Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE BRIDE’S FATE
The Sequel to “The Changed Brides”

By

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

AUTHOR OF

“A Leap in the Dark,” “The Lost Lady of Lone,” “Nearest and Dearest,” “Her Mother’s Secret,” “A Beautiful Fiend,” “Victor’s Triumph,” Etc.

I have set my life upon a cast,

And I will abide the hazard of the die.

—Shakespeare.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers New York

POPULAR BOOKS

By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

In Handsome Cloth Binding

Price per volume, 60 Cents

Beautiful Fiend, A

Brandon Coyle’s Wife

Sequel to A Skeleton in the Closet

Bride’s Fate, The

Sequel to The Changed Brides

Bride’s Ordeal, The

Capitola’s Peril

Sequel to the Hidden Hand

Changed Brides, The

Cruel as the Grave

David Lindsay

Sequel to Gloria

Deed Without a Name, A

Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret

Sequel to A Deed Without a Name

“Em”

Em’s Husband

Sequel to “Em”

Fair Play

For Whose Sake

Sequel to Why Did He Wed Her?

For Woman’s Love

Fulfilling Her Destiny

Sequel to When Love Commands

Gloria

Her Love or Her Life

Sequel to The Bride’s Ordeal

Her Mother’s Secret

Hidden Hand, The

How He Won Her

Sequel to Fair Play

Ishmael

Leap in the Dark, A

Lilith

Sequel to the Unloved Wife

Little Nea’s Engagement

Sequel to Nearest and Dearest

Lost Heir, The

Lost Lady of Lone, The

Love’s Bitterest Cup

Sequel to Her Mother’s Secret

Mysterious Marriage, The

Sequel to A Leap in the Dark

Nearest and Dearest

Noble Lord, A

Sequel to The Lost Heir

Self-Raised

Sequel to Ishmael

Skeleton in the Closet, A

Struggle of a Soul, The

Sequel to The Lost Lady of Lone

Sweet Love’s Atonement

Test of Love, The

Sequel to A Tortured Heart

To His Fate

Sequel to Dorothy Harcourt’s Secret

Tortured Heart, A

Sequel to The Trail of the Serpent

Trail of the Serpent, The

Tried for Her Life

Sequel to Cruel as the Grave

Unloved Wife, The

Unrequited Love, An

Sequel to For Woman’s Love

Victor’s Triumph

Sequel to A Beautiful Fiend

When Love Commands

When Shadows Die

Sequel to Love’s Bitterest Cup

Why Did He Wed Her?

Zenobia’s Suitors

Sequel to Sweet Love’s Atonement

For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price,

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

52 Duane Street New York

CONTENTS.

THE BRIDE’S FATE.

CHAPTER I.
UNCHANGING LOVE.

“Kind friends may be to thee,

But love like hers thou’lt see,

Never again.”

Rest, peace, love, comfort were now Drusilla’s portions.

It was a new experience to the poor, discarded, and deposed young wife to find herself the central object of interest in a family like General Lyon’s, her health and happiness watched over and provided for with the most affectionate solicitude.

She had not a care in the world. She scarcely had a regret. She knew the worst. She knew that her last act had banished Alexander from her side. But when she looked upon her boy’s face, and reflected that no stigma now rested upon his baby brow, she could not regret her act. With the childlike simplicity of her character, she “accepted the situation.”

In the sunshine of this sweet old home, her heart expanded to all kindly sympathies.

She—the orphan girl, who had never been blessed by a father’s tender care, deeply responded to the affection bestowed on her by old General Lyon, and really doted on the fine veteran. At his desire she called him uncle; but she loved him as a father. She would watch and listen for his footsteps, in his daily visit to her sick room; and she would kiss and fondle his aged hands and then lift up her boy to receive his blessing.

And often on these occasions the veteran’s eyes filled with tears, as he glanced from the childish mother to the child, and murmured:

“Poor children! poor children! while I live you shall be my children.”

Anna was not less kind than her grandfather to Drusilla.

And she, the only daughter, who had never before known a sister’s companionship, loved Miss Lyon with a sister’s love, and delighted in her cheerful society.

She felt friendly towards Dick, and was very fond of the attentive old servants. Indeed, her loving, sunny spirit went out on all around her.

But her greatest joy was in her child. She would soothe him to sleep with the softest, sweetest notes, and after laying him in his cradle, she would kneel and gaze on his sleeping face for hours.

Mammy protested against this idolatry; but Drusilla answered her:

“It is not idolatry, nurse; because I do not place the gift before the Giver. There is not an instant in my life that I am not conscious of fervent gratitude to the Lord for giving me this child, a gift forever and ever; a gift for time and eternity; oh, nurse, a gift, of which nothing on earth or in Heaven can deprive me!”

“Don’t say that, ma’am; the Lord might take the child,” said mammy, solemnly.

“I know that, nurse. The Lord might take him to Heaven, to save him from the evil in this world; but he would be safe there, for the Lord would take care of him for me, and give him back to me when I myself should reach the Blessed Land,” she answered, reverently.

And mammy had nothing more to say.

How closely the young mother watched the tiny growth of her child, and the faint development of his intelligence. She could see progress where no one else could perceive the slightest sign of it. She discovered that “he” “took notice,” long before any one could be brought to acknowledge that such a prodigy was possible. Her delight when her boy first smiled in his sleep, or when she fancied he did, was something almost ludicrous. She was kneeling by his cradle, watching his slumbers as usual, when she suddenly cried out, though in a hushed voice:

“Oh, Anna! Cousin Anna! look! look! he is laughing, he is indeed! See how he is laughing!”

Miss Lyon came and bent over the cradle. So did mammy, who drew back again, saying:

“Lor! why that ain’t no laugh, ma’am; that’s wind—leastways, it is a grimace caused by wind on the stomach, and I must give him some catnip when he wakes.”

Now, if Drusilla’s sweet face had been capable of expressing withering contempt mammy would have been shrivelled up to a mummy: but as it was she could only appeal from the nurse to Miss Lyon.

“Anna, look at him—he is laughing, or, at the very least, smiling—is he not?”

“Yes, my darling, he is certainly smiling; and you know the old folks say when an infant smiles in its sleep it dreams of Heaven and sees angels.”

“And I do believe that is true—it must be true! And my little cherub sees his guardian angels!” exclaimed Drusilla, delightedly.

“I tell you, ma’am,” began mammy, “it is nothing but jest win—Owtch!” she exclaimed, suddenly breaking off as Anna trod heavily upon her corns.

And presently mammy limped off to make the threatened catnip tea, leaving the two young women to the enjoyment of their faith in the sleeping baby’s Heavenly visions.

For the first weeks infants’ eyes are of no particular form, color or expression, but merely little liquid orbs folded up in fat. But very soon Drusilla made very great discoveries in her infant’s eyes. Sitting alone one morning, and gazing down upon the babe that lay smiling on her lap, she murmured:

“Oh, Alick, Alick, dear, you have torn yourself away from me, and have gone. But you could not deprive me of your eyes, my Alick! They look up at me from my baby’s face, and while they do so I can never cease to love you and pray for you, Alick, my Alick!”

Since his desertion this was the only occasion upon which she had ever breathed his name, and even now it was only in half audible murmurs as she talked to herself, or to her babe.

By the other members of the family, Alexander’s name was never mentioned. General Lyon had given no orders to this effect, but the subject was tacitly dropped by all as one unspeakably painful and humiliating.

General Lyon, who loved the delicate, dove-eyed little woman with a fatherly fondness, would not let her confine herself to her own apartments a day longer than was necessary. He first of all wiled her down to the afternoon tea, and then after a few days coaxed her down to dinner; and on the Sunday following sent for her to join the family circle at breakfast.

The “family circle” at this time comprised only General Lyon, Anna, Dick, and Drusilla.

Dick had remained at Old Lyon Hall ever since Alexander’s exodus, with the exception of one day when he rode over to Hammondville, where he had left the parson and the lawyer to tell them that their services would not be required, and to remunerate and dismiss them.

Since that day Dick had made a clean breast of it to his uncle and had won a conditional consent to his marriage with Anna; the engagement being encumbered with a probation of one year.

“I shall be an old maid yet if I live long enough,” said Anna, laughing when she heard from Dick of this decision. “My marriage day has been fixed and my marriage interrupted three times! and at every interruption it has been deferred for one year, only to be interrupted again at the end of it.”

“I don’t complain of all other interruptions, but Anna, let us make sure of a marriage this time by going off by ourselves and getting it done,” said Anna’s lover.

“For shame, Dick,” was all the answer she vouchsafed him.

“We are of age,” urged her suitor.

“So much the worse, sir, for we should know better,” said Anna.

And Dick ceased to push the question.

It drew near the Christmas holidays, and the weather was very fine for the season.

General Lyon invited and pressed his adopted niece to take drives in the picturesque vicinity of the hall.

But Drusilla answered that she wished her first going out should be to the house of God, in acknowledgment of His great mercy in preserving her and her child amid so many dangers, and raising up to them such dear friends.

And the conscientious old soldier could urge the matter no farther.

One Friday morning Anna and Drusilla were seated together as usual—the baby sleeping in the cradle between them—when Anna said:

“Drusilla, my dear, you are going to church next Sunday?”

“Yes, I am; Providence permitting, Anna.”

“Do you know it will be Christening Sunday?”

“No, I didn’t, Anna.”

“Well, it will be. Now wouldn’t you like to have your boy christened?”

“Oh, yes; indeed I should, bless him!”

“And I will be his godmother, and grandpa and Dick shall be his godfathers. You know, being a boy, he will require two godfathers and one godmother. If he were a girl, the matter would be reversed. Now what do you say, my dear?”

“I thank you very much, dear Anna, for your kindness in thinking of all this. And I shall be very grateful to you and dear uncle and cousin Dick for becoming sponsors for my darling boy,” said Drusilla, earnestly.

“And the christening is to go on?”

“Certainly, dear Anna, if you please.”

“What name will you give your child?”

“If dear uncle consents I should like to name my boy for him—‘Leonard.’”

“And not Alick?” inquired Anna.

It was the first time for weeks past that she had uttered his name; and she did it now in a sort of triumph in the thought that his discarded wife had ceased to care for him.

“And not Alick?” she repeated, seeing that Drusilla hesitated to answer.

“No, not Alick,” the young mother now replied, calmly and gravely.

“That is right; I am glad of it! Very glad of it!” exclaimed Anna, with such righteous indignation and exultation combined that the young wife looked at her in surprise and sorrow.

“I think you mistake me, dear cousin,” she said. “The only reason why I do not call my child after his father is this:—I have already one Alick, but one Alick and I can never have another. I cannot even bear that my child should have his name. I want but one Alick in the whole world.

“Goodness knows, I think one of that sort would be quite enough!” exclaimed Anna.

Drusilla looked at her in gentle reproach.

“Is it possible, child, that you still love that scamp?” scornfully demanded Miss Lyon.

“Oh, Anna dear, yes! He used to love me too; he was very kind to me, from the days when I was a poor little sickly, ignorant girl, till within a short time ago. Oh, Anna, shall the madness of a few months make me forget all the loving kindness of many long years? Never, Alick, dear, never,” she murmured, dropping her voice as in soliloquy; “I will still love you and pray for you and trust in you—for I know, Alick, dear—when you come to yourself you will come to me. I can wait for that time.”

Anna gazed on the inspired young face in amazement that gradually gave way to reverence, and even to awe.

“Drusilla,” she said, solemnly, “I retract all I ever said against Alexander, and I promise never to open my lips to his prejudice again.”

Drusilla looked up gratefully but—inquiringly.

“Your eyes thank me, but you wish to know why I say this. I will tell you: It is because you make me begin to believe in that man. Your faith in him affects me. There must be some great reserve of good somewhere latent and undeveloped in his nature, to have drawn forth such a faith as yours. But were he the greatest sinner that ever darkened the earth, such love as yours would make him sacred.”

CHAPTER II.
CALM DELIGHTS.

Now has descended a serener hour,

And with reviving fortunes.—Shelley.

The next morning Anna entered Drusilla’s room, followed by Matty, bearing a large work-basket filled with cambric white as snow, and lace as fine as cobweb.

“Set it down here at my feet, Matty, and go,” said Miss Lyon, sinking into one of the arm-chairs.

Opposite to her sat Drusilla, and between them, of course, lay the sleeping babe in the cradle.

“Here, my dear,” said Anna, calling the young mother’s attention to the contents of the basket, “I have overhauled all my bureaus and boxes in search of these materials; for you know if our baby is to be christened on Sunday next he must have a fine robe, and you and I must set to work immediately to make it.”

“Oh, thanks, dear Anna, for your constant thoughtfulness of me and my babe. I have some very beautifully embroidered robes at Cedarwood, but nurse did not think it necessary to bring them, and I have none here but very plain white slips,” said Drusilla, gratefully.

“Well, now get your scissors ready, for I know nothing about cutting out a baby’s robe, so you will have to do that part of the work, but I will seam and tuck and gather and trim with anybody,” said Anna, beginning to unroll the snowy cambric.

And Drusilla’s nimble fingers soon shaped out the little dress, and the two young women set to work on it with as much delight as ever two little girls took in dressing a doll.

When they had settled the style of the trimming to their mutual satisfaction, and had then worked in silence for some time, Drusilla looked up and said:

“I wonder if dear General Lyon will like to have me name my poor discarded little baby after him?”

“Of course he will. It will be a compliment paid to him—though a well-merited one to him,” replied Anna.

“No, dear, it will not be a compliment paid to him, but a favor asked by me, and my heart misgives me that possibly he may not like it.”

“Foolish little heart, to have such misgivings! Why don’t you set the doubt at rest by asking him and finding out what he will answer?”

“No, no, Anna, I cannot do that, because he is so kind that he would be sure to give me a prompt and cheerful consent, no matter how much secret reluctance he might have to the measure.”

“Then if you never propose the matter to him, I don’t see how you will accomplish your purpose.”

“By your means, dear Anna, I hope to do so.”

“How by my means, you absurd little thing?”

“I want you to find out in some other delicate way than by direct questioning whether my wish would be agreeable to General Lyon.”

“I will try; but I warn you, I am a very bad diplomat.”

Whether Miss Lyon was really a bad diplomat or not, she did not seem to think it at all necessary to sound the General on the subject in the manner Drusilla desired; but as she sat with her grandfather in the drawing-room that night, she suddenly said:

“We are going to have our baby christened next Sunday, grandpa, and his mother wants to name him after you.”

“Does she, indeed, the dear child? I had not expected such a thing,” exclaimed the old man.

“That is, if you have no objection, sir.”

“Objection! why I am delighted!”

“I am glad you like the plan.”

“Like it? why I have never in my life been more pleased or more surprised! I shall make Master Leonard Lyon a very handsome christening present!”

“That’s a darling grandpa! But listen. Don’t say a word to Drusilla about the present, beforehand. She is no more mercenary for her child than she is for herself, and she is the most sensitive person I ever met with in my life.”

“All right, Anna! I shall say nothing of the present. But you, my little housekeeper, you must see that a proper christening feast is prepared to do honor to our boy.”

“You may safely leave that to me, sir.”

The next morning was cold, dark and stormy.

Drusilla was forbidden by her nurse to go down-stairs, and so she had her breakfast up in her own room.

When the service was cleared away, and she was seated before the fire, with the babe in her arms, General Lyon entered the room.

She arose with a countenance beaming with welcome, and was about to lay her babe down, that she might set a chair for her visitor, when he pleasantly signed to her to resume her seat, and he brought one to the fire for himself.

“Anna tells me, my dear, that you design me the honor of naming your fine boy after me,” he said, seating himself.

“If you will please to permit me to do so, sir, the honor will be mine, and will make me happy,” said Drusilla, blushing deeply.

“My child, I cannot express how much I thank you! how gratified and pleased I feel.”

Drusilla looked down, quite overpowered by the fervency of these acknowledgments, on the part of the old hero.

