CLOUDLESS JOYS.
Oh, pleasant was her welcome kiss,
When day’s turmoil was o’er,
And sweet the music of her step,
That met him at the door.—DRAKE.
For the first few days of their honeymoon, the bridegroom stayed home
with his bride—walking, riding, or playing with her in the mornings, and
reading, singing, or conversing with her in the evenings.
On Sunday, she asked him to take her to church, and he took her to the
nearest one of the sect to which she belonged.
On Monday, he took her into the city, to show her the public buildings
and other objects of interest.
On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, they remained quietly at home. The
weather was very inclement. It had been raining three days, and the
roads were very bad.
Alexander spent the time in doors, in writing letters, examining
accounts, and reading to Drusilla, while she worked with her needle. But
the gay young man of the world found this life “slow.”
On the third dull afternoon that the poor little bride had tried her
best to enliven, while he sat reading to her as she sewed, he suddenly
threw the book from him, got up, yawned, walked up and down the room a
few turns, looked out of the window at the drizzling rain and gloomy
sky, and then turning to his companion, said:
“Drusa, the weather is infernal, but—the German Opera is in Washington,
and our carriage is close. So what do you say to braving the rain and
the wind to see _Der Freichutz_ by the best troupe of artists that has
ever appeared in the city.”
She looked up quickly, and saw that he was anxious to go. She replied:
“I shall be delighted, Alick.”
“You are not afraid of taking cold?”
“Not a bit! I would go through Noah’s Flood to hear good music.”
“That’s my girl! You’re a brick. I’m so glad you are not one of the
timid or sickly sort. That little pale face of yours is very deceptive,
Drusa. One would think to look at you that you were very delicate, but I
never saw or heard of your being sick my life.”
“Except when I cried myself into a fit of illness, when you went to
Europe, Alick. Oh, I hope I shall never have another such a trouble as
that, as long as I live in this world. I remember it yet. Alick, dear, I
would rather die than lose you for another two years,” she said with
much feeling.
“Little goose! I’m not worth a tenth, a hundredth, no, not a thousandth
part of the love you bestow on me,” he answered laughing.
“Oh, Alick, I would not permit any one but yourself to say such things
of you. And I—I won’t let you say them either, sir; so there, now.”
“Come, run away and get ready. I will order the carriage.”
And Drusilla tripped up stairs to make her toilet. And Alexander
sauntered out of the room to give directions to his factotum.
In less than half an hour Drusilla came down, dressed for the evening.
The carriage was at the door.
“I have no tickets, of course; and consequently no reserved seats. But,
on such an inclement night as this, I do not doubt that we shall be able
to obtain good places,” said Alexander, as he handed her into the
carriage.
The roads were heavy, and so, a drive, that in good weather could have
been easily accomplished in thirty minutes, occupied them for
forty-five.
It was rather late when they reached the National Theatre, where the
opera troupe were performing.
The house was full, and the play had commenced.
Upon inquiry at the ticket-office, Alexander ascertained that there were
no good seats to be had, with the exception of those in a stage box,
that happened to be disengaged.
Alexander at once took that, and guided by an usher, led his companion
thither.
On taking her seat in the box, Drusilla’s eyes fell upon what seemed to
her a scene of enchantment.
The house was filled with a fashionable and well-dressed audience, and
the opera was in full play. Drusilla had never been in an opera before.
The Christmas pantomimes of her childhood comprised the whole of her
experiences in the theatrical line. Her artistic eye and ear at once
appealed to, she gazed with curiosity and interest, and listened with
wonder and delight.
Her attention was fixed upon the stage, but her bridegroom’s was fixed
upon her. As once before, in her childhood, he had looked through her
eyes, and heard through her ears, and derived more pleasure from _her_
pleasure, than from the performance on the stage, so now he experienced
a keener delight in watching and wondering at
“The mind, the music breathing from her face,”
than in listening to the most divine strains of the singer, who was
charming the whole house.
How beautiful she looked in her enthusiasm! She was lovely always, even
when pale and still, but now her lips and cheeks glowed with that
delicate, transparent fire, kindled of emotion, and her eyes beamed with
light, her whole countenance was radiant and inspired.
