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

CHAPTER I. UNCHANGING LOVE.

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.

6And 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:

7“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 8was 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 9out 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 10exultation 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.

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:

12“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 13no 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 14has 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, 15whiles 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?”