“You must know, my dear,” he continued, “I have always secretly longed for another Leonard Lyon to represent me, when I shall be gone; but scarcely had a hope to see one during my life. Leonard Lyon is a very ancient family name with us, and has been kept up in every generation, except the last. It failed there, because I had never been blessed with a son; and my brother had but one, and he was named after the family of his mother, who was a Miss Alexander. Thus, you see, the ancient name, Leonard Lyon, would have become extinct in me, had you not determined to revive and perpetuate it in your son. Heaven bless you for the kind thought, my dear, for it has made me very happy,” said the old gentleman, earnestly.

“I fervently thank Heaven, sir, for giving me the power of pleasing you in this matter,” murmured the blushing young mother, in a low and tremulous voice.

“And this I will say, my child, that the name your boy will bear, has never, in the thousand years of its existence, been sullied by a shadow of dishonor.”

“I know it has been borne by heroes and sages, and by none others. I hope and pray that my boy will prove worthy of his noble ancestry,” fervently breathed Drusilla.

“That I feel sure, he will! If Heaven should grant me a few more years of life, I shall take great delight in watching the growth of little Leonard Lyon,” replied the old gentleman, as he arose, and kissed the mother and the babe, and left the room.

The following Sunday proved to be a very fine day. At an early hour, the capacious family carriage of General Lyon was at the door, well warmed and aired for the reception of the delicate mother and the tender infant.

Not even on her first bridal day, had Drusilla looked so lovely as she did now, when she came down-stairs, dressed for church, her delicate, pale beauty, still more tenderly softened by her simple bonnet of white velvet, and wrappings of white furs.

She was attended by mammy, dressed in her Sunday’s best, and carrying the baby, richly arrayed in his christening robes.

General Lyon, Anna, Drusilla, the nurse and the baby rode in the carriage.

Dick Hammond, on horseback, escorted them.

The parish church was at Saulsburg, six, eight, or ten miles off, according to conflicting statements. So, early as they set out, they were not likely to be much too early to join in the commencement of the service.

When they reached the turnpike gate, they found old Andy on duty.

Seeing Dick cantering on in advance of the approaching carriage, he placed himself behind the gate, and lifted up both his arms, while he called aloud to his wife:

“Jenny, woman! come out wi’ ye, and tak the toll, whiles I stand here to keep yon daft laddie frae louping o’er the bar again!”

In answer to the summons, Jenny appeared just in time to receive Mr. Hammond, who quietly drew rein before the door, paid for himself, and the carriage behind him, and then with a bow, rode on his way.

The carriage followed; but as it passed, Mrs. Birney got a glimpse of the passengers inside and after doing so, she dropped her chin, and lifted her eyebrows, and remained transfixed and staring, like one demented.

“Eh, woman! what’s come o’er ye? Are ye bewitched?” questioned Mr. Birney, as he passed her, in going into the house.

“Na, gudeman, I’m no bewitched; but just amazed like! Didna ye see yon bonny leddy lying back among the cushions? She that was all happed about wi’ braw white velvets and furs?”

“Aweel, and what of her?”

“Hech, gudeman, she’s na ither than the puir bit lassie that came ben to us that night o’ the grand storm.”

“Hout, woman! hauld your tongue! no’ to ken the differ between a born leddy like this are, and a young gilpey like yon!”

“I ken weel the differ between a leddy and a gilpey. And I dinna need dress to instruct me in it, either, gudeman. I kenned the lass was na gilpey when I saw her in her auld gray cloak; and I kenned her again in the bit glint I had of her bonny face as she lay back in her braw velvets and furs, wi’ her wee bairn by her side. Eh! but I’d like to hear the rights iv that!”

“The rights o’ what, woman?”

“The grand wedding pit aff again; the fine bridegroom ganging aff in a jiffey; this young, bonny leddy and her bairn made so muckle iv by the whole family. But it’s na gude to speer questions. The minister will na speak; the doctor will na speak; the vera serving lads and lasses will na speak, although on ordinary occasions they’re a’ unco fond o’ clackin their clavers. But we shall hear, gude man! we shall hear! Secrets like yon canna be kept, e’en gif they be stappit up in a bottle.”

“Gudewife, ye’ll do weel to gie your attention to your ain proper business and no meddle wi’ that whilk dinna concern you. The auld general pit us here to keep the gate, and no to speer questions into his preevate affairs. And though the situation is na sick a gude ane, it might be waur. Sae we’ll behoove to gie na offence wi’ meddling,” said Andy, as he sat down and opened his big Bible to read.

Meanwhile the Lyon family went on to church, which they entered just as the organ had ceased playing and the minister was opening his book.

It was not until after the last lesson of the morning service was over that the announcement was made:

“All persons having children present for baptism will now bring them forward.”

Our whole party left their pew and proceeded to the front.

General Lyon, as senior sponsor, took the babe in his arms and presented him to the minister. Dick as junior sponsor stood by.

Anna was sole godmother.

And amid the customary prayers, promises, and benedictions, the child received the time-honored name of Leonard Lyon.

On their way home, the whole party congratulated each other with much affection and cheerfulness.

But withal, Dick, riding along slowly by the side of the carriage, was visited with some very serious reflections. He felt the great moral and religious responsibility of the office he had undertaken. And thus he communed with himself:

“General Lyon is aged and cannot be expected to live very much longer. Anna is a woman. On me must devolve the duty of looking after that boy. Good Heavens. However did they come to think of making such a good for nothing dog as I am godfather to that innocent baby? It is enough to make my hair stand on end to think of it. The fact is, I must strike a light and look about myself. I must, I positively must and will, thoroughly mend my ways and reform my life! not only for Anna’s sake—who knows me already, and takes me for better for worse with her eyes wide open—but for this innocent babe’s sake, upon whom, without his knowledge or consent, they have thrust me for a godfather! No more gambling, no more drinking, no more carousing with scamps, and squandering of money, Dick, my boy! Remember that you are godfather to Master Leonard Lyon, and responsible for his moral and religious education. And you must be equal to the occasion and true to the trust.”

So profound were Dick’s cogitations that he found himself at Old Lyon Hall before he was conscious of the fact.

He sprang from his horse in time to assist the old gentleman and the young ladies to alight.

And they all entered the house, where Drusilla was greeted by a pleasant surprise.

CHAPTER III.
SURPRISES.

Were her eyes open? Yes, and her mouth, too;

Surprise has this effect to make one dumb,

Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through

As wide as if a long speech were to come.—Byron.

The family party first separated to go to their several chambers to lay aside their outside wrappings and to prepare for their early Sunday dinner.

Then they met in the drawing-room.

Drusilla, who had more to do than the others, was the latest to join them.

Her baby, that had slept soundly during the long ride from church, was now awake and required attention.

While she was engaged in her sweet maternal duties, she received a message from General Lyon requesting that his godson might be brought down into the drawing-room before dinner.

So as soon as the young mother had made herself and her child presentable, she went down-stairs, followed by the nurse carrying the babe.

On the threshold of the room she paused in pleased surprise, and not so much at the value of the presents displayed before her, as at the new instance of kindness on the part of her friends.

On a round table covered with a fine crimson cloth were laid the christening offerings, of great splendor for their kind.

There was a richly chased silver casket filled with gold coins from General Lyon. There was a baby’s silver gilt service—consisting of waiter, pap bowl, water jug, and drinking mug, cream pot, sugar basin, sugar tongs and spoons—from Dick. And there was a coral and bells of the finest coral, purest gold, and most superb workmanship, from Anna.

“Dear uncle! dear Anna and Dick, how kind, oh how kind, you all are to me and my boy! I cannot tell you how much I feel your kindness. I am very grateful; and I hope, oh, I hope, my dear little Leonard will live to thank you!” fervently exclaimed Drusilla, pressing the hand of her aged benefactor to her heart, and lifting her eyes full of loving gratitude to her young friends, who stood side by side enjoying her delight.

“My dear, it gives us as much pleasure to offer you these little tokens of our affection as it can possibly give you to receive them,” answered General Lyon, drawing her towards him and touching her forehead with his lips.

“It does indeed, sweet cousin,” added Dick.

And Anna, for her answer, silently kissed the young mother.

“And now to dinner, which has been announced for twenty minutes,” smiled the old gentleman, drawing Drusilla’s arm within his own and leading the way to the dining-room, where a feast of unusual elegance was laid in honor of the occasion.

The day closed in serene enjoyment.

When Drusilla retired to her room that evening, she found that the christening presents had been transferred from the round table in the drawing-room to an elegant little cabinet that had been purchased to receive them, and placed in the nursery.

Before she went to bed she knelt down and thanked Heaven for the mercies that now blessed her life.

As her head rested on her pillow, with the face of the sleeping babe near her, softly seen by the subdued light of the shaded lamp, she wondered at the peace that had descended upon her troubled spirit and made her calmly happy.

Had she then ceased to love her faithless husband?

Ah, no! for pure love like hers is of immortal life and cannot die. But she had ceased to sorrow for him, for sorrow is of mortal birth and cannot live forever.

She felt safe under the fatherly care of the fine old head of the family, cheerful in the company of her affectionate young friends Dick and Anna, and happy—oh, deeply, unutterably happy!—in the possession of her beautiful boy. She felt no trouble.

“Baby fingers, waxen touches pressed it from the mother’s breast.”

She never heard from Alick; but then, as she did not expect to hear from him, she was not disappointed.

She never heard from Cedarwood either; but then as she had left directions with the servants only to have letters written to her in case of necessity, she felt that, in this instance, “no news is good news.”

Mammy was growing rather restive and desirous of returning to her home, but Drusilla besought her to remain a little longer at Old Lyon Hall.

“Wait,” she said, “until the next spell of fine weather, when baby will be able to travel, and I too will return to Cedarwood. I must not stay away from the home provided for me by my husband, nor yet tax the hospitality of my dear friends longer.”

Mammy looked puzzled, for though the faithful old household servants had carefully forborne to speak of unpleasant family affairs in the presence of the nurse, whom they looked upon as a stranger and an alien, still she had heard enough to give her the impression that young Mr. Lyon had abandoned his wife. Therefore Mammy was rather bewildered by this talk of returning to Cedarwood.

“I do not think as the General and the young people will consent to part with you, ma’am; and indeed I think it will a’most break all their hearts to lose little Master Leonard,” said the nurse.

“I know they will not like it, because they are so kind to us—so very kind, and therefore I have shrunk from mentioning it to them; but my duty is clear—I must go to my own home and I must advise them of my purpose without delay.”

“Well, ma’am, certingly, if they wants your company ever so, they ain’t got no power to keep you ag’in’ your will; and so, ma’am, if you is set to go home first fine spell arter Christmas, I reckon as I can wait and see you safe through,” said the nurse, graciously.

“Thank you; it will be a great favor,” replied Drusilla.

The time was drawing near to the Christmas holidays—a season always hitherto observed by the Lyons with great festivity—when they had been unbounded in their hospitality and munificent in their presents.

On this occasion, some five or six days before Christmas, General Lyon sent Dick to Richmond, armed with a handful of blank checks signed and left to be filled up at pleasure, and commissioned to purchase the most elegant and appropriate holiday gifts that he could find for every member of the family and every household servant; but above all, to get a handsome perambulator, a crib bedstead, and—a hobby horse for Master Leonard.

“Good gracious me, grandpa!” had been Anna’s exclamation on hearing of this last item, “what on earth do you think a baby of a few weeks old can do with a hobby horse?”

“I don’t know, my dear, but I wish to give it to him.”

“He won’t be able to sit on it for three years to come.”

“And I may not live to see that time, my dear, and as I wish to give it to him I must do so now. It can be kept for him, you know. And now, while we are on the subject, I wish to ask you to have one of the many rooms in this house fitted up as a play-room for him. Let it be as near the nursery as possible; and whatever childish treasures I may purchase may be put there and kept until he is old enough to enjoy them.”

This conversation had taken place in the presence of Drusilla; but as no part of it had been addressed to her, she only expressed her gratitude for the intended kindness by glancing thankfully from one speaker to the other.

But she felt more strongly than ever that, however reluctant she might be to announce her intended departure from such kind friends, it was incumbent upon her to do so before they should make any material change in their household arrangements for her sake.

So after a little hesitation she commenced:

“Dear friends, while ever I live in this world I shall remember your goodness to me, and with my last breath I shall pray Heaven to bless you for it. But——”

“We have pleased ourselves in this, my dear; so say nothing more about it,” smiled the old gentleman, laying his hand kindly on her head.

“Thanks—a thousand thanks, dear sir; but I feel that I must soon leave you——”

“Leave us!” echoed General Lyon, Anna and Dick all in a breath.

“It is time for me to return to my home,” she said, gently.

“Your home, Drusilla!” said General Lyon, in a grave and tender voice. “Poor child, where will you find so proper a home as this, where your relations with us give you the right to stay, and where our affection for you makes you more than welcome?”

“Nowhere, indeed, sir, but in the house provided for me, by—my husband,” answered Drusilla, breathing the last two words in a scarcely audible tone.

“Ah! he has come to his senses; he has written and entreated you to join him. For the sake of my faith in human nature I am glad that he has done so,” said the General.

“Oh, no, he has not yet written to me,” smiled Drusilla.

“But you have heard from him?”

“No, not since that night.”

“Then what do you mean, my dear, by talking of the home he has provided for you?”

“I mean the cottage to which he took me when we were first married—Cedarwood, near Washington.”

“Where you suffered such cruel mental anguish as I should think would render the very thought of the place hateful to you, my poor child,” said General Lyon, compassionately.

Drusilla gave him a pleading look that seemed to pray him to say nothing that might even by implication reproach her absent husband; and then she added:

“There were other memories and associations connected with Cedarwood, dear sir. The first few weeks of my married life were very happy; and my housekeeping and gardening very cheerful and pleasant.”

“But all that is changed. Why go back there now?”

“Because it is my proper home.”

“Yet—he—that man has not invited you to return?”

“No, but then I left of my own accord, and now that I am able to travel, it is my duty to go back, though uninvited. I must not wait to be asked to return to my post,” said the young wife.

The General was silent and thoughtful for a moment and then he said, firmly:

“My child, you must think no more of this.”

She looked at him; but hesitated to oppose him, and when she did answer she spoke gravely and gently:

“Dear sir, it is right for me to go.”

“Drusilla, think no more of this, I say,” he repeated, and this time with an air of assured authority.

“Dear uncle, why do you say so?”

“I might answer, it would be too painful to me to part with you and your boy.”

“Thanks for saying that, sir. I too, feel that to leave this safe, sweet old home, and these loving friends, will be very painful; duty often is so; but not for that must we fail in it.”

“Drusilla! I repeat that you must not think of taking this step! Not only has your unworthy——”

She looked at him so deprecatingly, that he broke off his speech and began anew.

“Well, well, I will not wound you if I can help it, my dear!—I say, not only has your husband not invited you to return to your home, but he has positively forbidden you to do so. Do you remember, poor child, the terms he used in discarding you?”

“Words spoken in the ‘short madness’ of anger. I do not wish to remember them, dear General Lyon,” she sweetly answered.

“My child! do you know where to write to him?”

“Oh no, sir.”

“Do you think that he will write to you? or do you hope that he will join you at Cedarwood?”

“Oh, no, dear uncle! at least, not for a long time. But I hope that he will feel some interest in his child, and he will inquire about it, and when he finds out what a beautiful boy it is, he will come to see it; and then, then—for the boy’s sake he will forgive the mother.”

“Forgive! Heaven of Heavens, girl! what has he to forgive in you?” indignantly demanded Anna.

“That which a man seldom pardons—although it was done from love to him and his child,” answered Drusilla, in a low voice.

“Then you really have a hope that he will rejoin you at Cedarwood?” inquired General Lyon.

“At some future day, sir, yes.”

“And in the meanwhile you live alone there?”

“No, sir, not quite; but with my boy and servants.”

“And how do you propose to support the little establishment, my dear? Come, I wish to know your ideas; though I dare say, poor child, you have never thought of the subject.”

