THE DESPERATE REMEDY.
Let that pass, too. There breathes not one,
Who would not do as I have done.—BYRON.
The bride elect listened to the words of the forsaken wife, first in
surprise and incredulity, then in pity and indignation, and last in a
rapture of relief, ineffable and indescribable, and only to be equalled
by the ecstacy a condemned criminal must feel when at the last moment
before execution he receives a full pardon.
When all was told, Drusilla sat pale and despairing. Anna flushed and
resolute.
“Not for myself,” said the poor young wife, “not for myself, Heaven
knows, and not for you, but for his sake have I done this thing—to save
him from doing, in his madness, a deed that the law might construe into
a crime and punish with degradation. But oh, Miss Lyon, forgive me if in
coming here I have brought you much sorrow!”
“Hush! you have brought me no sorrow, but a great deliverance,” said
Anna with a sigh of infinite relief.
“Then you never loved him—as I do!” exclaimed Drusilla, raising her
large eyes, full of questioning wonder to the face of Anna.
Miss Lyon smiled haughtily, for all reply.
“That, at least, is well,” mused the young wife.
Anna arose, still flushed and resolute.
“Give me that document of which you spoke, my child,” she said,
extending her hand.
Drusilla drew from her bosom the little black silk bag, took from it the
piece of paper in question, and laid it before Anna.
Anna read it over, with smiling eyes and a curling lip.
“Does it prove or disprove my marriage?” anxiously inquired Drusilla.
“I cannot tell, Drusilla; I do not know. But so much is certain—_your_
fate, Alick’s, and your unborn child’s, and also my fate and Dick’s—all
hang upon this precious little piece of paper, for which I would not
take a mint of money,” said Anna, earnestly.
“And yet you cannot tell me whether it proves or disproves my marriage.”
“No; for I am not sufficiently learned in the law,” said Anna, moving
towards the door.
“You are going out?” said Drusilla, uneasily.
“Yes; stay here until I come back, which will be in a few minutes.”
“Oh, Miss Lyon! Miss Lyon, do not go to him yet! And do not upbraid him
when you see him! Your provocation may have been very great, but wait
until you are cool, and then you will be just,” pleaded the young wife,
rising and laying her hands upon the lady’s robes, to stay her.
“Child, I am not going to him. And I shall _never_ upbraid him,” replied
Anna, with a superb and beautiful scorn.
“Then you go——?”
“To my grandfather’s study!”
“To denounce him to his uncle? Oh, do not—not yet, not just yet! Wait,
wait till you are calm! till you can speak only the words of justice and
mercy. Do not denounce him yet!”
“Drusilla, I am not going to denounce him now or ever. Wait _you_, and
see what I shall do!”
“What, what?”
“I shall save the miserable sinner, if he is to be saved at all!”
“But, how? oh, how?”
“Wait _you_, and trust me!” answered Anna, flashing out of the room and
taking the mysterious little document with her.
She walked—no, in the exhilaration of her spirits, she almost danced
down the hall, towards her grandfather’s little study, over the great
entrance.
As she tripped on she noticed the chamber-doors on each side wide open,
and the fire light within shining down on the polished dark oak floors.
In many of the rooms, the chamber-maids were putting on fresh logs.
“I think you need not take that trouble. I fancy there will be no
wedding guests here to-night,” said Anna, smiling, as she passed them.
“Mr. Richard has come, Miss,” replied one of the women.
“Ah!” exclaimed Anna, stopping short with a beating heart. A few seconds
she paused to recover composure, and then she rushed on.
“Well, my darling! have you come to show yourself to me in all your
bridal glory, before you go down to be married? Ah! truly, you look very
beautiful, my Anna. May Heaven make your spirit even more beautiful than
its outward form,” said the fine old soldier, reaching out his hand to
his grand-daughter, as she entered his room, and drawing her towards
him.
“I am very glad that you are pleased with me, grandfather,” she said, as
she seated herself on his knee.
