Chapter XVII: How the Parted Met

They seemed to those who saw them most,
The careless friends of every day,
Her smile was still serene and sweet,
His courtesy was free and gay;
Yet if by one the others name
In some unguarded hour was heard,
The heart they deemed so cold and tame
Would flutter like a captured bird.—MONCTON MILNES.

A few days after the Derby, Anna and Drusilla sat in their private parlor at the hotel, waiting for the return of the General and Dick, who had gone out to keep an engagement with Francis Tredegar, but had promised to be back in time to take the ladies to the Tower.

Little Lenny was out with his nurse in the square.

The conversation between the two young women turned upon the gipsies.

“It is wonderful, their seeming powers of prophecy or second sight,” said Anna.

“I wash I could know their skill to be second sight, since they prophesied to me such smooth things; but, in truth, I think it was only INSIGHT,” replied Drusilla.

“‘Insight?’”

“Nothing more.”

“But how did she know that Lenny was not my son when I told her he was?”

“By that same gift of insight, which I think they cultivate to a great perfection. She read you, Anna—she saw through you. She knew by your manner that you were Dick’s wife; but also that your bright face had never been clouded by a mother’s cares.”

“And by the same power she divined that you were both wife and mother.”

“Yes; she looked in my face, not in my hand. They say that ‘every face is a history, or a prophecy,’—certainly every face seems to be both to these skilful physiognomists, the gipsies.”

“It is their insight, then, that gives them such knowledge of human nature?”

“Of course. They may be very ignorant of books, but they are very learned in men and women.”

“You must have studied the gipsy while she was studying you.”

“I did, Anna. I watched her and others of her tribe while they were telling fortunes. I saw their _in_sight gave them a _fore_sight that the ignorant and superficial might mistake for supernatural powers of second sight and prophecy. I saw how they worked. For instance, they know as a general fact that the wishes of the young run upon love; those of the middle-aged upon money and worldly success; those of the old upon long life. Therefore, to the young they always promise success in love; to the mature, success in money matters; to the aged, length of days. If they see a look of sorrow upon a young face, and no apparent cause, like a suit of deep mourning, for it, they will tell the dupe that he or she has been crossed in love, but that all will end well. If a look of care upon a middle-aged face, they will speak of monetary anxieties; but they will also promise a fortunate issue to the difficulty. If of weariness upon an old face, they will still talk of long and happy years to come. Moreover, they think since opposites usually attract each other, that it is safe to tell a blonde young lady that a dark young gentleman is thinking of her, and a brunette that her thoughts favor the attachment of a certain fair ‘complected’ gentleman; and generally they hit the truth.”

“Yes, the rule most generally holds good. Witness Alick, Dick, you and me. Alick, a blonde, jilted me, another blonde, for you, a brunette. And I was very willing to be left free to marry my dark-haired Dick.”

While Anna spoke the door opened and little Lenny entered, dragging in his nurse, and full of excitement.

“Man! man! div Lenny dit!” he exclaimed, holding out a silver whistle to view, and then putting it to his lips and blowing a shrill blast.

“Oh! oh! oh! goodness sake what lunatic gave the boy that? We shall be deafened!” exclaimed Anna, clapping her hands to her ears.

Drusilla trembled with pleasure, for she instinctively knew the donor of the whistle; but she smiled and lifted the boy in her arms, called Pina to follow, and went to her own room.

“Who gave it to him, Pina?” she asked, as soon as she had shut the door.

“His father, ma’am.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“We were walking around the square, when all of a sudden who should come up but Mr. Alick—I mean Lord Killpeople, as they call him here.”

“Killcrichtoun, Pina.”

“Well, Killchristians, ma’am; it’s all the same, only worse, because of course it is much more devilisher, begging your pardon, ma’am, to kill Christians than it is to do to common people. Any ways, up he comes.”

“And——What then? Go on.”

“I didn’t go in, ma’am, though I was minded to. I did as you directed me to do on such occasions. I stopped and made a curtsy, and handed little Lenny forward so as to place him in front of me facing of his father. And says he:

“‘How do you do, Pina? When did you arrive? Whom did you come with?’