He was so much absorbed in contemplating her, that he did not perceive
she had attracted and was receiving a great deal of attention from other
quarters of the house. Next to the figures on the stage, the occupants
of the “private” boxes have the most conspicuous position; and if there
is a new beauty among them, she is sure to be discovered and stared at.
Alexander had not thought of this, or perhaps he would not have
exhibited his little beauty in a private box.
At the end of the second act of the opera, however, he was unpleasantly
reminded of the fact. The box door opened, and one of his gentleman
acquaintances came in.
Alexander arose and shook hands with him, but did not ask him to be
seated, although there were two spare chairs; and did not present him to
Drusilla, although the visitor looked enquiringly at her, and Drusilla
glanced timidly in return.
Before this gentleman left the box, another came, and then another,
until the little place was full. And Alexander chatted gaily with them
all, but presented not one of them to Drusilla.
When the curtain arose for the third act, they all bowed and withdrew.
And Drusilla’s whole attention was once more given to the stage, and
Alexander’s to her.
Yet, now that his notice had been attracted to the fact, he could not
help seeing that several opera glasses were still levelled at his box.
“I will never bring her here again,” he muttered to himself, frowning
with a strangely blended feeling of gratified pride in the admiration
his beautiful bride had unconsciously excited, and of morose jealousy
that other eyes should gaze on her so publicly at will. There was
something of the sultan in Mr. Lyon’s selfish nature, and he felt as if
he would have liked to shut up his little beauty from all the world
forever.
He was heartily glad when the play was over. And while the performers
were still curtseying and bowing, and the curtain was slowly rolling
down, he hurried Drusilla up from her seat, wrapped her cloak around
her, and took her off lest some of his unwelcome visitors should meet
them on their way out.
When they were seated in their carriage, and the horses were moving at a
smart trot down Pennsylvania avenue towards Seventh street, Alexander
turned to his now quiet companion, and said:
“You were very much pleased, my little love?”
“Oh, more than that; I have been in Heaven!” she aspirated.
“You little enthusiast! But what makes you so quiet now?”
“I have scarcely got back to earth, I suppose.”
“Drusa, you saw those visitors that came into our box?”
“Yes; they were friends of yours, and looked as if they expected you to
introduce them to me.”
“Yes, I dare say they did; but, Drusilla, did you wish me to do so?”
“I? I had no wish on the subject. But any friends of yours, Alick, would
be always most welcome to my acquaintance.”
“Not so, little one. A man may have many friends that he would not like
to present to his wife. And these—were roughs.”
“‘Roughs?’”
“Rude, unbroken colts, unfit for a gentlewoman’s society. But let them
pass. I only wished to explain why I did not introduce them to you. Now
as to the entertainment of the evening. How did you like Xitz?” he
inquired, mentioning the tenor of the troupe.
Drusilla went off into raptures over the tenor.
And they talked of the opera and of nothing else until they reached
home.
Lights from the windows were gleaming through the trees as they drove up
to the house.
“How bright and cheerful our little home looks,” said Drusilla, as
Alexander lifted her from the carriage.
“I am glad you think so, love,” he whispered.
Pina opened the door, and smilingly admitted them.
She took her mistress’s hood and cloak, while her master relieved
himself of his cap and overcoat.
And then she opened the drawing-room door where a fine fire was burning.
And while they stood and warmed themselves before its blaze she drew
aside the crimson curtain that shut off the dining-room, and revealed an
elegant little supper set out in readiness.
And the evening closed as pleasantly as it had commenced.
Alexander loved Drusilla; there is no doubt of that. But as the days
wore on he found life alone with her rather dull. They had been married
a fortnight before he left her alone for a day. But on a certain morning
he had his horse saddled to ride in to Washington “to get the papers,”
he said, and to make arrangements for having them sent to him every day.
As he kissed Drusilla good-bye he added that he should be back as soon
as possible.
She begged that he would not hurry himself for her sake. She said she
would occupy her time with dress-making during his absence.
“But you will be quite alone my poor little love,” he said.
“I shall have pleasant thoughts for company,” she answered; and she
added: “Dear Alick, I do not wish to be a hamper to your motions; never
think of me as any obstacle to your freedom. Please don’t.”