“Oh yes, dear sir, I have. In the first place, I have nearly fifteen hundred dollars in money, left at home; that will keep us in moderate comfort for two years, especially as I have abundance of everything else on the premises—furniture, clothing and provisions, in the house; and a kitchen garden, an orchard, poultry yard and dairy, on the place. So, at the very worst, I could keep a market farm,” smiled Drusilla.

“But in the meanwhile live alone, or with only your infant babe and your servants?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then I tell you, Drusilla, that you must not, shall not do so,” repeated the General, with emphasis.

“Oh, sir, why would you hinder me?” she pleaded, lifting her imploring eyes to his face.

“For your salvation, dear child,” he answered, very gently.

“But how for my salvation, dear uncle?”

“Drusilla, you cannot know, only heaven can know, how difficult, how impossible it is for a young forsaken wife to live alone and escape scandal.”

“But, dear sir, if I do right, and trust in the Lord, I have nothing to fear.”

“Poor child! I must answer you in the words of another old bore, as meddlesome as perhaps you think me. Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shall not escape calumny.”

“But, sir, in addition to all that, I mean to be very discreet, to live very quietly with my little household, and to see no company whatever, except you and Anna, if you should honor me with a visit, and to make no visits except here.”

“But you must go to church sometimes; and when your babe is ailing, you must see a doctor; also it will be necessary occasionally to have your chimneys swept; and the tax-gatherer will make you an annual visit.”

“Of course, dear sir,” she smiled.

“And yet you hope to preserve your good name?—Ah, my dear child, no forsaken wife, living alone can do so, much less one so very young and inexperienced as yourself. If the venomous ‘fangs of malice’ can find no other hold upon you, they will assail you through—the Christian minister who brings you religious consolation for your sorrows; the family physician who attends you in your illness, to save your life; to the legal adviser who manages your business; the tax-gatherer, the chimney-sweep, or anybody or everybody whom church, state, or need should call into your house.”

“Ah, sir! that is very severe! I hope it is not as you think. I believe better of the world than that,” said Drusilla.

“When the world has stung you nearly to death or to madness, my dear, you may judge more truly and less tenderly of it. And now, Drusilla, hear me. You do not go to Cedarwood; you do not leave our protection until your husband claims you of us. Let the subject drop here at once, and forever.”

Drusilla bowed her head in silence; but she was not the less resolved at heart to return to Cedarwood, and risk all dangers, in the hope that her husband might some day join her there.

But Destiny had decided Drusilla’s course in another direction.

The event that prevented her return to Cedarwood shall be related in the next chapter.

CHAPTER IV.
A MESSENGER.

The boy alighted at the gate,

But scarce upheld his fainting weight;

His swarthy visage spake distress,

But this might be from weariness.—Byron.

In the sunshine of affection and happiness Drusilla grew beautiful and blooming. She loved her truant Alexander as faithfully as ever, but she loved him in hope and trust, and not in fear and sorrow. She felt that he was old enough, big enough and strong enough to take care of himself, even when out of her sight, while here upon her lap lay a lovely babe, a gift of the Heavenly Father to her, a soft little creature whose helplessness solicited her tenderness, whose innocence deserved it, and whose love will certainly return it.

Her baby gave her love for love, and the very faintness and feebleness of its little signs of love, made these sweet infant efforts all the more touching and pathetic. How could she trouble herself about Alexander and his doings while her little boy lay smiling in her eyes?

“Baby lips will laugh him down.”

“Yes, my darling boy,” she murmured, gazing fondly on his face, “you will always love me, and when you grow up to be a man you will love me all the more, because I shall be old and feeble.” And her thoughts involuntarily reverted to the bearded man who had rejoiced in her health and beauty, but turned coldly away from her when she was sick and pale, and most needed his love and care.

Anna, who was sitting with her, laughed merrily.

Drusilla looked up, with just a shadow of annoyance on her fair face. And Anna answered the look:

“My dear, I laughed at what you said.”

“Well, but I spoke truth. I know my darling will always love me, and when he grows up a tall, strong man, and I shall be an old and infirm woman, he will love me more tenderly than before, because I am old and infirm,” persisted the fond mother, stooping her lips to her boy’s brow.

Anna laughed louder than ever.

“Why, Drusilla,” she said, “you are but sixteen years old. When your son is grown up, say at twenty, you will be but thirty-six, in the very maturity of a healthy woman’s strength and beauty. Your son will be your dearest friend and companion; if you have lost somewhat of the wife’s happiness, you will have an unusual share of the mother’s joy. You are still so young, such a mere child yourself, that you may take your little son by the hand with the prospect of going nearly the whole journey of life together. You will be his playfellow in his childish sports; his fellow student in his boyish studies, and his comrade in his youthful travels. You will go on in life and grow old together—or almost together.”

“Oh, so we will. I did not think of it before. I was thinking that the mother of a grown son must be quite an aged lady. Alick’s mother was quite aged and infirm.”

“Yes, because she was forty-four years old when Alick was born, which makes some difference, you know,’ laughed Anna.”

There was silence a little while and then Anna said,

“You will have much joy in your son, if the Lord should spare him to you, Drusilla.”

“The Lord will spare him to me. I feel convinced of it,” answered the young mother reverently.

“And every year—nay, every month—your joy will increase; for as his affections and intelligence develop, he will grow more and more interesting and attractive to you.”

“It seems to me that he could scarcely ever be more interesting and attractive than he is now. Look at him, Anna. See how beautiful are his mute, faint efforts to express the love he feels, but does not understand. ‘Touch is the love sense.’ He knows that, at least; and see how his little hands tremble up towards mine and then drop; and see the smile dawning in his eyes, and fluttering around his lips, as if uncertain of itself? Will you tell me, at what time of a child’s existence it is sweeter and lovelier than now in its first budding into life?”

Before Anna could answer the question, the door was opened by mammy, who chirpingly announced:

“Here is Leo, from Cedarwood, ma’am, bringing letters for you.”

And she closed the door, leaving Leo standing before his astonished mistress.

“It is my footman from my old home, dear Anna,” explained Drusilla.

Then, turning to the messenger, she held out her hand and said:

“How do you do, Leo? You have letters for me?”

Leo slowly took a packet from his pocket, handed them over to his mistress, and then, lifting both his hands to his eyes, burst out crying and ROARED as only a negro boy with his feelings hurt can do.

“Why, what is the matter?” anxiously inquired Drusilla, pausing in the examination of her letters, in her pity for the distress of the boy—“What is the matter, my poor Leo?”

“Oh, mum, it is to see-hee,” sobbed Leo “to see-hee you so well-hell, and hap-pappy, and to know as I am bring—hing bad news again! Seems like I was born—horn to be the death of you, ma’am,” said the boy, scarcely able to articulate through his sobs.

“I hope not, Leo. Sit down and compose yourself. I trust your master is well.”

“Oh yes, mum, he is well enough (wish to Goodness Gracious he wasn’t!) but he’s done, tored up everything and—Boo! hoo! ooo!” cried Leo, gushing out into such a cataract of tears and sobs that he was forced to bury his face in his big bandana and sink into a seat.

“Compose yourself, Leo, and I will read my letters. They will explain, I suppose,” said Drusilla, opening the packet.

There were three letters from her lawyers, which she laid aside; and there was one from her husband, which she opened and read. It ran thus:

“Cedarwood, Dec. 22, 18—.

“Madam:—Had you chosen to remain quietly in the home I provided for you it should have been yours for life, with a sufficient income to keep it up. But as you voluntarily left it, you have forfeited your right to return to it, as well as your claims upon me for support. The place is now dismantled and sold. The messenger who takes this letter has charge of all your personal effects, and will deliver them over to you.

“Alexander Lyon.”

We know the time, not so long since, when the young wife would have screamed, cried or swooned at the reception of such a letter from her husband.

Now, she simply bent forward and laid it on the fire, and when it blazed up and sank to ashes, she said:

“It is gone; and now it shall be forgotten.”

And then she stooped and kissed her babe.

Leo, stealing an anxious glance at her, misunderstood the movement and started forward, exclaiming:

“Oh, mum! don’t go for to faint; please don’t.”

Drusilla looked at him and smiled kindly, saying

“I am not likely to do so, my boy. I am strong and healthy now, thank Heaven! and besides, there is nothing to faint about. I am only a little sorry that the cottage is sold.”

“Oh, mum! don’t! I shall cry again if you do! Oh, mum, you used to say as how you would make that wilderness to bloom and blossom as the rose; and so you did, mum, lovely! But oh, mum! he have turned the beautiful place into a howling wilderness again!” bawled the boy.

“Never mind, Leo, I will get it back again some day and restore all its beauty,” said Drusilla, smiling. “And now, my boy, where is your sister?”

“She have gone back to Alexandria, mum; but sends her love and service to you, mum.”

“And the poor pets—the little birds, and the cat and kittens, Leo?”

“Pina has got them all to take care on for you, ma’am, till you sends for ’em and for her, cause she considers of herself into your service, ma’am, which likewise so do I.”

“And the cow and calf, and the horses, Leo?”

“They was sold to the people as bought the place, ma’am.”

“I hope they will be kindly treated.”

“I hope they will, ma’am; for they did miss you as well as me and Pina did; and they showed it in every way as dumb creeturs could.”

“And where did you leave my effects, Leo?”

“I brought as many trunks as I could on the stage with me, ma’am; and the rest of the boxes is coming down by wagons. Pina was very careful in packing everything, ma’am; and here is the money you gave me to keep,” said Leo, taking a sealed packet from his breast pocket, and handing it to his mistress.

“Thanks, my boy; you and your sister have been very faithful, and I shall certainly retain you both in my service, and at an increase of wages.”

“Oh, ma’am, neither me, nor yet Pina is mussenary. We’ll be glad to come back to you on any terms.”

“And now, Leo, look here! Here is my baby boy; when the spring comes he will be big enough for you to take him on your shoulder and ride him about! Won’t you and he have a good time?”

“Oh, ma’am, what a purty little creetur! But he’s very little, ain’t he, ma’am?” said Leo, looking shyly at the baby, which indeed he had been furtively contemplating ever since he had been in the room.

“Why, no, Leo; for his age, he is very large, very! Who is he like, Leo! Look and tell me!”

Leo dutifully looked, and saw well enough who the boy really was like: but he answered stoutly:

“He is like you, ma’am, and nobody else.”

“Oh, look again, Leo! His eyes are open now. Now who is he like?”

“He is the image of you, ma’am, and not another mortial in the wide world,” repeated Leo, defiantly.

“How can you say that, you stupid boy? Is he not like his father?”

“No, mum! not the leastest little bit in life! He is like nobody but you,” persisted the lad, doggedly.

“Leo, you are a mole! You have no eyes! Now go down to your mother, and tell her to make you comfortable.”

“Thank you, ma’am. I am so glad to see you so well, ma’am, with such a fine-looking baby. I am so thankful as you don’t take on about thinks like you used to do,” replied the lad.

“I am so much better and stronger now, Leo. But go and give my message to your mother.”

Leo bowed and left the room.

“So Alick has sold Cedarwood,” said Anna.

“Yes.”

“What a wretch!”

“Please, Anna—-”

“I can’t comprehend your tenderness for that man, Drusilla! but, there! I will not wound it if I can help it. I am glad he has sold Cedarwood, however. It settles the question of your future residence. You must stay with us now.”

As Anna spoke, General Lyon entered the room, and came with his pleasant smile and sat down beside his protégée.

She turned to him, and, laying her hand in his, said:

“My fate is decided for me, dear sir. I have no home but this, and no protector but you.”

“My darling, I am very glad.”

Yet, in saying this, the General looked from his adopted niece to his granddaughter, as if for an explanation.

Seeing Drusilla hesitate, Anna answered for her.

“Yes, sir, that vill—I mean Mr. Alexander Lyon—has sold Cedarwood.”

The General now looked from his granddaughter back to his niece as if demanding confirmation of the news.

“Yes,” admitted Drusilla, casting down her eyes—in regret for him, not in sorrow for herself; “he has sold Cedarwood, but then, you know, dear sir, that I had left the house.”

A flush of shame crimsoned the cheek, a frown of anger darkened the brow of the veteran soldier.

“And that man calls himself a Lyon and my nephew! I am glad now that they never called him Leonard! There never was a rascally Leonard Lyon yet! And I am very glad, my dear, that you did not name our noble boy here Alexander! The infern——”

Drusilla raised her hand with an imploring and deprecating gesture.

“Well, well, my dear, I will try not to offend again. It is true that an old soldier has a right to swear at his degenerate nephew; but not in the presence of ladies, I confess. So let the scound—I mean Alick—go. Yes, let him go, and joy go with him, especially as, setting the baseness of the act aside, I am really very glad he has sold Cedarwood for it settles the question of your residence with us, my dear.”

“And I am glad to stay here,” answered Drusilla, with a smile. “It is true that I thought it my duty to go back to Cedarwood, and await there the pleasure of my husband; and I should have risked everything and gone there, if he had not sold the place. And I know I should have had to wait long months or years for his return; and I should have been very lonely and dreary, and should have missed you and dear Anna and Dick very much. No, upon the whole, I cannot say that I am sorry to be relieved of the duty of going back to Cedarwood to live alone,” said Drusilla, frankly.

“That’s my girl! Sorry? no, I should think you would not be. What should you want with Cedarwood, trumpery toy cottage, with its little belt of copsewood, when you have Old Lyon Hall and its magnificent surroundings of forests and mountains?—to say nothing of having ME and Anna and Dick!” exclaimed the old man, holding out his hand to his favorite.

She took it and pressed it to her lips, and then answered:

“Yet I love the pretty little wildwood home; and some day I will buy it back again, even if I have to pay twice or thrice its value.”

General Lyon looked up, surprised to hear the discarded wife and dependent woman talk so bravely of buying estates at fancy prices, even as Anna had looked at having heard her speak so freely of retaining her old servants at double wages. Yet both were pleased, for they said to themselves—“This proves that she has the fullest confidence in us, and knows that we will never let her feel a want, even a fantastic or extravagant want, unsupplied.” And the General answered:

“That is right, my dear girl. So you shall buy it back—to-morrow, if you like! or as soon after as we can bring the present proprietor to terms. Mr. Alexander shall learn that some things can be done as well as others. But Drusilla, my darling, although we may purchase the place and restore it, I do not mean to consent that you shall ever return there to live alone; remember that.”

“I do not mean to do so, sir. I will never leave you until my husband calls me back to him,” said Drusilla, giving him her hand.

“That is right! that is sensible! Now, since you are fond of that little bird-cage, I will set about buying it for you directly. You shall have it for a New Year’s gift; and then if you must see the place sometimes, why we can all go and live there instead of at a hotel, when we go to Washington for the season.”

“Oh, how kind, how good you are to me,” breathed Drusilla, in a soft and low tone, with deep emotion; “but dear sir, do not think that I thank, or love, or bless you any the less, when I say that I do not wish this as a gift from your munificent hands. Dear uncle, I am well able to afford myself the pleasure of possessing my ‘toy cottage.’”

“Ah! he has provided handsomely for you, after all! Come! his villainy is a shade less black—I beg your pardon, my child! I won’t again! indeed I won’t—I mean his—transaction is a shade lighter than I supposed it. Well, I am glad, for his sake, that he has provided for you. But, Drusilla, my child, I would not take his money! having denied you his love and protection I would take nothing else from him.”

“Dear uncle, although I do not need anything from my Alick except his love, yet, should he offer anything, I would gratefully accept it, hoping that his love would follow. But you are mistaken—he has made no provision for me.”

“What did you mean then, my dear, by refusing Cedarwood as my gift and saying that you were able to purchase it yourself?”

“I have a large fortune in my own right, dear sir.”

“A fortune in your own right!” echoed Anna, in astonishment.

“You never mentioned this circumstance before, my dear,” said the General, in surprise and incredulity.

“Indeed, I had utterly forgotten it until my servant arrived with these letters from my solicitors. It was very stupid of me to forget it; but, dear sir, only think how many more important matters there were to drive it out of my head,” replied Drusilla, deprecatingly.