“And then, without waiting for me to answer them questions, he lifted up little Lenny in his arms, and says he:

“‘Whose child is this?’ And says I, ‘He is General Lyon’s grandnephew, sir, if you please;’ for I was sure all the time he knowed well enough it was his own.

“‘I didn’t ask you whose nephew he is; I asked you whose child he is.’

“‘The same child whose hair you cut, sir, please,’ I answered.

“‘Bosh, girl, you trifle with me! Whose son is he?’

“‘Please, sir, I thought you knew. He is Mrs. Alexander Lyon’s _own_ son, and Mr. and Mrs. Hammond’s and General Lyon’s godson.’

“‘Humph! what’s his name?’ says he.

“‘Master Leonard Lyon, sir,’ says I.

“‘Then as I am Lord Killcrichtoun, he is the Master of Killcrichtoun!’”

“‘LORDS AND MASTERS, sir! you don’t say so?’ says I.

“And he frowned at me, black as thunder; but little Lenny began to prattle to him, and he smiled and told me to follow him. And he took us to a fine silversmith’s shop in the Strand, and bought him this whistle. And then he told me to take the boy home to his mother, as it was growing too warm to keep him out in the sun.”

While Pina spoke, Drusilla’s tears fell fast; but she wiped them away and inquired:

“You know, Pina, when we first came here, he was lodging in this house. But I have not seen him lately. Do you know whether he is still here?”

“No, ma’am, he isn’t. I asked that very question of the waiter; and he told me ‘my lord’ had gone and taken apartments at ‘Mivart’s.’”

“We drove him away, I suppose,” muttered Drusilla to herself.

“Ma’am, I don’t think Mrs. Hammond or Mr. Dick, or the General knows of Mr. Alick being about. If they ask me who gave Master Lenny the whistle, am I to tell?”

“Certainly, Pina.”

Drusilla was interrupted by a rap at the door. The voice of Anna without called:

“Grandpa and Dick have returned, and the carriage is waiting, Drusa. Are you ready?”

“Quite ready, dear,” answered Drusilla, hastily tying on her bonnet, and then going out and joining Anna.

They went to the drawing-room, Drusilla leading Lenny who was shrilly blowing upon his whistle.

“_Miserabile!_ Young gentleman, that will not do. The other guests will lay complaints and the proprietor will give us warning,” exclaimed General Lyon.

“Who gave Lenny that?” inquired Dick.

“Man, man in tware give Lenny dat,” said the imp, taking the instrument of torture from his lips to reply, and then putting back and puffing out his cheeks to blow an ear-piercing blast.

“Christopher Columbus! that will never do. ‘Man in the square.’ What man gave the child such a nuisance as that? Was it Spencer, or any of our people?” demanded the General.

“It was his father,” calmly replied Drusilla.

A sort of panic fell upon the party. The short spell of silence was broken by General Lyon.

“Humph! humph! humph! humph! so _he’s_ turned up again, has he? Where did he see the boy, my dear?”

“Uncle,” said Drusilla, “he was lodging at this house, when we first came. He left, I think, the same evening. But he knew that we also were lodging here; for while we were driving out to leave our cards he came in and cut off a lock of little Lenny’s hair, and took it away with him.”

“When was this?”

“The first day we went driving, uncle; the day before the Derby.”

“Humph! humph! humph! And he left the same evening? and he has not been here since?”

“I believe so, uncle.”

“Humph, humph; it is clear that the sight of us sent him away. I don’t wonder at that. I only wonder it did not blast him.”

“Oh, uncle, uncle!” pleaded Drusilla.

“My dear, your love may in time—or in eternity—redeem the fellow, for ought I know. But it has not yet changed him into an angel of light or even into a decently behaved devil, for a very devil with any decency left in him would have come round long before this. Well, well, there, I see how much I distress you. I will say no more, my dear; I will say no more.”

Drusilla bowed in silence and turned away. Her heart was too full for utterance. Her voice was choked with emotion. She felt all the more deeply hurt by her uncle’s severe strictures upon her Alick, because she knew them to be the expression of his real and but too well-founded opinion. And neither could she resent them, coming from him. She owed him too vast a debt of gratitude. He had saved her life and her child’s life in their utmost extremity. And besides, he was Alick’s uncle, and the head of his family; he had himself, in the person of his beloved granddaughter, been deeply wronged by his nephew and so had the right to sit in judgment on him.