“You look happier now, my Anna, than you did half an hour ago.”
“I feel happier, dear sir.”
“And what makes the difference?” he smiled.
“‘A change has come over the spirit of my dream;’ that is all,” laughed
Anna.
“Ah, my dear! feminine caprice, but I am glad of it. Well, you are
ready, Alick is ready, I am ready, and Dick is here; but we have no
bridesmaid and no minister.”
“Yes, grandpa, we have a bridesmaid!”
“Ah! I am glad of that! Which of the six young ladies is it who has
braved the storm for love of you?”
“Annie,” answered Miss Lyon, evasively, meaning our Anna Drusilla, but
wishing her grandpa to understand another Anna, as he did, for he
immediately exclaimed.
“Ah! little Annie Seymour! Well she lived nearest! and she must answer
for the whole six. But my dear, the carriage has not yet returned with
the minister.”
“The way is long and the roads are very bad. Doubtless he will come; but
it may be late. Was there a special license got out for us, dear
grandpa?” inquired Anna, speaking with assumed carelessness.
“Why, of course, there was, my dear!” answered the old soldier,
elevating his eyebrows in astonishment, at the question.
“Who got it?” dear grandpa.
“Why, Alick, to be sure! who else?”
“Who has it now, sir?”
“Bless my soul, what an inquisitive little puss. What is it to you who
has it? Are you afraid it is not all right? Would you like to inspect it
for yourself?” laughed the general.
“If you please; yes, sir, I should,” answered Anna, archly.
“Lest there should be any informality in it, eh?”
“Such things have happened, sir; but it is not the fear of that which
prompts me; for I have always had a curiosity to look at a special
marriage license; so if Alick has it, please get it from him, that I may
gratify this wish. I only want it for a few minutes.”
“Well, of all the whims of whimsical women, yours is certainly the most
absurd!”
“Will you get the license away from Alick, and let me look at it
grandpa?”
“You persist in this?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then, fortunately, I have not got to go to Alick with such a ridiculous
request as the loan of a license. I have it here with me.”
“You have it?”
“Yes. You see Alick, thinking from the state of the weather, and the
looks of things generally, that he should have no groomsman for the
ceremony, put his marriage license and the minister’s fee both in one
envelope, and requested me, when the proper time should come, to hand it
over to Dr. Barbar. But, now I hear that Dick has arrived—having so far
conquered himself as to come to the wedding. I mean to conscript him
into the service, arm him with this paper, and make him do duty as
groomsman.”
“Where is the packet, dear grandpa?”
“Here, my dear, since you must needs see the license (which the
officiating clergyman scarcely ever does, as he takes its contents for
granted), you may read it at your leisure, while I go down stairs and
inquire if my messenger has returned from the parsonage,” said General
Lyon, as he handed a white embossed envelope to the bride elect, and
then left the room.
She sank down into an easy chair and opened the envelope, which of
course was not sealed. She took out the marriage license, in which she
found folded a five hundred dollar bank note.
With a curling lip and flashing eyes she read over the form of license,
and then, with a smile of scorn and triumph, she put it on the glowing
fire and watched it blaze up and burn to ashes.
Then she took that mysterious little document given her by Drusilla,
wrapped it around the big bank note and put both in the envelope and
folded it neatly.
“Now, Mr. Alexander Lyon, whoever you may marry to-night, you will
certainty not marry me!” she mused, maliciously, as she sat and waited
for her grandfather’s return. Presently she heard footsteps coming up
the corridor; but they were not those of the old General.
She arose to her feet and her heart stood still.
Dick Hammond entered.
“Anna! You here? Pardon me, I expected only to find my uncle,” he
exclaimed, in a voice vibrating with emotion.
“Dick! dear Dick! you are welcome! Shake hands, Dick. No, take it! it is
a free hand now. I know all, Dick!” exclaimed Anna trembling with excess
of agitation.