“As if I ever thought of anything else but you!” replied the bridegroom,
who was still a lover. And he kissed her again and rode away.
As soon as Alick reached the city he put his horse up at a livery
stable, and gave himself a holiday by sauntering up and down
Pennsylvania avenue, and lounging into the various reading rooms of the
hotels.
In one of them he heard that an exciting polemic duel was to come off
that day in the Senate Chamber between two distinguished Senators of
opposite parties in politics. Mr. W. of Massachusetts was expected to
make a speech, which Mr. C. of South Carolina was expected to answer.
And Alexander determined to go with the crowd and hear them.
He lost no time in hurrying to the Capitol, and making his way to the
gallery of the Senate.
It was the very height of the Washington season, and the city was as
usual every winter, filled to overflowing.
As many of the elite as could be pressed into that very limited space
was crowded into the gallery of the Senate Chamber.
Alexander with much difficulty made his way into this crowd. But Mr.
Lyon was epicurean rather than intellectual, and would not endure
personal discomfort for the sake of hearing the grandest burst of
eloquence that ever thunderstruck the world. So after experiencing
something of heat, pressure, and suffocation he turned his back upon the
“Godlike,” and pushed his way through the crowd in the gallery to the
crowd outside who were trying to get in, and so slowly progressed to the
library, were the “population” was thinner and the air purer.
He walked up to a table where several ladies and gentlemen were gathered
to look at some new illustrated volumes that lay there for inspection.
One of the ladies turned around, and he found himself face to face with
his Cousin Anna.
“_Good gracious, Alick_, who on earth would have expected to see you
here!” she exclaimed in astonishment, as she offered her hand.
He turned red and pale; took and pressed the offered hand, and then
recovered himself and answered:
“Or _you_, Anna. I thought you were still at Old Lyon Hall.”
“And I thought you were at Richmond, or rather I had hoped you were by
this time.”
“My uncle is here with you, of course,” said Alexander, wishing to avoid
a topic which he saw upon the lips of his cousin.
“Oh, yes, certainly, my grandfather is here. Our coming was his act. He
fancied—it was only fancy—that my health and spirits were drooping in
the country, and that I needed a change, and so he brought me to
Washington. Of course being in mourning, we do not go to balls, only to
receptions where there is no dancing. But how is it that you are here?
Why are you not in Richmond?”
“I hope my uncle is quite well?” said Alexander, persistently ignoring
her questions.
“Yes, quite. I was asking you why——”
“I do not see him; he is not with you this morning.”
“No; he is on the floor of the Senate Chamber. But, Alexander, I asked
you why you are here.”
“Oh, I too, needed a change,” he answered, smiling.
“Ah! but surely, Alexander, can you know——By the way, what have you been
doing with yourself for the last month in which we have not heard from
you?”
“Here is a catechism! Wandering about to be sure; trying to shake off a
very disagreeable companion—meaning myself.”
While he spoke she was regarding him with a very grave face; but there
was more of pity than rebuke in its expression.
“Alick, you _cannot_ know. When did you hear from your home?”
“Not for four or five weeks.”
“Then you _don’t_ know. Oh, Alick, do you think it was right to leave
your home without giving your address, in case anything should happen to
require your presence. Oh, Alick!”
“Anna, since the death of my dear father and mother, in addition to the
grief for their loss I have been oppressed with the cares of the estate.
I wished to get rid of trouble for a little while. And so, to prevent
old Dorset from writing to me about business, I came away without
leaving my address.”
“And suppose, Alick, something of importance should have required your
attention in the meantime? Some matter of life or death?”
“Well, thank Heaven, no such matter has turned up. I see you before me
in health and beauty. And I hear you say that my uncle is quite well.”
“And yet something has happened. Come with me, Alick, to the window
yonder,” said Anna, in a low voice, as she walked off to a distant part
of the room.
“Have you really heard nothing from Dorset, Alick?” she inquired, when
they stood together at some distance from every one else in the library.
“No; I hope nothing has happened to the poor old fellow?” said
Alexander, uneasily.
“Oh, no, not to him, or to any of the servants. Oh, Alick, I am so sorry
to be the first to tell you.”
“Of what in the name of Heaven, Anna, since you and your grandfather,
and even old Dorset and the servants are well.”