“For my part, I do not think that anything can be more important to you, in present circumstances than the inheritance of a large fortune. It is an inheritance, I suppose?”

“Oh yes, sir,—from my grand-uncle, a merchant of San Francisco.”

“And how large is the fortune?”

“I do not know, sir—some millions, I think. Here are the lawyer’s letters. I have not looked at them yet,” said Drusilla, putting the “documents” in the hands of her old friend.

“Astounding indifference!” he murmured to himself as he put on his spectacles and opened the letters.

Drusilla and Anna watched him attentively.

“Why, my dear child, you are a billionaire! You are probably the wealthiest woman in America!” exclaimed the General, in astonishment. “That is, if there is no mistake!” he added. “Are you sure you are the right heiress?” taking off his spectacles and gazing at Drusilla.

“I am quite sure, sir. There are too few of us to afford room for confusion. In my grand-uncle’s generation, there were but two of the family left—himself and his only brother, my grandfather. My grand-uncle, being a woman hater, lived and died a bachelor. My grandfather married, and had one only child—my father: who, in his turn, also married, and had one only child—myself. You see how plain and simple is the line of descent?”

“I see,” said the General, reflectively; “but, my dear, it is not sufficient for a set of facts to be true in themselves, they must be capable of being proved to the satisfaction of a court of law. Can all these births, marriages, and deaths be proved, Drusilla?”

“Oh, yes sir; there are so few of them—they have occurred within so short a time, comparatively speaking.”

“In what manner, my dear? Remember, Drusilla, that what might convince you or me of a fact might not have the same effect upon a court.”

“All that I have said, dear sir, can be established to the satisfaction of the most scrupulous court that ever existed by church registers and court records, family Bibles, tombstones, papers, letters, and personal friends.”

“I am glad to hear it. And you know where all these proofs can be found?”

“Yes, sir. Many of them, Bibles, letters, documents, and so forth, are in my possession. All the others are to be found in Baltimore.”

“Where a large portion of your inheritance lies, and where your lawyers live?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes; well, my dear, if all this is as you suppose it to be—and I have no doubt that it is so—your way to fortune is clear enough! Let me congratulate you, my dear, on being, perhaps, the richest woman in America!” said the General, shaking her hands warmly.

Anna also heartily added her own congratulations.

“And now, my child,” said the General, kindly, “let us attend to this business at once. Your lawyers are naturally displeased and suspicious at your long delay. As you are not very much of a business woman, you will let me take these letters to my study and answer them for you.”

“Oh, if you would be so kind, dear sir, I should be so happy.”

CHAPTER V.
FORTUNE.

Fortune is merry,

And in this mood will give us anything—Shakespeare.

So General Lyon answered the lawyers’ letters, and in a more satisfactory manner, it is to be presumed, than Drusilla had ever done. His illustrious name and exalted position were in themselves enough to dispel any doubts that the mysterious reticence of the heiress might have raised in the minds of her solicitors.

Having sent his letter off to the post-office, and knowing that several days must elapse before he could hear from the solicitors again, the old gentleman dismissed the matter from his mind, and addressed himself to the enjoyment of the Christmas festival now at hand.

Dick arrived from Richmond on Christmas Eve, having in charge several large boxes containing the Christmas presents.

Among them were the crib, the perambulator and the hobby horse, which were all deposited for the present in the room selected and fitted up by Anna, as the future play-room of little Master Leonard Lyon.

Anna’s and Drusilla’s presents consisted of rich and costly furs and shawls, from the General; and splendid jewels and delicate laces from Dick.

The veteran’s gifts were a pair of soft, embroidered velvet slippers and smoking-cap, from Anna; a warm quilted dressing-gown from Drusilla; and a new patent reading-chair of unequalled ingenuity, comfort and convenience, from Dick.

Dick’s presents were a fowling-piece of the most superior workmanship, from his uncle; an embroidered cigar case from his betrothed; and a smoking-cap from Drusilla.

Besides these, each male and female servant in the house was made happy in the possession of a new and complete Sunday suit.

After the distribution of the presents on Christmas morning the family went to church.

At the end of the service they returned to an early dinner, and spent the afternoon and evening in social enjoyment.

As usual in the Christmas holidays, General Lyon gave one large party, to which he invited all his friends and acquaintances for thirty miles around.

And at this party he formally introduced Drusilla as:

“My niece, Mrs. Alexander Lyon.”

And this he did with so much quiet dignity, as in most cases to repress all expression of surprise from those who could not fail to wonder at such an introduction. And if any had the temerity to utter their astonishment, they were courteously silenced by the answer of the stately old gentleman.

“Old people cannot and ought not to choose for their sons in affairs of the heart. I had hoped that my nephew and my granddaughter would have married each other, for my sake; but I was wrong. They have each chosen partners for their own sakes; and they were right. Come here, Dick: Sir and madam, let me present to you Mr. Richard Hammond as my future and well-beloved grandson-in-law.”

After that what could the gossips say or do? Of course nothing but bow, courtesy and congratulate; though some among them, being maliciously inclined, and envying the young heiress of Old Lyon Hall her beauty and her wealth, did shrug their shoulders and raise their eyebrows as they whispered together: That it was very strange Miss Lyon’s marriage being put off so frequently and she herself at last passed so carelessly from one bridegroom to another; and that it looked but too likely she would be an old maid after all; for she was getting on well in years now!

A very false and spiteful conclusion this, as the beautiful Anna was not yet twenty-three years old.

Some even had the ill-luck to inquire of the General, or of Anna, or Dick:

“Where is Mr. Alexander Lyon now?”

But the quiet answer was always the same:

“In Washington, attending to the sale of some real estate there.”

And the conversation would be quickly turned.

With the exception of these annoying questions, implied or directly asked, and which General Lyon knew must be sooner or later met and answered, and which he felt had best be settled at once, the party passed off as pleasantly as any of its predecessors had done.

On this occasion at least there was no failure upon account of the weather. There never was a finer starlight winter night to invite people out.

Nor was there any tampering with the lamps of the long drawing-room; there never was seen a more brilliantly lighted and warmed saloon to entice people in.

The music was inspiring; the dancing was animated, the supper excellent. The festivities were kept up all night.

And did Drusilla enjoy the party?

Of course she did. Why not? She could love forever, but she could not grieve forever. She was experiencing a delightful reaction from her long depression of spirits. She was young and beautiful, and formed to give and receive pleasure amid these Christmas festivities. In a rich white moire antique dress, delicately trimmed with black lace and black jet, she looked exquisitely pretty. To please her friends and also a little to please herself she danced—first with General Lyon, who led her to the head of a set to open the ball; then with Dick, and afterwards with any others whom her uncle introduced to her. And all who made her acquaintance were charmed with the beauty and sweetness of the lovely, childlike creature.

A refreshing breakfast was served at seven o’clock; after which, the guests, well pleased, took leave and departed by the light of the rising sun.

Early in the new year, “mammy,” well paid for her faithful services and loaded with tokens of her patient’s good-will, took leave of the family and of her fellow servants and left Old Lyon Hall to return to her own home in Alexandria.

She was attended by Leo, who was commissioned to bring down Pina and the birds, the dog, the cat, and the kittens; for to mammy’s perfect content, the brother and sister were again to enter together the service of Mrs. Lyon.

“I have brought up my chillum respectable which it is allus my pride and ambition so to do, and likewise to have them engaged in service long o’ the old respectable, rustycratic families, which none can be more so than the Lyonses of Old Lyon Hall, and that to my sartain knowledge, which has heard of them ever since I was born,” said mammy, on parting with her gossip, Marcy. “And I hopes, ma’am,” she added, “if you sees my young people agoing wrong, you’ll make so free for my sake as to correct them; which their missus, the young madam, is much too gentle-hearted for to do; but gives them their own head far too much.”

Marcy gave a promise to have an eye upon the boy and girl—a promise she was but too likely to keep.

And so mammy departed, well pleased.

The very day she left, the wagons from Washington City, containing Drusilla’s personal effects from Cedarwood, which had been delayed by the bad condition of the roads, arrived at Saulsburg.

General Lyon, being duly apprised of the circumstance by a messenger from the “Foaming Tankard,” sent carts to meet them.

But more than one day was occupied with the removal.

For Alexander Lyon, either from pride, compunction, or a faint revival of the old love, or from all these motives combined, had sent down not only Drusilla’s wardrobe and books, but every article of furniture that particularly appertained to her use. And all these were very carefully packed, so as to sustain no injury from the roughness of the roads over which they were brought.

There was first a whole wagon load of boxes filled with the rich and costly wearing apparel with which he had overwhelmed her in the days of his devotion.

Then there was another load composed of her mosaic work-table, sewing chair, and footstool; her enameled writing-desk, work-box and dressing-case; her favorite sleepy hollow of a resting-chair; and other items too numerous to mention.

The third load comprised her sweet-toned cottage piano, her harp, and her guitar.

It took two days to transport these things from Saulsburg to Old Lyon Hall, and it took two more days to unpack and arrange them all in Drusilla’s apartments.

The fond and faithful young wife contemplated these dear familiar objects with a strange blending of tenderness, regret and hope. Each item was associated with some sweet memory of her lost home and lost love. But even now she did not weep; she smiled as she whispered to her heart:

“He does not know it, but he loves me still; and some day he will come and tell me so. I can wait for that bright day, Alick, my Alick, when I shall place my boy in your arms and tell you how in the darkest hours I never ceased to love you and never doubted your love!”

She was absorbed for a little while, and then once more she murmured to herself in her beautiful reverie:

“For what would love be if darkness could obscure its light, or wrong destroy its life?”

Ah! if this devoted young wife ever does succeed in WINNING HER WAY to the heart and conscience of her husband, she will do it through the power of her love and faith alone.

Before the week was out Drusilla had another pleasure, in the arrival of Leo and Pina with her pets.

She received them all with gladness.

“Oh, ma’am,” exclaimed Pina, “but it does my very heart good to see you looking so rosy and bright-eyed! And I’m just dying to see young Master Leonard! And I am to be his nurse, ain’t I, ma’am? And how is the dear little darling pet? And, oh, I am so glad to see you looking so well and so happy!”

“I am very happy to see you also, Pina,” said Drusilla, when the girl had stopped for want of breath. “I hope you left your mammy well.”

“Oh, as well as possible, ma’am; but with baby on the brain as sure as she lives, in regard to talking about little Master Leonard, which she stands to it is the finest baby as ever she saw among the hundreds and hundreds as she has had the honor of—of—of——”

Pina paused for want of words or breath.

“Of first introducing to their friends and relations,” added Drusilla, laughingly coming to the girl’s relief.

“Yes, ma’am, that is the way to put it,” said Pina, approvingly. “But please, ma’am, may I see little Master Leonard?” she pleaded, eagerly.

“Go with Matty first, Pina. She will show you the room where you are to sleep, and which joins the nursery. Wash your face and hands, and change your traveling dress for a clean one, and then come to my chamber, which is on the other side of the nursery, and I will show you our baby.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Yes, ma’am. I am a perfect show for dust and dirt, I know, and in no state to go nigh a dainty little baby,” said Pina, courtesying, and then following Matty from the sitting parlor where this interview had taken place.

And thus Drusilla’s surroundings at Old Lyon Hall were soon arranged to her perfect satisfaction.

CHAPTER VI.
ENTERTAINING ANGELS.

Little can we tell, who share

Our household hearth of love and care;

Therefore with grave tenderness,

Should we strive to love and bless

All who live this little life,

Soothing sorrows, calming strife,

Lest we wrong some seraph here,

Who has left the starry sphere,

Exiled from the heavens above,

To fulfil some mortal love.—T. Powell.

In the course of the next week, one or more from every family who had been invited to the Christmas party, called, and all who did so, left cards also for Mrs. Alexander Lyon.

Besides this, Mrs. Colonel Seymour, the nearest neighbor and most intimate friend of the Lyons, issued invitations for a large party to come off on Twelfth Night. And the General, Anna, Drusilla and Dick, each received one.

“What shall you wear, Drusilla?” inquired Anna, as the two young women sat together looking at their cards.

“Dear Anna, I do not know that I shall go,” answered Drusilla, gravely.

“Why not?”

“I have an instinctive feeling that I should live very quietly while separated from my husband—live, in fact, as I should have lived, if I had gone back to Cedarwood alone.”

“If you had gone back to Cedarwood alone, it would have been eminently necessary for you to have lived the life of a hermit, to save your reputation from utter ruin; and even then you could not have saved your character from misconstruction and misrepresentation. But now you are living with us, which makes all the difference. Here you may freely enjoy all the social pleasures natural to your youth. The most malignant stabber of fair fame that ever lived would never dare to assail a lady who is a member of General Lyon’s family,” said Anna, proudly. “And it was to secure this freedom of action and these social enjoyments to you, no less than to shield you from danger that my dear grandfather so firmly insisted on your remaining with us,” she added.

“Oh, how can I be grateful enough to him for all his loving kindness to me? Oh, Anna, under Divine Providence, he has been my salvation!” exclaimed Drusilla her face beaming with gratitude and affection.

“I am very glad you came here as you did, my dear and gave him the opportunity of doing what he has done. He has a great large heart, and not objects enough to fill it. He is very fond of you and your boy, and your presence here makes him happier. But ‘to return to our muttons’—about this party at the Seymours. Now, as to your scruples about going into company, instead of living secluded on account of Alexander’s desertion,—dismiss them at once. Leaning on my grandfather’s arm,—for he is to be your escort, and Dick mine,—you can go anywhere with safety. But, if there is any other reason why you do not wish to go to the Seymours, of course you can stay at home. We wish you to use the most perfect freedom of action, my dear Drusilla, and we will only interfere when we see you inclined to immolate yourself upon the pagan altar of your idol. So, in the matter of the party, pray do as you please.”

“Then, if you and uncle think it right, I would like very much to go with you. I enjoy parties. I enjoyed ours very much.”

“I should think you did. You are not seventeen years old yet, and all your social pleasures are to come. You were the beauty of the evening, my little cousin.”

“Oh no, Anna, oh, no, no, no, Anna! that I never could be where you are!” exclaimed Drusilla, blushing intensely with the earnestness of her denial.

“Nonsense! I am an old maid. I am quite passée. I am nearly twenty-three years old, and have been out five seasons!” laughed Anna, with the imperious disdain of her own words with which a conscious beauty sometimes says just such things.

“Oh, Anna, Anna, how can you say such things of yourself? I would not let any one else say them of you, Anna! Why, Anna, you know you moved through your grandfather’s halls that night a perfect queen of beauty. There was no one who could at all equal or approach you!”

“Nonsense, I say! I overheard several people say that I was not looking so well as usual—that I had seen my best days, and so forth.”

“They were envious and spiteful people whom you had eclipsed, Anna, and, if I had heard them, I should have given them to know it!”

“You, you little pigeon, can you peck?” laughed Anna.

“Pigeons can peck, and sharply too, I assure you. And I should have pecked any one whom I heard saying impertinent things of you; but I heard nothing of the sort—I heard only praises and admiration. But there! I declare you ought not to disparage yourself so as to oblige me to tell the truth about you to your face, for, in this case, truth is high praise, and it is perfectly odious to have to praise a friend to her face,” said Drusilla.

“I agree with you. So, if you will let me have the last word and say that you really were the beauty of our ball, I will consent to drop the subject. And now for the other one! So you would like to go to the Seymours?”

“Yes, very much, for I enjoy parties. I do not think I should like to go to one every day or even every week; but once or twice a month I really should enjoy them.”

“What a moderate little belle! Well, and now comes the next important question. What are we to wear? Unluckily we cannot order the carriage and drive down the street to the most fashionable modistes and inspect the newest styles of dress goods and head-dresses and all that, as if we were in the city. We are in the country, and must make our toilet from what we have got in the house. Heigh ho! it is a great bore, being so far away from shops.”

