Chapter II: At the Old Hall

Yes, there thou art below the hill,
By evergreens encircled still,
Old hall that time hath deigned to spare,
Mid rugged rocks and forests fair,
And nightshade o’er the casement creeping,
And owlet in the crevice sleeping,
And antique chairs and broidered bed,
By housewife’s patient needle spread.—ANON.

Old Lyon Hall lay at the foot of the Porcupine, an offshoot of the Alleghanies, in one of the wildest and most picturesque counties in Virginia.

It was built in the Tudor style of domestic architecture, very irregularly, with many gable ends, gothic windows and twisted chimneys. Its walls of old red sandstone contrasted gloomily with the dark hue of the evergreen trees that bristled up above it, and gave the mountain its descriptive name.

Heavy woods, bare, gray crags, and tumbling torrents surrounded it, and gave a savage and sombre aspect to the scene. Below the Hall a turbulent little river, spanned by a rustic bridge, rushed and roared along its rocky bed.

The Hall was very old. It had been built nearly two hundred years ago by a Scotchman named Saul Sauvage Lyon, who had received a grant of the land from James the First. It had remained ever since in the family of the founder, whose descendants had frequently distinguished themselves, as soldiers, or statesmen, in every epoch of the country’s history, either as a colony or a commonwealth.

Some few years since, being the date of this story, the master of the Old Lyon Hall and Manor was General Leonard Lyon, a retired army officer, and a veteran of the war of eighteen hundred and twelve.

General Lyon had married very early in his youth, and had enjoyed many years of calm domestic happiness. But now his wife and children were all dead, and his only living descendant was his grandchild, the beautiful Anna Lyon, “sole daughter of ‘his’ house.”

Added to the great sorrow of bereavement was vexation, that, for the want of male heirs, his old family estate must at last “fall to the distaff.”

But there might be found a remedy to this lesser evil.

General Lyon had a younger brother, Chief Justice Lyon, of Richmond. And the chief justice had an only son.

Young Alexander Lyon was a bright, handsome, attractive lad, a few years older than his cousin Anna.

Under all the circumstances, if it was not perfectly proper, it was at least natural and pardonable that old General Lyon should wish his grand-daughter to become the wife of his nephew, so that while she inherited his estate, she might perpetuate his name.

Quite early in the childhood of the boy and girl, the general proposed their betrothal to the chief justice, who eagerly acceded to the plan. And so the affair was settled—by the parents. It was not considered necessary to consult the children.

Alexander was sent to Yale College, where, for a few years, he led rather a fast life for a student.

And Anna was placed at a fashionable boarding school in New York, where she had a great deal more liberty than was good for her.

Twice a year the young persons were permitted to meet—when they spent the midsummer vacation at old Lyon Hall, where the chief justice and his wife also came on a visit to the general, and when they kept the Christmas holidays at the splendid town house of the chief justice at Richmond, where the general also went to pay back his brother’s visit. This arrangement was of course very agreeable to all parties.

But as the boy and girl grew towards manhood and womanhood, it was thought well to change this routine. And so, sometimes in the midsummer vacation, the whole party, consisting of both families, would go for a tour through the most attractive places of summer resort. And at Christmas they would keep the holidays in Washington.

On all these occasions the young lady and gentleman, under the auspices of their elders, entered very freely into the fashionable amusements of the season, with the understanding, however, that they were not to fall in love, or even to flirt with any one but each other.

Miss Lyon and Mr. Alexander seemed at first to have no particular objection to this arrangement. They had always been fond of each other, much fonder than of any one else. But ah! theirs was not the love that would excuse, much less justify marriage.

It has been said that when two persons of like complexion and temperament intermarry, wise nature and sacred love have had nothing to do with the union. And the truth spoken to-day is as old as the creation of man.

Anna and Alexander were of the same complexion and the same temperament; both were plump, fair, blue-eyed and yellow-haired, both lively and fond of pleasure, and both, on the surface, and in matters of little moment, were amiable and yielding, but below the surface, and in affairs of importance, resolute and determined as destiny and death. In person and in character they were as much alike as twin brother and sister.

This similarity, while it made their association as relatives very agreeable, utterly precluded the possibility of their becoming lovers, in the common sense of the word. They did not know this, when their hearts were entirely free from any other attachment that might have awakened their consciousness.