“Was there no one else in whom you took an interest?” she gravely
inquired.
“Richard Hammond? Poor Dick! Surely no misfortune——”
“No, no misfortune has befallen Dick; and neither do I give you credit
for caring a straw whether there has or has not. Nothing has happened to
Dick but the inheritance of a large fortune from a bachelor uncle in
Brazil, which has caused my grandfather to look on him with more
tolerant eyes.”
“I am very glad of Dick’s good fortune.”
“I do not give you credit for caring a fig for his fortune, good or bad.
But oh, Alick, I am grieved for you. Was there no one else, no one else
you cared for, left at home?”
“Indeed, I cannot think of any other creature in whom I could be
expected to take so deep an interest.”
“Not—poor little Drusilla?”
Alexander gave a great guilty start and stood gazing at his cousin.
Drusilla had not been associated in his mind with any one left at home;
so he had had no suspicion that Anna spoke of her; and now he wondered
whether Anna had any inkling of the truth. He doubted only an instant,
and then he felt sure by her words, looks and manners that she had not.
Yet he wished to know everything she had to say of Drusilla’s flight.
“What of her?” he inquired.
“Oh, Alick, poor little thing! I grieve so much to tell you. But after
you left home, it seems she became moody, silent, absent, and altogether
queer. She took to wandering off every day by herself. Dorset and Molly
thought that she was going deranged as her poor mother had gone. So they
watched her closely. But one day, about a fortnight after you left home,
she eluded their vigilance and disappeared from the house. And though
the most diligent search was made for her, she could not be found.”
Anna paused, and Alexander tried to look as much shocked as she
evidently expected him to be; but he could not yet trust himself to make
any comment.
“Old Dorset, nearly beside himself with distress, wrote to my
grandfather, telling him of what had occurred, and asking for your
address that he might communicate the matter to you. Of course, not
knowing it, my grandfather could not give it. But I did hope the old man
had discovered your whereabouts and written to you.”
“No, he has not. Dear me! Poor girl, poor girl! how shocking! And no
trace has been discovered of her yet?” said Alexander, acting grief and
anxiety as well as any ordinary stage-player could.
“None that I knew of.”
“Bless my life, how dreadful! I must put advertisements in all the
papers and employ the detectives. What motive does old Dorset assign to
her act of leaving her home?”
“Partial derangement, I tell you, inherited from her mother.”
“Poor child! poor child! I will have inquiries set on foot immediately.
But—here comes General Lyon,” said Alexander, glad to have a diversion
from the very embarrassing subject of Drusilla.
In fact, at that moment the old soldier entered the library, looking to
the right and left in search of his grand-daughter.
Attended by Alexander, she went to meet him.
“Well, my dear, ready to go back to our hotel?—Ah, Alexander, how do you
do, my boy? Glad to see you. How long have you been here?” he asked,
cordially shaking hands with his nephew.
“I reached the city early this morning,” said Alexander, speaking the
_literal_ truth, but giving a false impression, as he meant to do.
“Ah! by the first train, eh?” exclaimed the old man, jumping to the
obvious conclusion. “But where do you hang out, eh, my boy?”
“I have not taken rooms yet,” replied Alexander, who found that he
needed all his presence of mind to answer these unexpected questions
without betraying himself on the one hand and perjuring himself on the
other.
“Ah! left all your luggage at the station, eh? Well, I would advise you
to take rooms at our hotel. We are pretty comfortable there?”
“How long do you propose to stay here, sir?” inquired the young man.
“Oh, the rest of the season, I suppose.”
Here was a dilemma. Of course, Alexander might have ended all his
embarrassments by candidly confessing his marriage with Drusilla. And
why did he not do so? Simply because loving and admiring his young
bride, as he certainly did, he was nevertheless ashamed of having wedded
his housekeeper’s daughter; and he lacked moral courage to face the
astonishment of his cousin and the indignation of his uncle, and to
defend his own act and stand by his own wife.
Ah! but there is a sort of pride that is below contempt.
While Alexander was wondering what he should do to get out of his
perplexities, his uncle changed the subject back to the other dangerous
theme by saying:
“Ah, by the way, that was a sad thing—the fate of poor little Drusilla.”