He clasped her hand and carried it to his lips.
“I came here to tell your grandfather everything and to prove all that I
should tell. But I have been anticipated.”
“Yes, Drusilla is here.”
“I knew she was on her way. I came a night’s journey with her in the
coach. But I saw that she tried to escape recognition by me; for what
reason I could not guess; so, not to trouble her with my presence, in
the morning I got off the coach and took another route. I feared that
she would not be able to continue her journey.”
“She arrived this evening,” said Anna, calmly.
“And she has told you all?”
“All.”
“And _what_ does your grandfather think of this?”
“He does not know it.”
“How? not know it?”
“No, Dick. Drusilla told me only. I have not told my grandfather, nor do
I intend to do so.”
“Then I myself I will denounce the scoundrel to my uncle,” exclaimed
Hammond, shaking with passion.
“No, Dick, we will not denounce him. We will do a deal better than that.
Listen, Dick: My dear old grandpa says he intends to conscript you into
the service to do duty as groomsman.”
“He does!” exclaimed Hammond, with his eyes flashing.
“Yes, and, Dick, you must consent.”
“Consent! _I_ consent! Anna, do you mean this iniquitous marriage to go
on?”
“Yes, I do. And Dick, you must be groomsman and hand the license and the
fee both over to the minister. See, here they are in this pretty
envelope. Grandpa got it ready for you. So, Dick, you must do it.”
“If I do, may I he eternally consigned to the deepest pit in—”
—“Hush, Dick, and don’t go off at a tangent. Look me in the face, sir!
right in the eyes!”
“Anna, what do you mean?” he inquired, meeting her steady gaze.
“Do you see anything ‘iniquitous’ in my countenance?” she asked.
“No; but I see a mystery there.”
“A holy mystery, as I suppose a ‘pious fraud’ may be called. Now, sir,
will you open this envelope, which is to be entrusted to you, to be
delivered to the minister, and examine its contents?”
“Why,” said Dick in perplexity, as he looked at the enclosure, “this
is—”
“Yes, it _is_. I have taken advantage of my grandpa’s absence to burn my
marriage license and substitute this one. And _you_ must hand it
enclosed in the envelope, with the fee, to the minister, when we stand
up to be married. And _now_, Dick, do you begin to see daylight?”
laughed Anna.
“I think I do. Yet I do not quite comprehend yet. You mean—”
“Here comes my grandfather, and we have not a minute more for
explanation. Play the part assigned to you—blindly, if you must—and
trust me with the issue. Will you, Dick?”
“Yes, I WILL, Anna.”
“And Dick, here, listen quick!—Just before I am to be sent for, go down
into the great drawing-room and put out two thirds of the wax candles. I
want a subdued light, not an illumination there. Will you remember,
Dick, and do it yourself, so as to insure its being done?”
“Yes, Anna, I will; and now I _do_ begin to understand you.”
“Hush, here he is!” whispered Miss Lyon, as her grandfather came to the
door.
“Ah, Dick, my dear boy! how are you? so glad to see you!” exclaimed old
General Lyon, entering and holding out his hand to Richard Hammond, who
took and pressed it affectionately.
“So very glad to see you here, Dick! Your very first visit to Old Lyon
Hall! And now I shall expect you to stay and comfort me when my young
people are gone.”
“I shall be very happy to do so, sir,” answered Dick, sincerely.
“But how the deuce did you find your way here, through this wilderness
of a country, and over these dreadful roads?”
“Oh, I inquired of your protegées, the old Scotch emigrants, at the
turnpike gate,” answered Dick, laughing.
“Old Andy and Jenny. Ay, poor souls! Well, Dick, you are here in a good
hour. All our guests have failed us—groomsmen, and bridesmaids, and all,
except little Annie Seymour. And so you must play groomsman, and lead
Annie down.”
“I shall be very happy to do so, sir, if Alick desires it.”