“But, oh, Anna, we have got so much in the house. Think of your magnificent trousseau, with scarcely one of your many dresses touched yet.”

“That is all very well. But you know they were made and trimmed between two and six months ago; and every week something new in the way of trimmings and head-dresses comes up in town. However, we must do the best we can. It is a country ball and all the guests will be in the same case, that is one comfort.”

“Not one of them will be so well off as you are with your trousseau.”

“That is true, and that is another comfort, a very selfish one however. Well, let me see, I think I will wear my light blue taffeta, with a white illusion over it, looped up with bluebells and lilies of the valley, with a wreath of the same. How will that do?”

“It will be very pretty and tasteful.”

“And you, my darling? What have you to wear? You know my dresses fit you, and my wardrobe is quite at your service.”

“Thanks, dear Anna; but I have a great plenty of dresses that have never been worn, and of dress goods that have never been made up. In the first weeks of our married life my dear Alick bought every rich and pretty thing he could lay his hands on for me.”

“Very well, then. What shall you wear?”

“You know that being in the second year of my mourning, I am restricted to black and white. I think a black illusion over black silk, with the sleeves and bosom edged with ruches of white illusion; pearl necklace and bracelets, and half open white moss roses in my hair and on my bosom; white kid gloves and a white fan. There, Anna dear, I have given you a complete description of my intended toilet.”

“And nothing could be prettier. Here comes grandpapa!”

And at that moment the old gentleman entered the room.

“Well, my dears, if we are immured in the country at this festive season of the year, we are not likely to be very dull, are we?” smiled the old gentleman, holding out his card.

“No indeed, sir; that we are not! But what do you think of Drusilla here? She was really meditating upon the propriety of giving up all society, and living the life of a recluse,” said Anna, mischievously.

“Well, if such a life is so much to her taste, we have no sort of right to object,” the old man replied, in the same spirit of raillery.

“But it is not to her taste. Drusilla is formed by nature and disposition to enjoy all innocent social pleasures. But she imagined that in her peculiar circumstances it became her duty to retire from the world altogether.”

The veteran turned his clear eyes kindly on his protégée, and taking her hand, said:

“My dear child, when I gave you a daughter’s place in my heart and home, and took a father’s position towards you, I became responsible for the safety of your fair fame as well as for your person. Both are perfectly secure under my protection. No one will venture to assail the one more than the other. Go wherever Anna goes, enjoy all that she enjoys. It is even well that you should have the harmless recreations natural to your youth, and that she should have a companion of her own sex. And I shall always be your escort.”

Drusilla pressed the old man’s hand to her heart and lips; it was her usual way of thanking him.

And this quite settled the question, if it had not been settled before.

When Twelfth Day came, Anna and Drusilla, beautifully attired in the dresses they had decided upon, and escorted by General Lyon, and Dick, went to the Seymours’ party.

As at the Christmas ball, Drusilla’s beauty created a great sensation; not, indeed, that she was more beautiful than Miss Lyon, but her beauty was of a fresher type. As before, General Lyon was her first partner, and Richard Hammond her second. And after that, there was great rivalry among the candidates for the honor of her hand. But she danced only quadrilles; and only with those presented to her by her uncle. This ball, like all country balls was kept up all night. But General Lyon’s age and Drusilla’s maternal solicitude, both rendered it expedient that they should retire early. So a few minutes after twelve, the old gentleman and his protégée took leave, promising that the coachman should have orders to return at daylight and fetch Anna and Dick home.

After this followed other parties given by the country gentry. And to all of them the Lyons were invited, and in all the invitations Drusilla was included. And the lovely young wife was admired by all who saw her, and beloved by those who came to know her well.

Occasionally, embarrassing questions were asked by those who had more curiosity than tact, but they were always skilfully parried by the party to whom they were put.

For instant, when some old crony would venture to ask the General how it was that Mr. Alick had married this clergyman’s orphan daughter when all the world supposed him to be about to marry his cousin Anna, the General would answer as before:

“That projected marriage was a plan of mine and of my brother’s; and as it was based upon our own wishes rather than on the affections of our young people, it did not succeed, and did not deserve to do so. The aged cannot choose for the young in affairs of the heart. My nephew married this charming girl privately one year ago, and the ceremony was repeated publicly in my house two months since. I gave the bride away. And I am very much charmed with my niece. My granddaughter Anna, and my grandnephew, Richard Hammond, will be united in a few months.”

“But where is the happy bridegroom now?” might be the next question.

“Alexander is in Washington negotiating the sale of real estate,” would be the answer.

Sometimes a troublesome questioner, in the form of some young friend or companion would assail Anna, in some such way as this:

“Well, we were never more surprised in our lives than when we found out that Alick Lyon had married a parson’s daughter without a penny. We thought you were going to take him, Anna?”

“But I preferred Dick,” would be Anna’s frank reply.

“Then I suppose he married the clergyman’s daughter in a fit of pique.”

“Not at all; it was in a fit of love.”

“And she quite penniless.”

“I beg your pardon, she is a very wealthy woman.”

“What! the clergyman’s daughter?”

“Yes, for she is a billionaire’s niece, and a sole heiress.”

“Oh! then it was a mercenary match?”

“Not at all, for he knew nothing of her fortune when he married her. And now, also, please remember you are speaking of my cousins.”

“Beg your pardon, Anna! I mean no harm; and you know you and I are such old, old friends!”

Very often it would be Richard Hammond who would be called to the witness stand with a—

“Hillo, Dick! so you are a lucky dog after all! How was it now? Come, tell us all about it! Did you cut Alick out with Anna, or did the pretty little parson’s daughter cut Anna out with Alick?”

“Each one of us cut all the others out,” Dick would reply, with owl-like gravity.

“Eh? what? stop, don’t go away! How can that be? We don’t understand!”

“Well, if you don’t that’s your look out. I can’t make you understand.”

And so Dick would turn off impertinent inquiry.

Fortunately, also, everywhere Drusilla’s face and manners inspired perfect confidence and warm esteem. No one could look on her, or hear her speak, and doubt her goodness.

“It is very queer. There’s a screw loose somewhere; but whoever may be wrong, she is all right,” was the verdict of the neighborhood in the young wife’s favor.

Meanwhile a very brisk correspondence went on between General Lyon on one part, and Messrs. Heneage and Kent (Drusilla’s lawyers) on the other. The General soon convinced the legal gentlemen that Anna Drusilla Lyon, born Stirling, was the heiress of whom they were in search.

Still, where so much was at stake, they were bound to be very cautious and to receive nothing, not the very smallest fact, upon trust.

So, though General Lyon very seldom troubled Drusilla with this correspondence, he did sometimes feel obliged to come to her for information as to where a certain important witness was to be found; in what cemetery a particular tombstone was to be looked for; or in what parish church such a marriage had been solemnized, or such a baptism administered.

And Drusilla’s prompt and pointed answers very much cleared and expedited the business.

In a more advanced stage of affairs it seemed that she would have to go up to Baltimore; but General Lyon would not hear of her taking any trouble that he could save her; so he wrote to the legal gentlemen, requesting one of the firm to come down to Old Lyon Hall in person, or to send a confidential clerk, and promising to pay all expenses of traveling, loss of time, and so forth.

In answer to this letter, Mr. Kent, the junior partner, arrived at the old hall early in February.

He was armed with a formidable bag of documents and he was closeted all day long with General Lyon in the study.

One can have no secrets from one’s lawyer any more than from one’s physician or confessor; and so General Lyon felt constrained to tell Mr. Kent of the existing estrangement between the heiress and her husband.

“And what I particularly wish,” said the General, confidentially and earnestly, “is that the whole of this large inheritance, coming as it does from her family, may be secured to her separate use, independently of her husband.”

“And that, you are aware, cannot be done, except though a process of law. She must sue for a separate maintenance. Even in such a case I doubt whether the court would adjudge her the whole of this enormous fortune, or even the half of it. Still it is her only resource,” answered Lawyer Kent.

“A resource she will never resort to. It would be vain and worse than vain to suggest it to her. She worships her husband; and it is through no fault of hers that they are estranged. Indeed it was through consideration for him that she was so reticent last year, as to raise suspicions in your mind that her claim to the estate was an unjustly assumed one.... No, Mr. Kent, we must take some other course to secure the inheritance to her, and without saying a word to her on the subject either.”

“There is no other way, sir, but by such a suit as I have suggested.”

“Pardon me I think there is. Mr. Alexander Lyon has deserted his wife and child and failed to provide for them. Such is not the course of an honorable man. Still, as some of the same sort of blood that warms my own old heart runs also in his veins, there must be some little sense of honor sleeping somewhere in his system. We must awaken it and appeal to it. He must of his own free will make over all his right, title and interest in this inheritance to his injured young wife.”

“Does he know of this inheritance, sir?”

“Not one word, I think.”

“Do you believe that he will act as you wish?”

“I have not the least doubt of it. Without this fortune of his wife, he is as rich as Crœsus; and he is also as proud as Lucifer. Having discarded her, he would not touch a penny of her money, if it was to save his own life or hers. So it is not because I think he would waste, or even use her means, that I wish her fortune settled upon herself, but because I wish her to be totally independent of him and to be able to do her own will with her own money.”

“I see,” said Mr. Kent. “Where is Mr. Alexander Lyon now?”

“In Washington City, where I would like you to call upon and apprise him of this large inheritance and of our wishes in regard to it.”

“I will do so with pleasure. Pray give me your instructions at large, and also a letter of introduction to Mr. Lyon.”

“I had almost sworn never to hold any communication with that man again. But for his wife’s dear sake I will write the letter. And now Mr. Kent, there is our first dinner-bell. Allow me to ring for a servant, who will show you to a chamber prepared for you. I will await you here and take you to the dining-room.”

The dust-covered lawyer bowed his thanks and followed the servant who was called to attend him.

At dinner that day, the lawyer, for the first time met his beautiful client, Mrs. Alexander Lyon. And with all his experience of mankind, great was his wonder that any man in his sober senses could have abandoned such a lovely young creature.

Mr. Kent stayed two days at Old Lyon Hall, and then, primed with instructions and with a letter to Alexander, he left for Washington and Baltimore.

It happened just as General Lyon had predicted.

Alexander, sulking at his apartments in one of the most fashionable hotels in the Capital, received the lawyer’s visit and his uncle’s letter.

He was immeasurably astonished at the announcement of his wife’s inheritance of an enormous fortune. At first, indeed, he listened to the intelligence with scornful incredulity; but when convinced beyond all doubt of the truth, his amazement was unbounded. He had never before heard of the California billionaire, and could not now realize the fact that poor Drusilla was a great heiress. He scarcely succeeded in concealing from the lawyer the excess of his amazement. He was, literally, almost “stunned” by the news.

The lawyer’s time was precious; so, barely giving Mr. Alexander a minute to recover his lost breath, and acting upon General Lyon’s instructions he proposed to the husband to resign the whole of her newly-inherited wealth to his discarded wife.

Alexander arose, a proud disdain curling his lips and flashing from his eyes, and answered haughtily:

“Unquestionably, sir! Prepare the proper papers with your utmost despatch. I had intended to sail for Europe in Saturday’s steamer, but I will forfeit my passage and wait here until these deeds shall be executed; for I could no more bear to hold an hour’s interest in her inheritance than I could bear any other sort of ignominy. How soon can the documents be ready?”

Mr. Kent could not tell within a day or two—lawyers never can, you know. But he engaged to prepare them very early in the next week, in time for Mr. Lyon to embark upon his voyage on the following Saturday.

And so Lawyer Kent went on his way to Baltimore musing:

“He is a splendid fellow, and she is a sweet young creature; they are an admirable pair! What the mischief can have come between them?—ah, the devil, of course!”

Mr. Kent was as good as his word. On Tuesday morning, he placed the requisite deeds in the hands of Mr. Lyon, who, in the presence of several witnesses and before a notary-public, formally signed, sealed, and delivered them again into the custody of the lawyer.

And, on Thursday evening, Mr. Kent arrived at Old Lyon Hall, to announce the successful termination of the whole business, and to congratulate his client on her accession to one of the largest fortunes in America.

“And I think, my dear,” whispered General Lyon to his protégée, “that you cannot better show your sense of these gentlemen’s zeal in your cause than by making them your agents in the management of your financial affairs.”

“I perfectly agree with you, my dear uncle. Tell them so, please,” replied Drusilla.

And so it was arranged; and Mr. Kent went on his way rejoicing, “having made a good thing of it.”

“And Alick has signed over to me all his material interest in my fortune! Well, I know he did not need any part of it; but he would have been welcome, oh, so heartily welcome, to the whole. At most, I only should have wanted enough to buy back dear Cedarwood,” said Drusilla to her gossip, Anna, as they sat together in the nursery.

“He did right. How could he have done otherwise under the circumstances? Even you, with all your loving faith, must have despised him if, after forsaking you, he had taken any part of your fortune,” said Anna.

Drusilla blushed intensely, at the bare supposition that her Alick could do anything to make her loyal heart despise him, and she answered warmly:

“But he did not do it! He would never do such a thing. If my Alick has ever erred it has been under the influence of some great passion amounting almost to madness! He would not do wrong in cold blood.”

Anna did not gainsay her. Miss Lyon had quite given up arguing with the young wife on the subject of her husband’s merits. If Drusilla had chosen to assert that Alexander was the wisest of sages, the bravest of heroes and the best of saints, Anna would not openly have differed with her. But now she turned the conversation from his merits to his movements.

“Alick sails for Europe to-morrow,” she said.

“Yes, so Mr. Kent says. But do you know what steamer he goes in, Anna? Mr. Kent did not happen to name it, and I shrank from asking him.”

“There is but one—the Erie. I suppose, of course, he goes on that. However, on Monday we shall get the New York papers, and then we can examine the list of passengers, and see if his name is among them,” said Anna.

And with that answer the young wife had to rest satisfied.

CHAPTER VII.
HALCYON DAYS.

A course of days, composing happy weeks,

And they as happy months; the day is still

So like the last, as all so firm a pledge

Of a congenial future, that the wheels

Of pleasure move without the aid of hope.—Wordsworth.

Very early on Monday morning Jacob Junior was dispatched to Saulsburg to meet the mail and fetch the papers. The messenger was so diligent that he brought in the bag and delivered it to his master while the family sat at breakfast.

There were no letters for anybody, but all the last Saturday’s papers had come.

General Lyon distributed them. A New York evening journal fell to Anna’s share. She turned immediately to look for the news of the outward bound steamers. She soon found what she was in search of. And as Alick’s name was still a tacitly dropped word in the presence of her grandfather, she silently passed the paper to Drusilla, and pointed to the list of passengers for Liverpool who sailed by the Erie, from New York, on the Saturday previous.

Drusilla looked and read among them:

“Mr. Alexander Lyon and two servants.”

Drusilla nodded and smiled, saying in a low voice:

“It is better so, for the present. I hope that he will enjoy himself and come home in a happier frame of mind.”

“Of whom are you speaking, my child?” inquired the General, raising his eyes from a report of the last great debate in the Senate.

“Of Alick. He sailed in the Erie for Liverpool on last Saturday,” answered Drusilla, quite calmly.

“Ah! he did? Well, I think it about the best thing he could have done. I hope he will stay there until he comes to his senses. Joy go with him!” heartily exclaimed the old gentleman.

“Dear uncle!” pleaded Drusilla.

“Well, my dear, what now?” I said, “Joy go with him. That was a benediction, was it not?”

“I thought it was a sarcasm,” said Drusilla, archly.

The General coughed slightly and returned to the perusal of the debate.

So Mr. Alexander had betaken himself to parts unknown, and Drusilla was by no means broken-hearted on that account.

All the tears she was ever destined to shed for him seemed already to have fallen; all the heart-aches she was ever to feel for him seemed already to have been suffered and forgotten.

Understand once for all that, though she loved him as faithfully and hoped in him as trustfully as ever, she no longer mourned his absence.

I repeat it—she could love forever and hope forever, but she could not grieve forever—not with her beautiful bright boy before her eyes.