Thus because she heard this blame cast upon her still beloved Alick without the moral power of resenting it, she suffered in silence.

Not long, however. The cloud soon lifted itself and rolled away. Little Lenny came to her with his whistle.

“Put dit ’way. Lenny tired. Lenny daw ate,” he said, pushing the toy up into her lap.

“Put it away, mamma. Lenny is tired, and Lenny’s jaws ache and no wonder,” said Anna, smiling. “We are all glad that Master Lenny’s jaws can ache with all his tooting, as well as our ears.”

“’Top naddin’,” answered Lenny.

“‘Stop nagging’? Where did he pick up that phrase, eh, Master Lenny? You don’t hear it from any of us.”

“Come, my dears, if we are to see the Tower before dinner, we had better start at once. Is Lenny to go with us, Drusa?”

“Yes, sir, if you please.”

“You know that I always like to have the little fellow.”

“But I shall stipulate that the whistle be left behind. We shall find instruments of torture enough in the Tower; though I don’t believe the utmost ingenuity of cruelty ever thought of a child’s whistle wherewith to torment a victim. That was left for Mr. Alick.”

“Come, come, Anna, I will not have another word said against Alick, since it grieves our darling here. But I would like to know what keeps him hanging about here so long. He has been here now nearly two years.”

“Uncle,” said Drusilla, who now thought that she might as well tell all her news at once—news which indeed she had intended to tell, when the subject of Alick’s presence was first introduced, but which was then arrested on her lips by the indignant animadversions of General Lyon—“Uncle do you remember reading last winter in the London Times of a young American gentleman who claimed, through his mother, the Barony of Killcrichtoun?”

“I—think I do remember some such asinine proceeding on the part of a young countryman of ours.”

“He was your nephew, uncle, and he has made good the claim. He is now Lord Killcrichtoun. That is the reason why he stays in England, I suppose.”

“Whe—ew!” whistled the old gentleman, slowly, adding _sotto voce_, so as not to be heard by Drusilla:

“I knew he was a scamp; but never suspected him of being an ass.”

But Dick had handed Drusilla, Lenny and Anna into the carriage, and was waiting to perform the same service for his uncle, who now entered and took his seat. The drive from Charing Cross to the Tower was comparatively short, but very interesting, taking our travelers through the most ancient and historical portions of Old London.

Drawing near the grim, old fortress of the kings of England, they saw rising above the thickly-crowded buildings of the city and the turbid waters of the Thames, the central keep, or citadel, known as the White Tower, and surrounded by its double line of fortified walls and by its dry moat.

Our party alighted from their carriage at the great gate, flanked by embattled turrets at the south-western angle of the walls.

Having paid their sixpence each as entrance fee, they passed over the stone bridge across the moat and found themselves within the outer ward, between the two lines of wall.

Here, overpowered by the spirit of the past, they looked around them, feeling something of the awe that children feel in a churchyard in the dusk of evening. The spirit of the past was indeed before them—and not only in the hoary walls of the middle ages, but in the living creatures of the day; for the warders of the Tower, the Extraordinary Yeomen of the Royal Guard, commonly called the “Beef Eaters,” were dressed in the costume of the time of Henry the Eighth.

One of these stepped up to General Lyon, and saluting respectfully, tendered his service as guide.

“And there are the buildings and there the costumes, this the ground and that the sky that met the eyes of beautiful Anne Boleyn as she first came to this place a bride and a queen, and last as a victim and a convict,” murmured Drusilla, dreamily and half unconsciously.

“Queen Anne entered by that postern at the water side, when she came here in state before her coronation; but the last time she was here she was brought in by the Traitors’ Gate, a few days before her execution,” said the literal warder, speaking just as if he had been an eyewitness to both proceedings.

Drusilla stared at him, and thought he really might have been an actor in those long past tragedies; in his costume of that day he looked like a ghost of the past.

“Where was Lady Jane Grey brought in when she was brought here a prisoner!”

“Through the Traitors’ Gate.”

“Ah, it seems that all who offended majesty in those palmy days, however innocent they might have been, were traitors. Where is that Traitors’ Gate?”

“Some distance down the southern side, my lady. We will come around to it presently, when I will show it to you.”