There was no immediate hurry about the projected marriage. It was certain to take place, the parents concluded, and so they neither worried themselves nor their children prematurely.

Alexander had to finish his college course, to graduate and to make the “grand tour,” as was usual with young gentlemen of his position.

When he should have accomplished all this, he would be about twenty-three years of age and his bride elect would be about eighteen—both quite young enough to marry, the old folks argued.

The plan was partly carried out.

Alexander Lyon graduated with honors and embarked for Europe. He travelled over quite a considerable portion of the Eastern Continent. He was gone two years, at the end of which he returned to claim his promised bride.

Active preparations were made for the marriage. But fate seemed to be against it. A few days before the one set apart for the ceremony, while the whole of both families were assembled at Old Lyon Hall to do honor to the occasion, Chief Justice Lyon was suddenly struck dead by apoplexy. Instead of a wedding there was a funeral, and the family went into mourning for a year.

At the end of that time preparations were again made for the marriage, which was again arrested by the hand of death.

A malignant fever was prevailing, and Mrs. Lyon, the widow of the chief justice, was one of its first victims.

At length, at the close of this second term of mourning and seclusion, the household awoke as from a nightmare dream and busied itself with blithe bridal affairs.

The splendid city mansion and the fine old country house of the late chief justice were both renovated and refurnished in costly style for the reception of the new mistress.

It was settled that the marriage should take place early in November. In accordance with the old-time prejudices of General Lyon, it was to be solemnized, in the evening, in the great drawing-room of Old Lyon Hall, in the presence of a large party of friends, who were afterwards to be entertained with a ball and supper. The bride and groom were to leave the next morning for a short tour, after which they were to go to Richmond and settle down for the winter in their town house, where they were to be joined by the general.

Such was the arrangement. But “man proposes and”—you know the rest.

The autumn weather that had been glorious with the “excess of glory” in a genial, refulgent and prolonged Indian Summer, suddenly changed. The wedding-day dawned threateningly. No sun shone on it. Heavy black clouds darkened the sky; wild, mournful winds wailed through the woods; violent gusts of rain dashed suddenly down at intervals and as suddenly ceased.

The inmates of the old Hall watched the weather in hope and fear. Would it clear up? Or would it grow worse? they asked themselves and each other. Certainly there was no sign of its clearing; quite the contrary, for as the day declined the storm thickened.

Fires were kindled in every room of the old house.

In the great drawing-room the two broad fire-places, one at each end, were piled high with huge hickory logs, that were burning and blazing and filling the long room with glowing light and genial warmth, all the more comfortable and delightful in contrast to the tempestuous weather without—shining on the tall brass andirons and fender; shining on the polished oak floor, with its rich Turkey rugs laid before each fire-place and sofa; shining on the wainscotted walls with their time-honored family portraits; shining on the bright black walnut furniture; and on every surface and point that could reflect a ray of light.

This fine old-fashioned drawing-room was as yet vacant, waiting for the evening crowd of wedding guests, if indeed the state of the weather and the roads should permit them to assemble.

Fires were kindled in the long dining-room, where a sumptuous supper was laid out for the expected company; and in all the bed-chambers which had been opened and aired, cleaned and decorated for such of the guests as should come from a distance, and need to change their dress and perhaps to lie down and rest.

In one of the most spacious and comfortable of these upper-chambers, late in the afternoon of this day, sat the bride elect.

She reclined in an easy chair, with her feet upon the fender and her eyes fixed moodily, dreamily upon the glowing fire before her, and listened to the beating storm without.

Here in this room, also, the ruddy blaze shone on dark wainscotted walls, relieved by crimson damask window curtains, and on a polished oaken floor, bare of carpets, except for the rugs that lay upon the hearth before the dressing-table and beside the bed.

This was indeed a lonely, silent, sombre scene in which to find a maiden on her bridal evening. The tempest raged without, and the wind and rain beat against the walls and windows as if they would batter them down. In the pauses of the storm she could hear the rushing of the swollen torrents and the roaring of the rising river. She knew that the roads must be almost impassable and the streams unfordable. In truth, no one had bargained for such weather on the wedding-day.

Of the hundred and fifty guests who had been invited, not one had yet appeared; not one of her bridesmaids; not the minister who was to perform the marriage ceremony; not even her bridegroom! And yet all these had been expected at an early hour of the afternoon.