It was delightful to see the young mother at this time of her life. She was the sunshine of that sweet old home. All the joyousness, hopefulness and truthfulness of childhood seemed to have returned to her; or, rather, as her own childhood had not been a particularly happy one, to have come to her for the first time with her child.

She sang in her nursing chair, or at her needle-work, all the morning; she sang at the piano, or the harp, or sang duets with Anna or Dick in the evening. She had a clear, sweet, elastic voice, a pure soprano, perfectly adapted to the bird-like carols that she most favored.

General Lyon, whose passion for music had survived all other enthusiasms, and had even increased with his declining years, seemed never to grow weary of her delicious notes.

This pleased Anna.

“Dear grandpa,” she would often repeat, “I am so glad you have her here; and will have her with you when Dick takes me away. It will be such a comfort to me to feel you are not lonesome.”

“I don’t know how that may be, my dear. The more I see of our darling, the more inclined I am to think that fellow will come to his senses and claim her from us before we are willing to resign her. And then what shall I do?” the old man once inquired, with a sigh.

And then Drusilla put her hand in his, and looked up in his eyes with all a daughter’s devotion, and answered:

“Dear uncle, you sheltered me when I had not a friend in the world. You saved my life and my boy’s life. You gave him your name, and gave us both a home. And I will never leave you alone, never—not even for him will I leave you, until Anna and Dick come home from their bridal tour to leave you no more.”

“I know it, my child, I know it; I need no assurance from you to teach me how unselfish you are. But, my dear girl, do you think I would permit you to sacrifice your happiness for my sake? No, dear Drusilla, when our prodigal comes to himself and seeks your love again, you will be ready and eager to be reunited to him and you must go with him, although I should be left alone. And this for your happiness, which must not be sacrificed for me.”

“Happiness? sacrificed? Oh, uncle! father, dear, dear friend! you do not know my heart. The happiness would be in staying with you to solace your solitude; the sacrifice would be in leaving you alone. I could not and would not do it, no, not even for my dear Alick. Nor would he wish it; for when he ‘comes to himself,’ as you say, he will come to his better, nobler self,—his just and true self.”

“Ah! my darling, you have great faith in that man.”

“Because I judge him by the whole tenor of his past life, and not by the last few months of moral insanity!”

“May Heaven justify your faith, my dear,” replied the veteran.

Soon after the Christmas and New Year’s festivities were over, Richard Hammond made a move towards terminating his visit. But poor Dick’s nature was so perfectly transparent that every one knew it was a most reluctant move. General Lyon, Anna and Drusilla all knew that Dick was very desirous of staying at Old Lyon Hall, and they all felt that the “unlucky dog,” would be much safer with his relations in the country than among his “friends” in the city. So when Dick at length named an early day in February for his departure, the General said:

“Nonsense, boy, stay where you are.”

“I should be glad enough to stay,” Dick frankly answered, “but you see I feel I am trespassing. Bless my soul and life, sir, I have been here nearly three months.”

“What of that? Stay three years. Stay three centuries if you live so long. My boy, all counted, we are but four; not enough to crowd this big old house; not enough to fill it, or half fill it. So, if you find yourself at ease among us, remain with us.”

“But you see, dear grandpa,” said Anna, wickedly, “he is not at ease among us. He is very restless with us. He is longing to get back to the city. He is pining for the society of his esteemed friends—the gallant Captain Reding and the brave Lieutenant Harpe.”

“Oh, Anna, Anna! that was bloodthirsty!” said Dick in a grieved and outraged manner.

“Then if that is not so, what is the attraction to the city, Dick?” laughed Anna.

“Nothing at all. You know that as well as I do.” Anna did know it, but for all that she answered maliciously:

“Then I can’t think why you wish to leave us.”

“I don’t wish to leave you. I would much rather stay. I have been here so long, I might well suppose that I had worn out my welcome. But as you and uncle are kind enough to tell me that I have not, I will stay, and ‘thank you too,’ as the girl said to the boy that asked her to have him.”

“And don’t take it into your head again, Dick, that you are wearing out your welcome. When we get tired of you, Dick, I will take it upon myself to send you about your business.”

“Very well, Anna. I hope you will do so.”

In truth, Dick had enough to keep him in the neighborhood. Hammond House and Hammondville, forming the greater portion of the landed estate he had recently inherited, lay within a few miles of Old Lyon Hall.

The whole place was now in charge of a resident bailiff who was instructed to put it in thorough repair for the reception of its new master. And these repairs were going on as fast as circumstances would permit.

The outdoor work was of course frequently suspended during the inclemency of the weather. But the house was filled with carpenters, plasterers, painters and paperhangers.

And it was well that Dick should occasionally ride there to overlook these workmen. The most careful instructions are not often carried out, under these circumstances, without the frequent presence of the master.

It was thought expedient also that Anna, whose home it would sometime be, should be taken into the counsels and accompany Dick in his visits of inspection to Hammond House. And whenever the weather permitted she went there with him.

Hammond House was not to be their permanent home, however. During the life of General Lyon, they were to live at Old Lyon Hall.

Three times a week, when the mail came into Saulsburg and the letters and papers were brought to Old Lyon Hall, Drusilla turned to the ship-news. At length she saw announced the safe arrival of the Erie at Liverpool. And then she knew that was the last of even indirect news she might hope to hear of Alexander.

But she was not depressed on that account. Her faith, hope and love were strong. Everybody was very good to her. Her baby boy was growing in strength, beauty and intelligence.

The spring was to be early this year. The latter days of February were bright and lovely harbingers of its quick approach.

In the finest hours of the finest days Drusilla took her baby out for short drives around the park—the nurse dragging the little carriage and the mother walking by its side, and Leo often following to open gates or remove obstacles.

There was not unfrequently a high dispute between the brother and sister as to who should take care of the baby.

Leo insisted that as the baby was a boy, it was his right to have charge of him, and declared that he could see no fitness at all in a girl setting herself up to nurse a boy.

Pina retorted that such a thing as a male nurse never was heard of either for male or female child.

Leo would then bring forward his mistress’s promise that he himself should have a good time with little Master Leonard, riding him about on his shoulder.

Pina would request him to give that piece of information to the “horse-marines,” who might be credulous enough to believe his story. As for herself, she rejected it totally and held fast by her own rights as sole nurse by appointment of her mistress.

Through all these quarrels one fact was evident—the devotion of the brother and sister to the young child and his mother, of whom it might almost be said that their servants were ready to lay down their lives in their service.

Drusilla had not given up her favorite project of purchasing Cedarwood. She had written and instructed her attorneys to make overtures to the present proprietors of the place, for that purchase. She told them that she knew of course the people who had so recently purchased the property would want a very handsome bonus before they would consent to part with it again so soon; and that she was prepared to satisfy their demands, as she preferred to pay an exorbitant price for the place rather than miss its possession.

Her attorneys, who were long-headed men of business, in no way given to sentiment or extravagance, wrote in reply that they hoped with a little patience and good management to buy the estate at something like a fair valuation.

So Drusilla agreed to wait.

Meanwhile General Lyon had not forgotten that he had promised to purchase Cedarwood, and bestow it upon Drusilla as a New Year’s present. And he also set about negotiating for his purpose.

This reached the ears of Drusilla’s lawyers, who immediately wrote to ask her if she was aware that her uncle, also, was after the place.

Drusilla was not aware of the fact; but now that she heard of it, she of course understood that the General could only be seeking it for her sake.

So she went to the old gentleman and assured him that as much as she loved him, she could not possibly receive so magnificent a present from his hands, but very much desired to purchase the estate with her own funds.

General Lyon laughed, and assured her that his only motive in trying to buy Cedarwood was to keep his word to her; but that, if she released him from it, he was ready to give up the project. “For he was well aware,” he said, “that to bestow property on a lady who owned warehouses piled with merchandise in Baltimore and San Francisco, and merchant ships at sea trading to all parts of the world, besides bank stock and railway shares in almost every State, and gold mines in California, to bestow a little bit of property on such a billionaire would simply be to send coals to Newcastle.”

So the General wrote and stopped the proceedings of his lawyers.

And Drusilla wrote and told hers to go ahead as fast as they saw fit.

But it was April before any measure of importance was taken. Then Messrs. Heneage & Kent, who had been as active and as artful as detectives in the business, wrote to inform their client that they had discovered that the present proprietor of Cedarwood, who was a person of very restless disposition and unsettled habits, had become dissatisfied with the place and was anxious to dispose of it, and would do so immediately if he could sell it for as much as he gave for it. Now, as Alexander Lyon had sold the estate at some sacrifice during his fit of fury, it was therefore supposed to be a good bargain. The lawyers wrote to ask further instructions from their client.

Drusilla by return mail directed them to buy Cedarwood immediately, as her great desire was to possess it as soon as possible, on any terms. She also requested them to buy as much of the wooded land around Cedarwood as they could get at a reasonable, or even at a slightly unreasonable price, as she intended to improve the place as much as it would admit of, and wished, among other things, to have a little home park.

It was well for this young Fortunata that her attorneys had much more prudence than herself. They were not disposed to pay fancy prices for fancy places, even when they were spending their client’s money instead of their own, and getting a good percentage on it. So they managed matters so well that, by the first of May, the whole business was successfully completed.

Cedarwood, with its original twenty-five acres of partially cleared land, was purchased for twenty thousand dollars, and one hundred acres of wild forest land lying all around it was purchased for thirty thousand—the whole property costing fifty thousand.

“A very excellent investment,” wrote Heneage & Kent, “even as a mere country seat; but the land so near the city is rapidly rising in value; and when you may wish to do so in future years, you may divide it into half a hundred villa sites, and sell each part for as much money as you now pay for the whole.”

But Drusilla was not thinking of land speculations, so she ran to her friends and, after telling them of the completion of the purchase of Cedarwood, she exclaimed:

“And now we shall have such a beautiful home near the city to receive us all when we go to Washington to spend the winter. It will be so much better than a hotel or boarding-house in the city. It is only half an hour’s drive from the Capitol. We can live there so comfortable, and as quiet as we please when we wish to be so, and enter into all the amusements of the city we like when we wish to do so. It will only be to start half an hour earlier when we go to a party or a play, half an hour earlier from Cedarwood than we should from a hotel in the city, I mean. And then when we leave a brilliant ball-room or opera-house, it will be so pleasant to come to a sweet, quiet home in the woods, instead of a noisy, unwholesome hotel—don’t you think so, dear uncle?” she said, appealing to the General.

“Yes, my darling, I do,” answered the old gentleman.

“And shall you like the plan?”

“Very much, my dear child. I never could sleep well at any of the hotels in Washington or in any other city, for that matter. The noise of the carriages in the streets always kept me awake nearly all night.”

“And you, Anna—shall you like it?”

“Of course I shall. I detest hotels. The clean face towels always smell sour or fetid, for one thing. And boarding houses and furnished lodgings are almost as bad.”

“I am delighted! So in future I and my baby shall be your guests at Old Lyon Hall or at Hammond House during the summer, and you all shall be my guests at Cedarwood all the winter. And I shall write to “mammy,” and offer her and her husband the situations of housekeeper and head gardener there, at liberal wages. And they would keep the house and grounds always in good order, and ready to receive us. Will not that be pleasant, Dick?”

“Pleasant!” exclaimed Mr. Hammond enthusiastically; “it will be perfectly delightful.”

CHAPTER VIII.
THE END OF PROBATION.

From that day forth, in peace and joyous bliss,

They lived together long, without debate;

No private jars, nor spite of enemies,

Could shake the safe assurance of their state.—Spenser.

Besides the natural geniality and sociability of his disposition, which always moved General Lyon to bring his friends and relations about him, there were other and even stronger motives that urged him to invite Richard Hammond to remain at Old Lyon Hall. The old gentleman wanted to save “the unlucky dog from his friends,” and also he wanted to study him.

And as weeks and months of close companionship in the seclusion of the country house passed away, he did study him. And apparently the study was satisfactory.

All poor Dick’s impulses were altogether good. Indeed, it was through the very goodness of his nature that he so often came to grief.

Dick could not bear to say No; and not only ever to his friends, but not even to his enemies, for his salvation, Dick could not endure to inflict pain, not only ever upon good people but not even upon sinners. And these amiable traits in his character were used by evil-disposed people to his injury.

There was indeed so much of the woman in Dick’s gentle and lively nature that very few women could have loved him as Anna did. But then there was enough of the man in Anna’s nature to produce an equilibrium of the sexes in their union.

General Lyon noticed all this, and he noticed something else—namely, that though Dick and Anna certainly loved each other devotedly, they bore their probation with exemplary patience.

This touched the heart of the veteran, but still he would not shorten the time.

Moreover, he felt the infirmities of age creeping upon him, he knew that at his years life was extremely precarious, and he certainly wanted to see another generation of Lyons in lineal descent from himself before he should go home and be no more on earth.

Yet for all this he would not hasten the marriage of Dick and Anna.

Drusilla, with her quick perceptions and warm sympathies, read the hearts of all around, and wished to make them happy.

Like an artful little angel as she was, she chose her opportunity well.

It was a lovely day in the latter part of April, and General Lyon and herself were sitting alone together in a front parlor where windows opened upon a conservatory in full bloom.

Dick and Anna were gone on a visit of inspection of the works at Hammond House.

The General had little Leonard in his arms.

Drusilla was sewing beside them.

“Ah, my dear, you do not know how much this little fellow adds to my happiness!” he said.

“I am always so glad and grateful to hear you say that, dear uncle, and I hope little Leonard as he grows in intelligence will be more and more of a comfort to you,” she replied; and then, after a little pause, she said:

“But if little Leonard, who is only my son, gives you so much content, how much joy Anna’s children will give you!”

“I don’t know, my dear: and, besides, I may not live to see them.”

“Dear uncle, you will live many years yet.”

“I cannot hope to do that, my dear. I am past seventy. I have already lived out the threescore and ten years allotted as the natural term of a man’s life.”

“But, dear uncle, I think all nature teaches us that a CENTURY is the natural term of a man’s life.”

“A pleasant theory, my child. I wish it were a true one.”

“But I think it is a true one.”

“Why do you think so?”

“From analogy. All natural philosophers and historians who have made the nature and habits of the animal creation their study have agreed upon this fact; that all healthy animals, unless their lives are terminated by violence, live five times as long as it takes them to grow up. Now it takes the human animal twenty years at least to grow to maturity; therefore the human animal really should live five times twenty years, which makes a round hundred or a CENTURY; and I firmly believe it is intended for him to live that long, if he only acted in accordance with the laws of life and health. And, dear uncle, you seem always to have acted so, and therefore I think you may safely calculate upon living out your century and then dying the gentle death of mere old age.”

“There is a certain reasonableness in your theory, my little philosopher.”

“And there is a roundness and completeness in this full century of life which is so satisfactory,” said Drusilla, heartily.

“Yes, my dear, especially to those who love this planet Earth, with all her failings, as I confess I do,” smiled the old gentleman. “And besides, I would like to see Anna and Dick happily married, with a thriving family of boys and girls about their knees.”

“Then, dear uncle, why not let them marry at once?” pleaded Drusilla.

“‘Marry at once!’ Drusilla, you astound me, child!” exclaimed the old gentleman, in unaffected astonishment.

“Yes, marry at once, dear uncle, and then, if you live to be as old as Methusaleh, you will still have only the longer time to witness their happiness,” persisted Drusilla, who, now that she had “broken the ice,” was determined to go through.

“But, my dear, I put Richard Hammond upon a probation of twelve months, and the time has not expired yet.”

“It is very nearly half gone, though. Five months of the allotted term has passed away. There are seven months of penance remaining. Dear uncle, be kind to them and commute that to one month. Let them marry in May.”

“Have they commissioned you to plead their cause, my dear?” gravely inquired General Lyon.

“Oh no, sir, they have not. And perhaps also you may think me very presumptuous and impertinent to meddle in the matter. If you do, I will beg your pardon and be silent.”