They were now making the circuit of the Outer Ward, passing up the west side.

“There, sir, are the old buildings once appropriated to the Mint, which is now removed to a handsome edifice on Tower Hill, which I will show you,” said the guide, turning to General Lyon.

And the General and Dick gave him their attention.

But Anna and Drusilla were not interested in the mint, and remembered Tower Hill only as the scene of the execution of Lord Guilford Dudley.

Passing on, the guide pointed out many objects of interest; the two strong bastions—the Legge Mount and the Brass Mount—defending the north-western and north-eastern angles of the outer wall; the Iron Gate and Tower at the south-eastern angle; the site of the ancient Well Tower, and the remains of the Cradle Tower. Thus they came at last to St. Thomas’s Tower, which guards the Traitors’ Gate.

“There it is, ladies and gentlemen,” said the guide.

“Oh, how many fair and stately heads have passed under that awful arch!” murmured Anna.

As for Drusilla, the time for talking of these things was passed with her. She was too deeply impressed for speech.

General Lyon and Mr Hammond instinctively uncovered their heads in the presence of this dread monument of human suffering.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, here passed to their deaths the beautiful Queen Anne Boleyn, the fair Queen Katharine Howard, the lovely Lady Jane Gray, the courtly Norfolk, the accomplished Burleigh, the venerable Thomas More——”

“And hundreds and hundreds more—the victims of tyranny and bigotry,” said General Lyon cutting short the list.

“That’s so, sir,” admitted the guide. “Ah, if you had lived in those days!”

“Did _you_?” inquired Anna, turning upon him.

The guide smiled.

“I almost think I did, ma’am, sometimes—what with living here, and what with going over the history so many times a day. This way, ladies and gentlemen.”

And he led the way from the Traitors’ Gate straight across the ward to an imposing gateway defended by the Bloody Tower, leading through the embattled wall that encloses the inner ward.

“This tower,” said the guide, “is the scene of the murder of the two young princes, sons of Edward the Fourth, assassinated by order of their uncle, Richard the Third.”

“Can we enter and examine it?”

“The interior is not shown. It is occupied by some of the officers of the guard as private lodgings.”

“Oh, think of such an ancient and tragical place being occupied as a dwelling, where people eat, drink, sleep and live! I wonder what my spiritual condition would be if I lived in such a place?” said Anna, gazing on the gray walls as she passed them.

“This inner wall is fortified by twelve strong minor towers, all of them formerly used as prison-lodgings. I will show the most interesting of them as we go on,” said the guide. “But first I will take you to the White Tower,” he added, pointing to the imposing citadel that occupied the center.

“I should take that to be _the_ Tower—the Tower _par-excellence_. Pray, is that the place where the old monarchs of England used to hold their court before Elizabeth’s time?” inquired Anna.

“No, ma’am. The old Palace of the Tower was pulled down in the reign of James II. It occupied the south-east angle of the inner ward—there, you see, on the site of the present Ordnance office.”

“What a pity a building so replete with interesting associations should have been destroyed,” said Anna.

“There, ladies and gentlemen, that modern building which you see against the south wall of the White Tower, is the Horse Armory, where the equestrian statues of our kings, in their ancient armors, are arranged in state!”

“Oh, yes, we have tickets for the Horse Armory—we will see that at once, if you please!” said General Lyon.

They crossed towards the White Tower and the Horse Armory.

“You now see before you, sir, the oldest and the newest of these structures joined together. The White Tower is the most ancient as well as the most imposing of the buildings,” said the guide.

“So I should judge from its great size and central position,” remarked the General.

“It was erected, sir, in 1080 by William the Conqueror as a stronghold against enemies, the rebellious Saxons, who opposed his reign. It is a magnificent specimen of Norman architecture. The walls are of immense thickness and strength. I will take you through it presently; but here we are at the Horse Armory, which is the most modern of all the tower buildings, quite modern indeed, a work of to-day, comparatively speaking, having been built in 1826. Your tickets, sir, if you please.”

Dick, who held the tickets, passed them over to the warder, who at once led his party to an ante-room of the Armory, where they were to wait for a new guide to take them through.

“When you return here, sir,” said the guide, “I shall be happy to show you through the White Tower, and all the other towers of the inner ward.”

“Thanks,” said the General.