“Oh, yes, he does. I heard that you were here, and so I looked in at
Alick’s room and mentioned the matter to him. And he declared that he
would be very much obliged if you would do him so much honor. So, you
will see it is all right.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And here, Dick, is the license and the fee, both in this envelope,
which it will be your duty as groomsman to hand to the officiating
minister.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, by the way, I hear wheels, and his carriage must be coming,” said
the old gentleman, leaving the study to inquire.
Meanwhile, the bride elect had returned to her own room.
Drusilla still sat there in the easy chair, with her hands clasped upon
her lap and her head bowed upon her breast.
Anna went and took a seat beside her, and said, with earnestness almost
amounting to solemnity:
“Drusilla, if you wish to save Alick from guilt and remorse, and
yourself and your child from wrong and shame, you must place your
destiny in my hands to-night, and do as I direct you.”
The helpless young wife looked up in the lady’s face, and murmured
mournfully:
“It is a great trust you seek, Miss Lyon.”
“It _is_, Drusilla, a very great trust; yet I seek it. It is also for
you a very great trial, yet I ask you to meet it.”
“I would meet anything for Alick’s sake, Miss Lyon, if I may save him,
as you say. Please to explain yourself, Miss Lyon,” she said.
“Drusilla, you know that Alexander Lyon is waiting and expecting to
marry me to-night,” said the bride elect.
“Yes,” moaned the wronged wife.
“And my grandfather and his household are equally waiting and expecting
to witness a wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Well, they must not any of them be disappointed.”
“Ah, what do you mean?” inquired Drusilla, with an anxious sigh.
“Not to marry Alick myself, you may rest assured,” answered Anna,
disdainfully.
“Ah, no, for you could not do that.”
“Of course not, as I consider him already married. You are his wife, in
right, if not in law, Drusilla,” said Miss Lyon, emphatically.
“I _know_ I am so by right, and I _believe_ I am so by law,” answered
Drusilla solemnly.
“Yet those who know more of law than we do differ from us. And this
makes your position, Drusilla, very doubtful, very unsafe, and deeply
humiliating.”
“I know it, I feel it, through all my darkened spirit and in every pulse
of my breaking heart.”
“This state of affairs should not be permitted to exist for a moment,
especially—oh, most especially—as you are so soon to be a mother. No
question of the lawfulness of your union with Alexander Lyon should be
permitted to arise.”
“No, no, no!”
“But how to silence such questions forever, how to legalize your union
and legitimatize your child—there is the difficulty.”
Drusilla moaned, but spoke no word in answer.
“If I were to go now to Alick and tell him of your presence in the
house, and urge him to resign my hand and to do you justice, he would
not hear me.”
“No, he would not,” wailed Drusilla.
“If I were to appeal to my grandfather, the high-spirited old soldier
would—kick him out doors!”
“Ah!” gasped Drusilla, pierced more sharply by this idea of prospective
insult to her Alick than she could be by any ignomy that might cover
herself.
“Then what is to be done?” inquired Anna.
“Nothing, nothing,” sighed Drusilla. “I wish I were dead. I wish I were
in Heaven!”
“Yes; but you see we can’t die just when the whim seizes us; and if we
could, we shouldn’t go to Heaven by _that_ means.”
“Ah, Heaven have mercy! have mercy on me, for my state is desperate!”
“Yes, Drusilla, your state _is_ desperate—desperate enough to drive you
to despair.”
“Despair! I have lived in it for months. I shall die in it!”
“If you do you will never see Heaven at all. For despair is the last and
most fatal of sins. But you needn’t give up to it just yet!”
“Oh, what do you mean? What hope have I in this world?”
“The hope that lasts as long as life. Listen, Drusilla. I said that your
state was desperate—not that your cause was lost. ‘Desperate cases
require desperate remedies.’ Your case is such a one, and my remedy is
such a one.”