“Nonsense, my dear child! I think nothing of the sort. Speak all your thoughts freely to me. They are good and true thoughts, I know, though they may not be very worldly wise. Come now, why should I shorten the probation of Dick?”

“Oh, because he has behaved so well. Indeed, dear uncle, if you really mean that Dick should marry Anna, I think that you had just as well let him marry her now as half a year hence. I believe Dick is as good now as he will ever be, or as any young man can be. Why do you insist on a probation? If Dick were playing a part in this good behavior, he could play it six months longer as well as he has played it six months past, for so great a stake as Anna’s hand. But he is not playing a part. You know as well as I do that Dick is as frank, sincere and open-hearted as his best friend or worst enemy could desire him to be. He is not playing a part. His present steadiness is but an earnest of what his whole future life will be, with Anna by his side. Dear uncle, I really do think that all Dick’s irregularities grew out of his banishment from Anna’s society. He sought gay companions—or rather no; we are sure that he never sought them; but he allowed himself to fall into their company to find oblivion for his regrets. With the mere promise of Anna’s hand, you see he has dropped his disreputable friends altogether. With Anna for his wife, he will never be in danger of taking them up again.”

“There is much reason in what you say, my dear,” admitted General Lyon.

“And, besides,” said Drusilla, dropping reason and resorting to sentiment, “it is such a pity not to make them happy when you have the power to do it.”

“I will think of what you have advanced, my dear Drusilla,” said the veteran, gravely. “But Lord bless my soul alive!” he added, elevating his eyebrows, “now I do think of it, the young man himself has not petitioned for a curtailment of his probation!”

“Oh, uncle, has he not? Not, not in set terms, perhaps, because you absolutely forbade him to resume the subject until the specified year should have terminated; and of course he felt, and still feels, bound to obey you. But has not his whole conduct for the last five months been a plea for the commutation of his sentence? Has not every word, look and act of his life here been a declaration of devotion to Anna, a prayer for mercy from you, and a promise of fidelity to both?”

“I cannot deny that.”

“Then, dear uncle, let them marry at once. Oh, forgive my plain speech! for you know you told me to speak my thoughts freely.”

“Certainly.”

“Then let them marry at once.”

“Is there no other reason you would like to urge why they should be made happy, as you express it, just now?”

“Oh, yes, dear sir; if you make them wait until the time of probation is out, it will bring the wedding to the middle of November—sad November, which is always gloomy enough in itself and is now doubly gloomy to us from its associations. Three times Anna’s marriage has been appointed to take place in November, and three times it has been defeated—twice by death, and once—but we will say no more of that. Let us change the month and even the season, dear sir. Let the marriage come off in May—this next May it is now beautiful spring—the best season in the year for a wedding and a wedding tour. Let them marry and go; and you and I and little Leonard will stay here and have a good time this summer. In autumn they will return and join us again. And early in the winter we will all go up to Washington and live at Cedarwood during the season. Dear uncle, I do think you had better let them get their wedding tour over this summer. You will miss Anna very much less in summer than in winter.”

“That is very true,” said the General, reflectively.

“And you will let them marry in May?” eagerly inquired Drusilla.

“Ah! I don’t know. I cannot move in the matter unless the young gentleman does. I cannot fling my granddaughter at Mr. Dick Hammond’s head!”

“Oh, uncle! how can you say such things? You know poor Dick is tongue-tied on that subject for the present, by your probation, as well as by his sense of honor. He cannot speak of this without your leave. But only give him leave by a glance, a nod, a hint, and he will be on his knees to you to grant his suit and shorten his probation,” said Drusilla.

“Hem! Suppose you give the glance, nod, or hint, that may be required for the encouragement of this despairing lover?” proposed the General, archly.

“That I will, with all my heart and soul,” replied Drusilla, warmly.

The next day at noon, while Drusilla was walking beside her baby’s carriage out on the lawn, Dick, with his fishing rod over his back, sauntered up to her.

Drusilla dropped behind so as to let the carriage and the nurse get far enough ahead to be out of hearing, and then she said:

“Dick, I think if you will ask our uncle to release you from your promise of silence on a certain subject, that he will do so.”

“Drusilla, do you really think he will? If I thought so, if I was sure he would not banish me at once from Anna’s side, I would ask him this moment!” exclaimed Dick, his eyes dancing with eagerness.

“He will not banish you. Why should he? You will break no promise to him; you will only ask him if he sees fit to release you from your promise of silence on a certain subject. I think he will give you leave to speak on that subject. And, furthermore, when you do speak, I think he will listen to you favorably.”

“Oh, Drusilla! do you? Do you think so, indeed? If I thought so, I should be the luckiest dog and the happiest man in existence.”

“Go try for yourself at once, Dick. He is in his study. He has just got through his morning papers, and is enjoying his pipe. The opportunity is highly auspicious. Go at once, Dick. You will never find him in a more favorable mood.”

“I’m off this instant. Heaven bless you, Drusilla, and make you as happy as I hope to be,” exclaimed Richard Hammond, dropping his fishing tackle, and dashing away to put his destiny to the test.

Drusilla hastened after her baby’s carriage, overtook it, and continued to walk beside it, and guard it for more than an hour longer.

She had just turned with it towards the house when she was met by Dick, who was hastening to greet her.

“Oh, Drusa, Drusa, dear Drusa, it is all right now. And all through you! And I came to tell you so, and to thank you, even before I go to tell Anna!” exclaimed Dick, with his face all beaming with happiness.

And he seized and kissed Drusilla’s hand, and then darted off again, in search of Anna.

And thus through Drusilla’s intervention, was Richard Hammond’s probation commuted, and the marriage of the lovers appointed to be celebrated about the middle of May.

Meanwhile Drusilla had written to “mammy,” offering to her the situation of housekeeper, and to her husband that of head gardener at Cedarwood. She had directed her letter to the care of the Reverend Mr. Hopper, at Alexandria, feeling sure that it would by this means safely reach the hands of the nurse.

In due time Drusilla received an answer, badly written and worse spelt, yet sufficiently expressive of “mammy’s,” sentiments on the subject.

She thanked Mrs. Lyon from the bottom of her heart, and would gladly take the place and try to do her duty by the mistress. And likewise her old man. She never expected to have such a piece of good fortune come to her and her old man in the old ages of their lives. Which it had just come in good time too, seeing as her last darter was agoing to marry and leave her and her old man alone. And besides, she herself was aged before her time, all along of spending all the days of her life in close, sick rooms. And she was mortially glad to leave the profession of sick nursin’ to younger and stronger wimmin. Which she was fairly pining for the country, where her childhood and youth had been passed. She had never been able to get reconciled to the town, although she had lived into it for thirty-five years, and she loved to feed chickens and take care of cows, and make butter and cheese. And as for her old man, it was the delight of his life to hoe and rake, and plant and sow, and weed and trim gardens and vineyards, and sich like. And she was sure they would both be happier than they had ever been in all their lives before. And she prayed Heaven to bless the young madam who had taken such kind thoughts of them in their age, to insure them so much prosperity and pleasure.

CHAPTER IX.
A MAY-DAY MARRIAGE.

Be not amazed at life. ’Tis still

The mode of God with His elect:

Their hopes exactly to fulfil,

In times and ways they least expect.

Who marry as they choose, and choose

Not as they ought, they mock the priest,

And leaving out obedience, lose

The finest flavor of the feast.—Alford.

The wedding-day of Dick and Anna was fixed for the fifteenth of May.

Then came consultations about the details of the festival.

Should it be a festival?

Anna thought not. Her marriage had been so often appointed and so often arrested that she said it would be best taste now to get it over as quietly as possible. She and her betrothed, attended only by General Lyon and Drusilla, would go to church and be married in their traveling-dresses, and start immediately on the wedding tour. Such was Anna’s plan.

But General Lyon would not hear of such a thing. What! marry off his granddaughter and heiress to his nephew in such a semi-clandestine manner, as if he were half-ashamed of the proceeding? What, disappoint all the young people in the neighborhood, who had every right to expect a festival on the marriage of Miss Lyon, of Old Lyon Hall? Not while he was head of the family! Anna should be married at home. And there should be such a celebration of the nuptials as the lads and lasses around the hall should remember to the latest day of their lives.

Anna urged that in the middle of May the weather would be too warm for a ball.

General Lyon agreed that it would; but added that the weather would be delightful for a festival in the open air on the beautiful grounds of the manor; it would be neither too warm nor too cold, but exactly right for dancing on the lawn. The marriage ceremony he said should be performed in the great drawing-room, the wedding breakfast should be laid in the long dining-room; but the music and dancing should be enjoyed in the open air.

Anna laughingly appealed to Dick and to Drusilla to take her part against this decision of the General.

But Drusilla and Dick declined to interfere and remained conscientiously neutral.

So the will of the General carried the day.

This obstinacy of the old gentleman made it necessary that a great deal of business should be done, and done at once, as the time was so short to the wedding-day. Wedding cards must be printed and circulated. A new trousseau must be prepared. A sumptuous breakfast must be devised. Certain deeds must be executed.

In furtherance of these works, Dick first went up to Richmond to deal with lawyers and engravers.

And soon after his departure General Lyon and Anna went to Washington to negotiate with milliners and pastry cooks.

And Drusilla and her attendants remained in charge of Old Lyon Hall. She had been affectionately invited to accompany Anna and the General, but, though her baby was now nearly six months old, she declined either to leave him at home or to take him on so long and rough a journey. She thought that her boy and herself were both better in the country. The General agreed with her, and so she was left in charge of the premises.

But though she sadly missed her friendly Anna, and fatherly old General, and gay Dick, yet her life when left at Old Lyon Hall was very different from what it had been when she was alone at Cedarwood.

Here in the old hall she was no longer lonesome and dreary. She had a plenty of company and of interesting employment. She had her darling boy and her attentive servants; and she had visitors from the neighborhood almost every day; for young Mrs. Alexander Lyon was growing in favor with the whole neighborhood.

Here she was not obliged to live a secret life. She would drive out in her carriage, with her baby and nurse, whenever she pleased. She could ride out on horseback attended by her young groom Leo, whenever she liked. She could return the calls of her country neighbors; she could accept their invitations to dinner or to tea, and she could receive and entertain them at home.

Here she enjoyed the largest liberty. General Lyon and Anna had both assured her that she would only make them happier by behaving in all respects as a daughter of the house, and using it as if it were her own. And Drusilla, convinced of their perfect sincerity, took them at their word.

Her sweet heart and social spirit took pleasure in this frequent intercourse with the country ladies and their little children. She liked to have a whole family, mother, children and nurses, to spend a long day with her at home; and almost as well she liked to take her boy and nurse and go and pass a whole day at the country house of some friend.

It was gratifying to her also, when her nearest neighbors, the Seymours, came over and spent an evening with her. There were but three persons in this family—old Colonel and Mrs. Seymour, and their youngest daughter Annie, or Nanny, as they called her.

Old Colonel Seymour was a passionate lover of music, and it was the one grievance of his life that his daughter Nanny had no voice, and no ear, and never could learn to sing or play on the piano. He could never understand it, he said, how a girl born with the usual allowance of senses, with a quick pair of ears, and a nimble tongue, and who could hear as fast and talk much faster than anybody he ever saw, should pretend that she did not know one tune from another! She that was neither deaf, nor dumb, nor an idiot! It was an incomprehensible fact, but it was no less a great personal injury to himself.

But his one great delight was to come over to Old Lyon Hall in the evening, and hear Drusilla sing and play. Now, we know that her greatest gift was music. She sang with a passion and power equalled by no one in private circles, and excelled by but few in professional life. Honest Colonel Seymour had never in all his earthly experience had the privilege of hearing a great public singer. Therefore the performances of Drusilla affected, I might even say, overwhelmed him or transported him, with equal wonder and delight.

And Drusilla exerted herself hour after hour, and evening after evening, to please him, and took as much pleasure herself in the intense appreciation of her one single old adorer, as ever a great prima donna did in the applause of a whole world.

And the honest old gentleman’s head was fairly turned with admiration and gratitude.

“To think,” he said, as he walked home with his wife and daughter, one moonlight night, after spending an evening at Old Lyon Hall, “to think of having such a voice as that in the neighborhood! to think of being able to hear it several times a week, for the asking! Oh! it ought, indeed it ought, to raise the price of real estate in this locality! And it would do it, too, if people really could feel what good music is!”

“Papa,” laughed the old wife, “you are an old gander. And if you were not gray and bald, and very good, I should be jealous.”

“Oh, but mother, such strains! Oh, my Heavens, such divine strains!” he exclaimed, catching his breath in ecstasy.

“What will you do when your St. Cecilia leaves the neighborhood?” inquired his daughter.

“Leave the neighborhood! is she going to do that?” gasped the music-maniac.

“They are all going to Washington, next winter, she says.”

“Then we’ll—go too. I say, mother, one season in town, would not be amiss for Nanny; and so we can take her there next winter; and then I may swim and soar in celestial sounds every evening!”

“Papa, now you are too provoking, and I am jealous,” said Nanny. “For my part, I don’t like music any more than I do any other sort of racket. And I do think if there is one nuisance worse than another, it is a singing and playing lunatic, filling the whole room full of shrieks and crashes, just as if a thousand housemaids were smashing a million of dishes, and squalling together over the catastrophe!”

“Oh, child, child, what a misfortune for you to have been born deaf, as to your divine ears!” answered the old gentleman in tones of deep and sincere pity and regret.

“I’m sure, papa, I often wish I had been born deaf as to my bodily ears! I mean, when your divinity is shrieking and thrashing, and raising such a hullabaloo that I can’t hear myself speak!” said Nanny.

“Ah! ‘that accounts for the milk in the cocoanut!’ You can’t hear yourself speak, and you prefer the sound of your own sweet voice to the music of the spheres!”

“If the music of the spheres is that sort of noise, I certainly do, papa.”

“Thank Goodness, here we are at our own gate! And now we will drop the subject of music for the rest of the evening—Kitty, was the missing turkey-gobbler found?” inquired Mrs. Seymour of the girl who came to open the door.

“Yes’m.”

“And did the maids finish their task of carding?”

“Yes’m.”

“And did you keep the fire up in my room?”

“Yes’m.”

“That is right. The evenings are real chilly and damp for the time of year. Come in.”

And the careful wife and mother led the way into the house.

Richard Hammond was the first of the absentees to return to Old Lyon Hall. He came one afternoon, bringing with him a large packet of handsomely engraved wedding cards and a bundle of documents, all of which he placed in Drusilla’s charge to be delivered to General Lyon on the General’s arrival. Then he took leave of Drusilla, and went over to Hammond House to wait there until the return of his uncle and his betrothed.

Two days afterwards, General Lyon and Anna came home.

Anna was attended by a pair of dressmakers, and enriched with no end of finery.

General Lyon was followed by a French cook and his apprentices.

Richard Hammond came over to meet them, and consult over the latest improvements of the bridal programme.

And now the business of preparation was accelerated.

First, the wedding cards were sent out far and near. And the neighborhood, which was not prepared for the surprise, was electrified.

Next the dressmakers, with every skilful needle-woman among the housemaids to help them, were set to work on the trousseau. Of the many dresses that had been made up for Anna’s marriage, the last November, most had never been worn and were now in their newest gloss; but they were not trimmed in the newest fashion, nor were they all suitable for summer wear; so those first dresses, had to be altered and newly trimmed, and many new dresses suitable for the season had to be made up. This kept all the feminine hands in the house very busy for a week.

Drusilla’s skill, and taste, and willingness to help made her an invaluable assistant.

Only a few days before the one set for the wedding was the new trousseau finished and packed up, and the new wedding dress and traveling dress completed and laid out.

And now carpenters and upholsterers were brought down from town, and the house and grounds were fitted up and decorated for the happy occasion.

The French cook and his assistants had the kitchen, the pantry, the cellar, the plate-closet, and the long dining-room, to themselves, and were up to their linen caps in business.