And the man touched his hat and fell back.

There were several other groups of sight-seers waiting in the ante-room for guides to conduct them.

And presently these guides appeared, bringing out parties they had been attending.

One of them beckoning our friends to follow him, led them straightways into a vast hall, some hundred feet in length by thirty in breadth, dimly lighted on each side by stained glass windows and decorated on the walls and ceiling with the most curious and valuable military trophies and emblems.

In glass cases under these windows were exhibited such wonders of warlike workmanship as are nowhere else gathered together—helmets, gauntlets, shields, swords, spears, lances and other specimens of armor, won from many a battle-field, stormed fortress, or sacked city, of all ages of history and all countries of the world. And each curious specimen had its equally curious history or legend.

Yet our party scarcely glanced at any of these or heard a word of the explanation uttered by their guide.

For down the centre of the vast hall, drawn up as in line of battle, was a grim array of equestrian figures, clothed in complete steel, being a line of the old kings of England from the time of Edward the First to the time of James the Second, each man and horse in the armor of his day.

“This,” said the guide, pausing before the first figure, that stood upon an elevated platform at the head of the line, “is Edward the First, in the same armor he is said to have worn on his invasion of Scotland. You perceive he is represented as in the act of drawing his sword. Observe, if you please, sir, this beautiful specimen of chain armor.”

Thus the guide went on with his explanation of these equestrian effigies of the old kings, calling the attention of his hearers to the most remarkable features of the exhibition and gaining their interest.

Each member of this party was deeply absorbed in the subject, but none so deeply as was Drusilla. Her susceptible nature received all the influence, imbibed all the inspiration of the scene. Her vivid imagination carried her centuries back to the storied age in which all these dead and gone heroes lived and acted.

“Henry the Sixth,” said the guide, pausing before the effigy of that unhappy king. “Notice, if you please, sir, this splendid specimen of scale-armor, sometimes called flexible armor.”

Drusilla gazed on, drinking in every word that fell from this oracle’s lips and deep in the romance of mediæval history when, suddenly looking up, she uttered a half-suppressed cry.

Gone were the middle ages with their tales of chivalry and minstrelsy! Vanished king and page, and knight and squire! With her was only the present—the intensely real present! For there, not ten feet from her, stood her husband, Alexander Lyon, Lord Killcrichtoun! His back was turned towards her. He stood over one of the glass cases before the stained-glass window, examining a curious Etruscan helmet.

At her half-uttered cry he turned around—and their eyes met—met for the first time since that cruel parting on the wedding-night!

But he recognized her with a cold, uncompromising stare. And then, seeing that the regards of her whole party were drawn upon him, he seemed resolved to face the situation. Walking deliberately towards them, he raised his hat slowly, bowed deeply, passed them, and went down to the opposite end of the armory.

“Humph, humph, humph, humph!” muttered the General to himself, “that is what I call cool impudence!”

Drusilla could not speak or move. She stood transfixed and motionless as any one of those grim effigies before them. She stood thus until General Lyon kindly broke the spell that bound her, by lightly laying his hand upon her shoulder and whispering:

“My dear, recollect yourself!”

She started, and recovered her self-possession at once, and in time to see little Lenny, whom Dick led by the hand, pulling at his protector, and pointing down the hall, and shouting:

“Man, man! div Lenny that _hoo_!” putting up his lips and describing in pantomime the whistle whose name he had forgotten.

“Little Lenny knew him again!” murmured Drusilla to herself.

All this did not quite escape the notice of the guide. He saw what passed, but apparently without understanding it; for, turning to General Lyon, he said:

“Lord Killcrichtoun, sir! His face is as well known here as any of these images. He is in almost every day.”

Then, reverting to his own especial business, and pointing out another effigy, he said:

“Henry the Eighth, ladies and gentlemen. Pray observe this magnificent suit of armor, damaskeened or inlaid with pure gold. It is said to be the same he wore on that famous occasion of his meeting with Francis I. on the field of the Cloth of Gold.”

“Oh, the horrid monster! I would rather look upon Lucifer’s self than Henry the Eighth’s effigy! Let us pass on,” said Anna impatiently.