“What remedy have you for me? However desperate, however dangerous, I
will not refuse it or shrink from it! I would dare anything, suffer
anything, to save my Alick from his sin and win him back to me again!”
said the devoted wife, clasping her hands and gazing imploringly into
the eyes of the lady who seemed now to hold her destiny.
“Then attend to me, Drusilla, while I divulge my plan—the _only_ plan by
which you can save your Alick from present guilt and future remorse, and
yourself and your child from the greatest wrong and the deepest
shame—the only plan, Drusilla, by which you may hope to WIN YOUR WAY!”
“Speak on, tell me! I listen!” gasped Drusilla, in a breathless voice.
“Well, as I said before, Alexander Lyon is confidently hoping to lead
his bride before the minister this evening. His hopes must be
fulfilled—in you, Drusilla!”
“In me!”
“Yes, in you! You must enact the bride this evening.”
“In the name of Heaven, what is this that you are proposing to me?”
exclaimed Drusilla, gazing in wonder at Miss Lyon.
“That you shall take my place in this evening’s solemn farce and be fast
married to your husband, if you never were before,” said Anna, calmly.
“Impossible, Miss Lyon! He would reject me at first sight, and I!—I
should die of mortification!”
“Yes, if he should be permitted to recognize you, he might reject you.
But he is not to be favored with a sight of your face until he is
irrecoverably bound to you.”
“Even then he would renounce me—renounce me with maledictions.”
“Well, let him! I should thank him for freeing me, if I were you. Why
should you care, so that his great wrong to you and to his child is
righted—so that your good name is redeemed from unmerited reproach, and
your innocent child from undeserved shame? After you are fast
married—let him go, if he will, say I!”
“Oh, Miss Lyon! Miss Lyon! I never deceived any one in all my life!
Shall I begin by deceiving my dear Alick?” she said, wringing her poor
little hands again.
“Drusilla, this will be no deception, but a pious fraud—if ever there
was such a thing in the world!”
“Oh, Miss Lyon, you mean well; but I could not practise this ‘pious
fraud’ upon any one, least of all upon my dear Alick! I could not, Miss
Lyon, I could not!” fervently exclaimed the loyal young creature,
tightly clasping her hands.
“Then you accept the dishonor to which he has doomed you, rather than
clear your fame in the manner I propose?” said Anna, curling her lovely
lip.
“Yes Miss Lyon, yes; rather than force myself in this way upon my dear
Alick, if I have really no right to his name, I will accept the
undeserved shame,” said Drusilla, sadly but firmly, while the devotion
of a young martyr glowed through her beautiful pale face.
Anna nodded her head two or three times, and then said:
“So be it. You may have the right to immolate yourself upon this
idolatrous altar of your inordinate affections. But who I pray you,
young mother, who gave you the right to doom your innocent unborn child,
your poor little helpless child, to the deep degradation of
illegitimacy?” demanded Miss Lyon, solemnly fixing her eyes upon the
face of Drusilla, and seeing her mouth tremble and the big tears roll,
bead-like, down her cheeks.
“Hush! oh, in pity, hush, Miss Lyon! Do not speak of this!” she pleaded.
“But I must and will speak of it!” persisted Anna, who now discovered
that she had touched a chord in Drusilla’s heart, through which she
might draw her into the proposed plan.
And though the poor, wronged girl wept and wrung her hands, Miss Lyon
persevered in pleading this cause, mercilessly setting before the young
mother the shames and woes that must attend her child through life,
should she persist in her present resolution.
Of course, Anna gained her point.
“For the poor baby’s sake, I consent. Do with me as you will,” said
Drusilla, weeping bitterly.
“That is right. Come now and let me dress you. We have taken up too much
time in talking. We have very little left. I expect every moment to hear
that the minister has arrived,” said Anna.
And she flew to the chamber door, and turned the key.
And she quickly took off her bridal robes, and carefully dressed
Drusilla in them.
Then she placed the wreath of orange blossoms on her head, and laid the
veil of white lace over all.