“Well, it is a notable blessing that one cannot be bothered with this sort of thing very often, as one is not likely to be married more than half a dozen times in one’s life,” said Anna, who was, or affected to be, very much bored by all this bustle.

“Oh, I hope to Heaven, Anna, we may neither of us ever be married but once! I trust in the Lord, Anna, that we may live together to keep our golden wedding-day half a century hence,” answered Dick, very devoutly.

For honest Dick was what the Widow Bedot would have called very much “solemnized” by the impending crisis in his fate.

“Blessed is the bride that the sun shines on.” The day of days came at last—the auspicious fifteenth of May—clear, bright, warm, genial, with a light breeze playing a lively tune, to which all the green leaves danced in glee. All the flowers bloomed to decorate the scene—all the birds turned out to sing their congratulations! Never was seen such a rosery on the lawn; never was heard such a concert in the groves.

The brass band that arrived upon the scene as early as ten o’clock in the morning, was quite a superfluity. Anna sent out and ordered the men not to play until the birds should be silent. So they sat under the shade of the great oak trees, and had ale served out to them, in which they drank the health of the bridegroom and the bride, while they watched the train of carriages that were constantly coming up, bringing guests to the wedding feast. Such was the scene on the shaded, flowery lawn.

Even more festive was the scene within the house.

All the windows of the great drawing-room were thrown open, letting in all the sunshine and the cool breeze of this bright May day. The walls were hung with festoons of fragrant flowers, and the large table in the centre was loaded with the splendid wedding presents to the bride.

It would take up too much time to tell of all these presents. You will find them fully described in the “Valley Courier” of that date. They consisted of the usual sort of offerings for these occasions—“sets” of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls and other gems; “sets” of silver plate; “sets” of fine lace, et cetera.

But we must not omit to mention Drusilla’s munificent offering to the bride. It was also a “set,” a tea set of pure gold, whose exquisite workmanship was even of more value than its costly material.

The appearance of the long dining-room, with the table laid for the wedding breakfast, should have immortalized the French cook if he had not been immortalized before. Here, also, all the windows were thrown open to the light and air. It would never do, said “Monsieur le Chef,” for people to be too warm while eating and drinking. Here, however, were no natural flowers. Their powerful odors, said “Monsieur,” affected too much the delicious aromas of the viands. But the walls were decorated with artificial flowers, with paintings and gildings, and with mirrors that multiplied the splendors of the scene a thousandfold, and opened imaginary vistas into unending suites of splendid saloons on every side.

The breakfast table reached nearly the whole length of the long dining-room, and was multiplied by the mirrored walls into innumerable other tables on every hand. It was beautifully decorated and sumptuously loaded; every variety of flesh, fish, and fowl that was in season, dressed in the most delicate manner; every sort of rare and rich fruit and vegetable; wonderful pastries, creams, and ices; crystallized sweetmeats, cordials, wines, liquors, black and green teas, and coffee, such as only a Frenchman can make, were among the good things displayed to delight the palates of the guests.

On the second floor, the bed-chambers and dressing-rooms wore a gay and festive aspect. There also the windows were thrown open to the light and air, and shaded only by the beautiful green trees and flowering vines without. The beds and dressing-tables were freshly covered with snow-white drapery; and on each toilet-table were laid new ivory-handled brushes and combs, silver flagons of rare perfumery, porcelain pots of pomade; and about each room were every convenience, comfort and luxury that a guest could possibly require,—all provided by a thoughtful hospitality that was careful and considerate in its minutest details.

Early in the day these light, fragrant, and delightful chambers were filled with bevies of fair girls, who were giving the last effective touches to their own and to each other’s gay festal dresses, and whose soft talk and silvery laughter made music all around.

They had need to hurry, too; for the hour fixed for the ceremony was high noon, and they must all be ready and in their places to see it.

The bride’s chamber was the scene of the most interesting passages. There sat the bride, surrounded by her bride’s-maids, and lovingly attended by Drusilla.

Anna’s dress was a rich white honiton lace robe over a white silk skirt, made with a low bodice and short sleeves, both edged with narrow lace. On her neck and arms she wore a necklace and bracelets of diamonds; on her hair the wreath of orange blossoms; over her head and shoulders the deep bridal veil of lace to match her robe; on her delicate hands kid gloves as white as snow and soft as down. Her six bride’s-maids were all dressed in white tulle, with wreaths of white moss-rose buds on their hair, and veils of white tulle.

On this auspicious day Drusilla, for the first time, entirely laid aside her mourning. She looked beautiful and blooming, in a dress of rose-colored moire-antique, made with a low bodice and short sleeves, trimmed with point lace. On her neck and arms she wore a necklace and bracelets of pearls; on her young matronly brow a wreath of half-open blush roses; on her bosom a bouquet of the same flowers.

For this day also her little Leonard was dressed in gala robes, and sent out upon the lawn in the arms of his nurse where he remained for the present, gazing with eyes wide open with astonishment and delight on the wonderful pageantry around him.

The marriage hour struck at length.

The last loitering guests heard it, and hurried down-stairs to the drawing-room which was already crowded.

The bride and her maidens heard it, and began to smooth out the folds of their dresses, or touch the edges of their hair, and steal furtive glances at the mirrors to see that all was right before leaving the chamber and facing the hundreds of eyes in the drawing-room below.

Punctually as the last stroke of twelve sounded, the bridegroom and his attendants came to the door.

The procession was formed in the usual manner and passed down-stairs.

Two gentlemen friends who took upon themselves the office of marshals, opened a way through the crowd for the bridal cortège to enter.

On the rug stood the Rev. Dr. Barber, in his surplice, just as he had stood some six months before; but all the rest was changed now. That was a dark and stormy November night. This was a bright and beautiful May day.

The bridal party, with due decorum, took their places before the officiating minister. There was no let or hindrance now. The face of the blooming bride was as clearly seen as that of the happy bridegroom. Both parties responded clearly and distinctly to the questions of the clergyman. General Lyon, with smiling lips, but moist eyes, gave the bride away. And the ceremony proceeded and ended amid the prayers and blessings of the whole company.

Kisses and congratulations, tears and smiles followed and took up twice as much time as the preceding solemnity had.

Then, at length the company, headed by the two marshals, marched off to the breakfast room. The ladies were handed to the table, and the gentlemen waited in duteous attendance behind them.

And the feast began.

These ladies did not care so much about the fish, flesh, or fowl, delicately dressed as these edibles might be. So they were left almost untouched, for the benefit of the gentlemen who might come after. But the beautiful pyramids of pound cake, the snowy alps of frosted cream, the glittering glaciers of quivering jelly, the icebergs of frozen custard, the temples of crystallized sweetmeats and groves of sugared fruits were quickly demolished.

The bride’s cake was cut up and distributed; the piece containing the prophetic ring falling to the lot of Nanny Seymour.

At the right moment the first groomsman arose and made a speech, which was heartily cheered, and proposed the health of—

“The bride and bridegroom,” which was honored with bumpers of “Cliquot.”

Then the bridegroom arose and returned thanks in another speech, which was also cheered; and he proposed the health of—

“Our honored host and relative, the venerable General Lyon,” which was drank by all standing.

Then the veteran got up and in a few earnest words expressed his appreciation of the compliment and his esteem for his guests, and then he gave somebody else’s health.

Colonel Seymour arose and proposed the health of—

“Our beautiful young friend, Mrs. Alexander Lyon.” And it was honored with enthusiasm.

Then, some unlucky idiot had the mishap to rise and name—

“Mr. Alexander Lyon,” tearfully adding—“‘Though lost to sight, to memory dear.’”

And a panic fell upon all that part of the company who knew or suspected the state of the case with that interesting absentee.

But old General Lyon quickly dispelled the panic. Would that true gentleman suffer Drusilla’s feelings to be wounded? No, indeed. He was the very first to fill his glass and rise to his feet. His example was followed by all present. And unworthy Alick’s health was drank with the rest. And while the brave old man honored the toast with his lips, he prayed in his heart for the prodigal’s reformation and return.

And oh! how Drusilla understood and loved and thanked him!

Other speeches were made and other toasts drank.

Then tea and coffee were handed around.

And one set of feasters gave way to another, like the flies in the fable of old.

The rising set immediately went out upon the lawn, where the brass band was in full play on their stand, and where quadrilles were performed upon the greensward.

The feasting in the house and the music and dancing on the lawn was kept up the whole of that bright May day, even to the going down of the sun.

Never before had the youth of the neighborhood had such a surfeit of frolicking. They voted that a marriage in May weather, and by daylight, with unlimited dance music, greensward, sunshine and sweetmeats, was the most delightful thing in the world.

In the very height of the festivities, at about four o’clock in the afternoon, the bride, attended by Drusilla, slipped quietly away to her own chamber and changed her bridal robes and veil, for a traveling habit of silver gray Irish poplin, and a bonnet of gray drawn silk.

The traveling carriage had been quietly drawn up to the door where Richard Hammond waited to take away his bride, and General Lyon stood to bid farewell to his child.

When Anna was ready to go down, she turned and threw her arms around Drusilla’s neck and burst into tears.

“Oh, Drusa!” she sobbed, “be good to my dear grandfather. Oh! love him, Drusa, for my sake! I was all he had left, and it must be so hard to give me up! Oh, Drusa, love him and pet him. He is old and almost childless. When I am gone, put little Leonard in his arms; it will comfort him; and stay with him as much as you can. It is so sad to be left alone in old age. But I know, my dear, you will do all you can to console him without my asking you.”

“Indeed I will, dear Anna,” said Drusilla, through her falling tears.

“I will not be gone long. I shall be back in three weeks at farthest. I do not like to leave him at his age. He is past seventy. His time may be short on earth. How can I tell? That was the reason why I would not go to Europe for my wedding tour. But oh, Drusilla, I did not know how much I loved my dear grandfather until this day. And to think that in the course of nature I must lose him some day, and may lose him soon,” said Anna, weeping afresh.

“My darling Anna, your grandfather is a very strong and hale old man; his habits are regular and temperate, and his life quiet and wholesome. He is likely to live twenty or thirty years longer,” answered Drusilla, cheerily.

“Heaven grant it,” fervently breathed Anna.

And then she turned and went down-stairs, followed by Drusilla.

“Good-by, my darling. I will kiss you here. I must save the last one for my dear grandfather,” said Anna, embracing her friend at the foot of the stairs.

“Good-by, and Heaven bless you!” responded Drusilla, heartily.

Anna went forward to General Lyon, who took her in his arms, and smiling, kissed and blessed her. And his last words, as he gave her into the charge of her husband, were cheerful:

“You will have a delightful run by moonlight up the bay, my dear,” he said.

Anna, striving to keep back her tears, let Dick lead her to the carriage, and place her in it. He immediately followed, and seated himself by her side. Old Jacob cracked his whip, and the horses started.

So quickly and quietly had this little scene passed, that the carriage was bowling along the avenue before the company on the lawn suspected what was being done.

Then, eager whispers of:

“The bride is going! the bride is going!” ran through the crowd.

And quadrilles were suddenly broken up, and dancers came flocking to the door, knowing that they were too late to bid her good-by, yet still exclaiming to each other:

“The bride is going! the bride is going!”

“The bride is gone, my dear young friends,” said General Lyon, kindly, “but she leaves me to make her adieus, and to pray you not to let her departure interrupt your enjoyment. The bride and bridegroom have to meet the Washington steamer that passes the Stormy Petrel landing at about nine o’clock. Now, ‘on with the dance!’”

And the young folks immediately took the old gentleman at his word, and the music struck up, and the dancing recommenced.

And so Anna and Dick departed for Washington city on their way to New York.

Much discussion had been held on the subject of that marriage tour. Many suggestions had been made. Europe had been mentioned. But Anna had scouted that idea.

“None but a lunatic,” she had said, “would ever think of taking a sea voyage, and risking sea-sickness in the honeymoon.”

And for her part she positively declined putting Dick’s love to so severe a test in the earliest days of their married life.

Such had been Anna’s outspoken objection to the trip to Europe. But her secret objection was that it would take her too far and keep her too long from her beloved and venerable grandfather. So at last it had been settled to the satisfaction of all parties that they should make a tour of the Northern cities. And now they had gone.

But the wedding guests remained. The music and the dancing were kept up without flagging until the sun set, and the darkness and dampness of the night had come on.

Then the two self-appointed “marshals of the day” took upon themselves to pay and discharge the brass band.

The company soon followed the musicians, and old Lyon Hall was once more left to peace and quietness.

CHAPTER X.
GENERAL LYON’S CONSOLATION.

In this dim world of clouding cares

We rarely know till wildered eyes

See white wings lessening up the skies

The angels with us unawares!—Massett.

After the last guests were gone, the house was very quiet.

General Lyon went up to his study.

Drusilla lingered a little while below to give orders to the servants.

“Close up all the rooms on this floor now. Disturb nothing until morning. I wish everything to be kept very still so that the General may rest and recover from the fatigue of this exciting day. Marcy, have the tea served in my sitting room. Leo, do you be up early in the morning and see that the breakfast parlor—the little one—is made very tidy before we come down. The other rooms had best be left closed until the General goes for his daily ride. Then they can be restored to order.”

Having thus given her directions to ensure the comfort of the old gentleman, Drusilla went up into the nursery where her little Leonard was laughing, crowing and screaming in his nurse’s arms.

“I do think as he’s beside himself, ma’am,” said Pina. “He’ll never get over this wedding as long as he lives. When I had him out on the lawn there, and the band was playing and the ladies and gentlemen were dancing, he jumped so as I could hardly keep him from leaping out of my arms.”

“He did enjoy it as much as any of us, didn’t he, Pina?” said the young mother, standing and smiling over the nurse and child.

“Oh, didn’t he though, ma’am? Look at him now; it’s in him yet! And such a time I had bringing him in the house. He did not want to come in at all, even after the music went away. He didn’t cry, ma’am, but he made such signs, and then he fought. Yes, indeed he did, ma’am, he fought me in the face because I brought him in.”

“Why, Pina, I can hardly believe it!”

“But, you may, ma’am! Oh, he’s got a will of his own, I do tell you! I couldn’t make my peace with him until I had lighted all the wax candles in the place! See what an illumination there is, ma’am! Enough to blind any body but a boy baby. And such work to get him undressed. He wouldn’t have his finery off forever so long. He wanted to dance in it. And then, after I had loosened it and got it off little by little with sheer conjuration, would you believe it, ma’am? he wanted to dance in his sacred skin, like a North-American Indian! I have got his night-gown on at last; though how I ever got it on with his prancing and dancing, goodness knows. But, as for his little red shoes, I’ll defy mortial man or woman to get them off his feet except by main force! When I try to do it he kicks so fast you would think there were nineteen pair of feet in nineteen pair of boots instead of one!”

“Lenny will let his mammy take off his boots,” said Drusilla, kneeling by the baby’s feet and making an essay.

Lenny would let his mamma do a great many things to him, but he would by no means let her remove his red shoes. His little legs flew so fast in resistance that you could not have told one from the other.

“He means never to part with them, ma’am,” laughed Pina.

“We can take them off when he goes to sleep,” smiled Drusilla.

“But there’s no sleep in his eyes, ma’am, nor won’t be for hours! He’ll keep awake to watch his boots and to dance! Goodness gracious me! My arms are almost pulled out of their sockets holding him while he dances.”

“I will take him presently, Pina, as soon as I change my dress,” said Drusilla.

And she went and took off her wreath of roses, her necklace and bracelets of pearl, and her rich moire antique dress; and put on a neat white muslin wrapper, whose pure color and perfect fit became her well.

Then she took her dancing babe; but not to put him to sleep just yet. Little Master Leonard had a duty to do before he could be put to bed. She carried him into the next room, which was her own pretty private parlor.

The room was very inviting. A small, cheerful wood fire, very acceptable this chilly May evening, was blazing on the hearth.

The tea-table with its snowy, damask cloth, its silver service and clear China, was standing before the fireplace.

A large easy chair, with a foot cushion was drawn up on the right side; and Drusilla’s own little sewing chair was on the left.