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.

Marcy was in attendance.

“This is all quite right. Now do you wait here until I bring the General in, and then you can serve tea,” said Drusilla, as with her baby in her arms she passed out into the hall and on towards General Lyon’s study.

She opened the door.

The little room was dark and chill, but the lights from the hall shone in, and revealed to her the form of the old man, seated at the writing table, with his arms folded on it, and his head bowed down upon them. It was an attitude of depression, of sleep or of death.

Of death! a dread pang seized her heart, and held her spell-bound in the doorway as she gazed on him. He had not heard her approach. He was not disturbed by the inflow of light. He remained, indeed, as still as death!

She was afraid to stir, almost to breathe! She had heard of old men dying just so! Oh, had not his own brother, his _youngest_ brother, died that way not three years since?—died sitting in his chair by his Christmas fire, surrounded by his whole family and friends? died with nothing on earth to provoke death? died from no excitement, no grief, no disease apparently?

And here was the elder brother, a man of like constitution, who had been severely tried this day by the parting from his beloved and only surviving child, and now had come away to this chill, dark room, and had sat in solitude for an hour or more!

Drusilla’s conscience smote her terribly for what she called the false and fatal delicacy that had prevented her from following him immediately to his retreat.

Oh! if he should be dead, dead alone in this bleak room, she would never forgive herself, though she had done all for the best.

All these thoughts and feelings flashed like lightning through her brain and heart in the moment that she stood panic-stricken in the door.

Then full of awe, scarcely breathing, she crept near him, laid her hand upon his shoulder, and murmured softly:

“Uncle.”

“My darling,” responded the old man, looking up with a smile.

“Thank Heaven!” fervently aspirated Drusilla.

“What is the matter, my darling? What troubles you?” gently questioned the old gentleman, perceiving her alarm.

“I—I found you sitting here in the cold and dark, and I feared that something ailed you. Nothing does?”

“Nothing, my child, except a little natural but unwise regret. Certainly, she had to marry. It is a woman’s destiny. And it is so well that in marrying she will not have to leave me. Still, still I feel it, darling. She was all I had left in the world.”

“She will be back in three weeks, dear uncle; back so soon that we shall scarcely have time to get the house set in order again for her reception. And now will you look at little Lenny? He has come to bid you good-night, and to ask you to come and take tea with his mamma,” said Drusilla, seating the boy on the old man’s knee.

By no manner of baby-babble could little Leonard possibly bid his godfather good-night, or invite him to tea; but he _would_ put his little arms around the veteran’s neck, and press his lips to the veteran’s mouth, and laugh, and own his love and joy.

“Ah! may heaven forgive me for being so forgetful, so ungrateful as to say that I had no one but my Anna left me in the world, when I have little Lenny and his dear mother,” said the old man, pressing the child to his bosom, and drawing Drusilla to his side. “But oh! my dear, you know how it is—how it always has been, and always will be with poor human nature in all such cases. The shepherd of the Scripture parable. He thought not of his ninety and nine sheep, safe in the fold, but he mourned for the one lost.”

“But Anna is not lost to you, dear uncle. She is only lost to sight, and that only for a little while. Think, dear uncle, in the marriage of Anna and Dick you have not lost a daughter, but gained a son.”

“That is true, my dear.”

“Think how devoted they are to you. They are as loyal to you as subjects to a sovereign.”

“I know—I know.”

“They will never leave you unless you send them away.”

“I know; I see what a morbid old fellow I have been.”

“No, no, not so, I think. Surely it is very natural that you should have such feelings; but it is also very desirable that you should rally from them.”

“And I will, my dear, I will.”

Little Leonard, fatigued by his former exertions, and perhaps also a little awed by the solemnity of the discourse, had remained still for at least three minutes. But now he recommenced to prance and dance and express his impatience in every possible way that a baby of six months old could.

“You are almost too much for my stiff old arms, little fellow!” smiled the General, as he supported the leaping baby.

“Come, let us go to my room and have some tea,” said Drusilla, rising and leading the way, followed by the old man with the child over his shoulder.

“This is snug, this is cozy, this is really very comfortable indeed,” said the General, as he followed Drusilla into the pretty, cheerful sitting-room and saw the bright fire and the neat tea-table.

“Yes, this is pleasant after our day of excitement. Now kiss little Leonard good-night and let him go to sleep,” said Drusilla, as she rang her little silver hand-bell.

Pina came in to take little Leonard, who leaped to meet her arms, for he was very fond of her.

General Lyon pressed the babe to his bosom and kissed him fondly, and then handed him over to his nurse, who bore him off to the nursery.

Then Marcy came in with the tea urn.

Drusilla made tea for the old gentleman.

The sound of Pina’s rocking-chair and cradle-song came soothingly to their ears, as to the child’s for which they were intended.

“This is very sweet and peaceful, dear, and I thank you for it all,” said the General, softly smiling.

“No, but, dear uncle, it is all your own; and it is I who should thank you for the happiness of sharing it,” quietly replied Drusilla.

“No, no, no,” said the General, shaking his head.