“There,” said Anna, giving her a pair of white kid-gloves, “put these on
while I dress as a bridesmaid—for while you personate Miss Lyon, I must
seem to be Miss Seymour.”
Just at that moment, some one rapped softly.
Anna flew to answer the summons.
“Well, what is wanted now?” she inquired, without opening the door.
“If you please, Miss, the Reverend Dr. Barbar have come, and Mr. Alick
and Mr. Dick is both waitin’; and Master’s compliments, and is you and
Miss Annie ready to come down?” spoke the voice of Marcy from without.
“No, we are not quite ready yet, but we soon shall be. Miss Annie is
dressing. Ask them to come for us in about fifteen minutes,” said Anna.
She then hurried to her wardrobes and bureaus, selected from her large
outfit of clothing a white taffeta-silk dress, and a large white tulle
veil, and quickly and carefully disguised herself in them. So much
dispatch did she use that she, as well as Drusilla, was ready and
waiting full five minutes before the summons came for them.
“Courage now, my dear child! Remember how much is at stake, how much
depends upon your self-possession. Draw your veil closely over your
face. I will do the same with mine. They will ascribe this to our
bashfulness. You must take Alick’s arm, I shall take Dick’s. Never mind
if your hands tremble or your tongue falters—it will seem natural. Come
now!” whispered Anna to her agitated companion, as she led her to the
chamber door and opened it.
Alick and Dick stood outside.
“My adored Anna, this is the happiest moment of my existence!” gallantly
whispered Alick, as he took the half-offered hand of Drusilla, pressed
it fervently to his lips, and drew it within his arm.
She bowed in silence. It seemed all that was expected of a bride under
the circumstances.
“Miss Seymour, I believe? Yes? Well, I am very glad to meet you again,
Miss Annie, especially on this auspicious occasion,” said Dick, bending
low over the hand of Anna, and then drawing it within his own and
leading her after the bride and bridegroom who were walking before.
“Dick,” whispered Anna, “are we both well disguised?”
“Excellently,” returned Mr. Dick.
“Did you partially darken the room by putting out two thirds of the
lights?”
“I nearly quite darkened it by putting out three quarters of them. I had
a good opportunity of doing it, being alone in the drawing-room while
Alick and the parson were closeted with the governor. He—the governor I
mean—swore a few at the servants when he came down by himself to see
that all was right. But the servants all declared ignorance of the cause
of the lights going out, and as it was too late to remedy the evil he
did not attempt it.”
“Thanks, Dick. And now you understand my purpose; have you confidence in
me?”
“In your sincerity, _yes_: but in your success, _no_. I tremble for you,
Anna, lest when all is done you should find yourself fast married to
Alick. I do, indeed, Anna!”
“How foolish of you, Dick. Why, I burned the license.”
“I know you did, Anna; but—I wish you would keep as far as possible from
the side of Alick Lyon when he stands before a minister who holds a
prayer-book in his hands open at the marriage service!”
“Be at ease, Dick, I shall place Alick’s wife between me and him. I
shall consider her an insurmountable obstacle.”
“Hush, Anna, we must not talk more! we are too near them,” whispered
Dick, in a very low tone as they came up very close behind the foremost
couple.
And what were Drusilla’s feelings when she found herself again by her
Alick’s side, her hand drawn closely within his protecting arm, and
pressed frequently against his beating heart—knowing, as she did, that
he was then meditating against her the deepest wrong man could inflict
upon woman—feeling, as she did, that every caress bestowed upon her, in
his ignorance of her identity, was intended for another; and going, as
she was, to take from him, by a holy stratagem, those sacred rights of
which he had so cruelly deprived her; and to brave and bear his terrible
anger when that stratagem should be discovered, as it must be when the
rites should be over—what were her feelings?
A great medical philosopher has written that “Nature is before art with
her anesthetics.”