“Very sad, indeed, sir,” replied Alexander, lugubriously.
“It must have shocked you terribly,” said the old soldier.
“Ah!” exclaimed Alexander.
“Well, well, it can’t be helped, I suppose.”
“I shall do all I can in the premises, sir.”
“Oh, no doubt, no doubt. Come, my dear Anna, let us get on. Alick, come
home with us to dinner.”
Alexander would have made excuses. He was not dressed for dinner, he
said. He had no means of making his toilet.
But his uncle cut him short.
“Nonsense, man, nonsense. Who expects you to be in full dress to-day?
You are a traveller, just arrived in the city. You have left your
luggage at the station, and you have not even engaged rooms yet.
Besides—at a hotel table, who cares how you are dressed? Come along.
There! give Anna your arm, and take her to the carriage.”
What could Alick do?
He offered his arm to his cousin and led her down the many broad steps
leading to the east front of the capitol, where the carriage waited. He
handed her carefully in to her cushioned seat, and bowed and attempted
some excuse for leaving her.
But Anna, seized with some inexplicable whim, perhaps inspired by the
Spirit of Evil for his torment, would not let him off; but insisted upon
his entering and taking a seat beside her.
With a suppressed groan, Alexander obeyed.
The old soldier followed them into the carriage.
When he was comfortably seated and the horses had started, he rubbed his
hands and said:
“This is fortunate. I needed some one whom I could trust, to take Anna
out in the evening. Who so proper an escort as her betrothed husband?
Now this evening there is to be a grand reception at the Executive
Mansion. I do not feel well enough to go out at night, so I must impress
you into the service, my boy.”
“I should be most happy, sir,” said the young man, actually trembling
under his accumulating embarrassment. “I should indeed be delighted,
but——”
“But what?—Oh, nonsense, you cannot make any excuse about your toilet in
this case; there is plenty of time to get your luggage from the station,
and get yourself up for the evening in the most unexceptionable style.”
“Yes, sir, but——”
“But what, again? You cannot possibly have any other engagement. You
have been in the city too short a time. Alexander, what has come to you?
You are not like yourself at all. I really think your betrothed has a
reason to feel piqued,” said the old man, gravely.
“I beg your pardon and hers, sir—I am—if I must speak the truth, a
little upset upon the subject of that poor girl,” said Alexander, in
explanation, again speaking the literal truth, while intentionally
giving a wrong impression.
“Oh exactly, to be sure, my dear boy, and it does you credit. I am
certain I ought to beg _your_ pardon, now, for doing injustice to your
good feelings. But Alick, my lad, your compassion for that poor child
need not prevent you from ordinary social pleasures. You really must
escort your cousin to the President’s reception to-night.”
“My dear grandfather,” put in Anna, “I will not, if you please, have any
gentleman pressed into my service against his will, even though that
gentleman should be my affianced husband. Dick is in Washington. He
called on me this morning, and begged leave to attend me to the White
House this evening. I told him I would hold his proposal in reserve, and
let him know in time.”
Now what was there in the name of his old rival, poor Dick, that should
have raised Alexander’s jealousy? Mr. Lyon was a married man, and had no
right to feel annoyed at the idea of Richard Hammond becoming the escort
of his cousin. Nevertheless he _did_ feel annoyed, partly, perhaps,
because he had once considered Anna his own property, and however
lightly he had valued the possession, he could not, even now, see her
pass over to another without a secret feeling of rage and jealousy; and
so he hesitated to answer:
“No, my dear cousin; if you please, I claim the right of attending you
in person. I can not resign that right to Mr. Hammond.”
“And _I_ claim the right of choosing my own escort,” said Anna, proudly.
Alexander bowed.
“Girl and boy, I will have no lovers’ quarrels here, Anna, you should
feel that there is an impropriety in an engaged young lady accepting the
attentions of another gentleman, when her betrothed is anxious to show
her those attentions himself. Alexander, you are to take Anna to the
reception this evening. Young people, both see that you obey me. _Some_
respect should be paid to my gray head and my eighty years,” said the
old soldier, with dignity.
Both the young people bowed and acquiesced. And so it was settled that
Alexander should attend Anna to the reception of the evening.