, struck his forehead, and then sinking
into his seat again, murmured:
“I might have foreseen this; I ought to have foreseen it when I humored
and almost encouraged the poor creature in her illusions. But how did
this get out?”
“Well, sir, it was in this way: her church friends came to see her, and
she babbled to them about your fancied marriage with her daughter,
which, of course, none of them believed. If you remember, sir, in
speaking of the poor woman’s death, I told you she died easy and not too
soon, for that she had grown more and more foolish every day. It seemed
heartless to say so, sir, but indeed it was true; for from babbling of
your marriage with her daughter, she got to babbling about your wronging
of her daughter, in the very worst way a gentleman could wrong a young
woman.”
“Good heavens! was ever such a fatal calamity?” cried Alexander,
starting up and pacing the room in great excitement. “Oh, my child! my
child! my lamb! my dove! my dear, dear Drusilla! Go on, old man! go on!
what next?”
“Sir, they to whom she babbled believed this last lie, and took it into
their addled heads that the mother’s madness was caused by the
daughter’s ruin, and went and reported as they believed.”
“_Who_ were they?”
“Women, sir, more the pity! women of the church—old women who came to
take tea and talk scandal with the housekeeper.”
“And did Drusilla—did my poor child hear all this?”
“I think not, sir. Mad as the mother was, she had sense enough left to
send her daughter out of the room whenever she was about to babble. No,
sir; I feel sure Miss Drusilla knows nothing about it.”
“Thank heaven for that! She shall never know.”
“These reports, sir, caused me, in writing to you of the housekeeper’s
death, to ask you what should be done with Miss Drusilla; for I knew
that this house was no longer a proper home for her, as I took the
liberty of hinting to you, sir; for though Molly and myself and indeed
all the servants, did all we could to put a stop to these rumors, we
could not succeed in doing it. And so, sir,” repeated the old man, “I
made so bold as to ask you what should be done with Miss Drusilla.”
“I know NOW what shall be done with her. SHE SHALL BE MARRIED!” said
Alexander Lyon, grimly. “And now, Dorset, you may go; and remember, not
one word of this interview to any living creature!” he added.
“Surely not, sir,” said the old man, bowing himself out of the room, and
much wondering, if Miss Drusilla was to be married, where Mr. Lyon meant
to find her a husband.