And Drusilla’s present state was an illustration of this. In the supreme
crisis of her fate she scarcely realized her position. She was like one
partially overcome by ether or chloroform; her head was ringing, her
senses whirling, her reason tottering; she went on as a somnambulist,
half conscious of her state, but unable to awake. It may be doubtful
whether she would now have retreated if she could; but it is quite
certain that she _could not_ have done so even if she would. She was
under a potent spell that hurried her forward with all the irresistible
force of destiny.
The drawing-room doors were thrown open. The little bridal procession
passed in.
The room, thanks to Dick, was very dimly lighted.
Upon the rug, with his back to the fire, and facing the advancing party,
stood the officiating clergyman in his surplice.
Near him was the grand and martial figure of the veteran soldier,
General Lyon.
At a respectful distance stood a group of the old family servants.
The bridal party come on and formed before the minister—Alexander and
Drusilla stood together in the center; on Alexander’s right stood
Richard, on Drusilla’s left stood Anna.
All were reverently silent.
At a signal from General Lyon; Richard Hammond put the envelope supposed
to contain the license and the fee into the hands of the minister, who
merely, as a matter of form, glanced over it and then opened his book
and began the sacred rite by reading the solemn exhortation with which
they commence.
The old, loving servants, who had hitherto kept at a reverential
distance from their masters, now drew as near the scene of action as
they dared do, so that they might hear every syllable of the ceremony
that was to unite, as they supposed, their young mistress to the husband
of her choice.
When the minister, in the course of his reading, came to these awful
words—awful at least, to one of the contracting parties, he delivered
them with great effect.
“‘If any man can show just cause, why these may not be joined together,
let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.’”
The minister made the usual formal pause, for the answer that might
often come, but never does; and then, with the most solemn emphasis, he
addressed the pair before him:
“‘I require and charge _you_, BOTH, as ye will answer at the dreadful
day of judgment, when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that
if either of _you_ know any impediment, why you may not be lawfully
joined together in matrimony ye do now confess it. For be ye well
assured, that if any persons are joined together, otherwise than God’s
Word doth allow, their marriage is not lawful.’”
As the minister read this dread adjuration, the face of the bridegroom
was observed to flush and pale, and his form to tremble and shake as
with a sudden ague fit.
But though the minister made the customary pause, no one spoke.
And the ceremony proceeded.
“‘Alexander, wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife?’” et
cetera.
And the bridegroom answered in a firm and almost defiant voice:
“‘I WILL.’”
The clergyman continued:
“‘Anna, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband?’” and so
forth.
And the bride, Anna Drusilla, faltered in whispering tones:
“‘_I will._’”
“‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’” was the next
question in the ritual.
“‘I do,’” answered the sonorous voice of old General Lyon, as he came
forward, took the hand of the bride and placed it in that of the
minister.
Then the brave old soldier stepped back and turned away his head, to
hide the tears that filled those eyes which had never quailed in the
battle’s deadliest brawl; though they wept now, at his giving away, as
he supposed the last darling of his old age.
But the minister was now joining the hands of the pair before him.
And bridegroom and bride, in their turn plighted their troth each to the
other.
Alick uttered his vows in the firm and rather defiant tones in which he
had made all his responses.
Anna Drusilla breathed hers in murmurs low as the softest notes of the
Æolian harp.
Then the ring was given and received.
The last prayers were said; the benediction was given, and the pair was
pronounced to be man and wife.
Alexander turned gaily and gallantly to salute his bride.
Miss Lyon, as bridesmaid, lifted the veil.
And the faithless husband stood face to face with the forsaken wife!
“‘DRUSILLA!!’”
He uttered but that one word, and reeled backward, white and ghastly, as
if stricken by death.
Drusilla stood pale and mute her head sunk upon her bosom, her hands
hanging by her side.
The parson, in his panic, dropped his prayer-book, and stood gazing in
consternation.
General Lyon bent forward in astonishment and perplexity.
Dick was looking on in amusement.
And Anna smiling in triumph.