And they passed on, pausing now and then to gaze upon the armed and mounted effigy of some knight or king, famous or, perhaps, infamous in history or tradition, until they reached the last one in the line—James II.—after whose day fire-arms came in and armor went out.

And so they passed from the Horse Armory to Queen Elizabeth’s Armory, occupying an apartment in the lower floor of the White Tower.

At the upper end was an equestrian effigy of the Royal Fury of Tudor, who cut off her lovers’ heads as her father before her had cut off his wives’. She was dressed in the preposterous costume of her court, mounted on a carved charger, and attended by her page. She was most appropriately surrounded by curious chains and manacles, ingenious instruments of torture, and judicial implements of death.

Conspicuous among these was the thumb-screw, the rack, the headsman’s axe, and the heading block upon which the old Lord Lovat and his companions had been decapitated.

Here, on the north side, was also a small, heavy door leading into a deep and narrow dungeon cut in the thickness of the wall, and having neither air nor light except that which entered by the doorway.

“In this dismal hole the accomplished Sir Walter Raleigh passed the long years of his imprisonment, and here he wrote his History of the World.”

“He had leisure enough for such a stupendous work; but I don’t see where he got space or light from, or how he could possibly have lived in such a dark, damp den,” said Dick.

“Oh, you see, sir, it is to be supposed that he was only locked in there at night, and had the freedom of the hall during the day.”

They next ascended the stairs to the second floor, and visited the ancient Council Chamber, where the old Kings held their Court at the Tower. This was the place of Anne Boleyn’s trial. Then on the same floor was St. John’s Chapel, the most perfect specimen of Norman architecture in the country.

All these things Drusilla saw as in a dream. She was thinking only of her husband and the cold stare with which he had met her eyes.

The guide led them from the White Tower to the green before the prison chapel—St. Peter’s.

“Stop here a moment, if you please, ladies and gentlemen,” he said.

They all paused, thinking from that point he was going to indicate some view or effect. But it was not so.

“Do you know where you stand, ladies? No? Well, you stand upon the exact spot where the head of Anne Boleyn fell under the executioner’s stroke.”

Anna impulsively sprang away. Dick and the General looked interested. But Drusilla heard him with something like indifference. Queen Anne’s sufferings were so long past and now so vague; Drusilla’s own were so present and so real. She was scarcely conscious of the remainder of her tour through the Tower buildings.

The guide led the party into St. Peter’s chapel; told them it had been built in the reign of Edward I., 1282, and showed them the flag stones in front of the altar beneath which repose the remains of the sainted Lady Jane Grey, the venerable Thomas Cromwell, the good and great Somerset, the accomplished Surrey, the brilliant Essex, and many other less exalted but no less honorable martyrs to truth and patriotism, victims to bigotry and tyranny.

Leaving St. Peter’s Chapel, our friends made the circuit of the twelve minor towers of the inner ward. These in the “good old times” were all used as prisons, lodgings for those who had had the misfortune to become obnoxious to despotism or fanaticism.

Among these the richest in historic associations is the Beauchamp Tower, popularly called the Beechum Tower, whose walls are cut all over with the autographs or other inscriptions of the illustrious dead, who in its gloomy dungeons pined away the last days of their violently ended lives.

The Brick Tower was pointed out as having been the prison of Lady Jane Gray; the Devereux Tower as that of the Earl of Essex; the Bell Tower as once the prison of the Princess Elizabeth when she was confined by the jealousy of her sister, Queen Mary; the Bowyer Tower as the place in which the Duke of Clarence was drowned in the butt of malmsey wine.

But that which filled the beholders with a deeper gloom than all the others was the Flint Tower, called for the superlative horror of its dungeons the Little Hell.

That was the last abyss of the inferno that our sight-seers looked into. The women, at least, could bear no more.

“Come,” said Anna, shuddering. “It is not evening, so we have not ‘supped,’ but we have dined ‘full of horrors.’ Let us leave the Tower with its gloomy dungeons and ghastly memories, and the Yeomen of the Guard in their devil’s mourning of black and red, for Bloody Henry Tudor, I suppose; let us get out into the pure open air, and back to the wholesome nineteenth century.”

General Lyon and Dick liberally remunerated the civil and attentive warders, and the whole party passed out of the Tower walls, entered their carriage, and returned to their hotel, where awaited them—a very great surprise.