“Yes, yes, yes,” laughed the little lady.

They lingered long over that quiet, pleasant tea; and then, after she had rang for a servant, and had the table cleared, she went to the piano and sang and played to the old gentleman for an hour or more.

She sang all her favorite comic songs, but carefully eschewed the sentimental ones; for she wished to raise his spirits and not to melt his heart. Towards the last of her singing he came and stood behind her; and although he did not know enough of the notes to turn the pages for her at the proper moment, he stood and beat time to the music and sometimes joined in the chorus.

At last, when she thought he had had enough of it, she arose and closed the piano.

Then, after an interval of a few minutes, she took her Bible and laid it on the table before him.

He bowed his head, opened it and read a chapter aloud. And then they two joined in offering up their evening worship.

“Well, my darling,” said General Lyon, as he arose to bid her good-night, “I have to thank you for much comfort. This first evening that I dreaded so much has passed off very pleasantly. God bless you, my child.” And so he withdrew from the room.

Drusilla sat on for a little while gazing dreamily into the fire, and then she also retired to rest, drawing her sleeping infant to her bosom.

Very early the next morning Drusilla arose, dressed and went down-stairs to make sure that one room at least of all that had been thrown into confusion by the wedding should now be in order for the General’s breakfast.

She found that Leo had followed her directions, and the small breakfast parlor, that occupied an angle of the house and had windows opening to the east and south, was prepared for the morning meal.

And the doors of all the disordered rooms were closed.

She went out and gathered a bouquet of early spring flowers and put them in a vase and placed them on the breakfast table.

And then she plucked a few young buds of mint and made an exquisite julep, and sent it up by Leo to her uncle’s room.

Jacob, who had been sent at sunrise to the post-office, now returned. And Drusilla opened the mail-bag, which was found to contain nothing but newspapers, which she folded and laid by the side of her uncle’s plate.

And then she sat down to await his coming.

He came at last, smiling on her as he entered, and took his seat at the table.

“You are the angel of the house, my child,” he said—“the angel of the house! What should I do now but for you!”

“Dear uncle, what should _I_ do without _you_? What should I have done that dreadful night but for your sustaining arm? All my puny efforts to serve you can never cancel that debt. I shall never forget that night,” earnestly answered Drusilla.

“I shall never forget that night, Drusilla, for it was then I received—‘an angel unawares.’”

She could not reply to these words, but blushed so intensely that the old man forbore farther praise, and merely saying:

“But it does not become you and me to compliment one another, my darling,” he took up his newspaper.

Upon the whole, this was a very cheerful breakfast. When it was over, the old gentleman ordered his horse, and went for his daily ride.

Drusilla took advantage of his absence to set all the servants briskly to work to open the closed rooms, and clear away the debris of yesterday’s great festival, so that by the time he should return the whole house should be restored to order.

The abundant remains of the feast were distributed to the poor around.

Moreover, she sent a note to the Seymours, asking them to come and spend the evening. And the messenger that carried it brought back their acceptance of the invitation.

Drusilla and her uncle dined tête-à-tête.

In the evening the Seymours came according to agreement; and Drusilla gave them music. They stayed till ten o’clock, and then took leave.

“No wonder that old comrade of mine should go mad over your music, my darling. I am not a music-maniac myself, generally, but I am always profoundly affected by yours,” said the General, when they were gone.

Again Drusilla blushed deeply under the praise, but then recovering herself with a light laugh, she answered:

“Why, you see, uncle, I think this is the way of it. You and the Colonel inspire me. Such appreciating hearers as yourself and your friend must necessarily inspire even the very poorest performer to do her very best.”

“Tut, tut, tut, my child; you know better! But, there, I will say no more on that subject! Good night, my darling,” he said.

And so closed the first dreaded day of Anna’s absence. And all the succeeding days were quite as pleasant.

Drusilla would not let her old friend be lonesome. She planned visits for him and herself to his favorite houses; and she invited his favorite friends to dinner or to tea. She often accompanied the old man on his morning rides, her gentle white mare ambling by the side of his steady old horse. She often invited him to take a seat in the open carriage when she went out in the afternoon to give her little boy an airing.

And she played and sang indefatigably to please Colonel Seymour, so that he might come over every evening, “rain or shine,” to keep her uncle company.

Anna’s and Dick’s letters came two or three in a week. They were not very long, for they were written _en route_; but they were interesting and affectionate. They were filled with graphic sketches of their journey, and with warm expressions of tenderness for the “dear ones at home,” and messages of kind regard to good friends around. The bride and groom were moving rapidly from point to point along the Canadian frontier, so that in answering them the General and his niece had to direct their letters a few stages in advance of the travelers. As, for instance, the answer of a letter post-marked Lewisburg, would be directed to Montreal.

Thus, through one happy divertisement or another, but chiefly through Drusilla’s affectionate solicitude the “days of absence” slipped imperceptibly away; they had now brought the close of the last week of the honeymoon. The travelers were expected home on Saturday evening, and the house was in perfect order and beauty to receive the wedded pair.