Everything was ready for their reception and for the rites and festivals of the evening. Every nook and corner of the genial old home smiled its welcome in anticipation of the arrival of these expected guests; and yet not one of them came.

Nor, when she listened to the howling of the tempest without, could the young bride elect wonder at their absence.

Her rich and varied wardrobe and her rare and costly jewels were all packed in half a dozen large travelling-trunks that stood ready for removal outside her chamber door in the upper hall.

Her wedding-dress of rich white velvet, her large veil of fine lace, her wreath of orange-flowers, and all the accessories of her bridal costume lay out upon the bed. Yet she doubted that she should be called to wear them that night: and she sat still gazing into the fire, listening to the storm, and making no motion towards her toilet.

She looked a beautiful young creature as she sat there, with her graceful form, her perfect features, her pure complexion, her soft blue eyes and pale yellow hair.

Of what was she dreaming as she sat gazing into the fire, and heaving deep, heavy sighs? Surely not only of the storm and the trifling delay of her marriage, for she must have known that it could only be a question of a few hours, and that whoever might stay away, her bridegroom would certainly keep his appointment. What serious subject of thought had she? what _possible_ subject of grief? Idlest with youth, health and beauty, with high birth, great wealth and many accomplishments, about to form the most brilliant marriage of the year, with a gentleman who seemed her equal in all respects, if not her superior in some, about to preside over the most splendid establishment in the city and the grandest old house in the country, and to reign everywhere a queen in society, what imaginable cause of discontent could she have?

Ah, friends! did ever any of these things, in themselves alone, satisfy the hunger of any human heart—make any living creature happy?

The darling daughter, the rich heiress, the beautiful bride elect, sat and sighed and gazed, and gazed and sighed as if her heart would break.

There were secrets in the life of this motherless girl unknown to her nearest relatives, unsuspected by her appointed bridegroom. Of that more hereafter.

She sat there without moving until dark afternoon deepened into black night, and the raging of the storm became terrific. How long she would have sat thus I do not know, for just as the little toy of a clock upon her mantle-piece chimed nine her door opened, and her own maid, Matty, entered the room.

“I told you not to bring lights until I should ring for them,” said Miss Lyon, impatiently turning her head.

“I know, Miss Anna; I didn’t bring no lights. I come to tell you how Marse Alesander has jus’ arroved.”

“He has come—and through all this storm?” exclaimed Anna in a startled voice.

“Yes, Miss, which Old Marse as’ed if you was ready, and sent me up to ’quire.”

“I can be ready soon, Matty. But—has any one else come?”

“No, Miss.”

“Not the minister?”

“The which, Miss?”

“The Reverend Doctor Barbar.”

“No, Miss.”

“Then I don’t see the use of my disturbing myself yet awhile. There can be no marriage without a minister,” said the bride elect, with something very much like a sigh of relief.

“You may go, Matilda,” she added to the girl, who still lingered at the door.

Matty vanished, and Miss Lyon resigned herself to her reverie.

A few minutes passed, and Matty reappeared.

“What now?” demanded the young lady.

“Please, Miss, ole Marse have sent Jacob, with the close carriage, to fetch the min’s’er, and say he will be here in half an hour if you will get ready.”

“Matty, where is your master?”

“In his study, Miss.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Where is Mr. Alexander?”

“He’s gone up to his own room, Miss, to fix hisself.”

“Very well,” said the young lady, as she arose and left her chamber.

She passed up the broad upper hall that was now ruddy and cheerful with the light of many fires, that shone through the open doors of the waiting bedrooms, and she went straight to the little room with the bay window, at the front end, over the main entrance.

She opened the door and found her grandfather seated in his big arm-chair by his writing table, on which lay books, papers, pens, and so forth.

But the old gentleman was neither reading nor writing. He was simply sitting and waiting.

He was a very fine-looking old man, tall and stout, with a full face, noble features, fair complexion, and snow white hair and beard. He wore an evening dress of black broadcloth, with a white vest and white cravat. His white gloves lay beside him, ready for use.

“All alone, gran’pa?” inquired Anna, smiling.

“Yes, my pet—yes, my darling,” said the old gentleman, rising and handing his grand-daughter to a seat with as much courtesy as if she were a princess. “But why are you not dressed, Anna? It is late, very late.”

“Oh, gran’pa, what an awful night for a wedding! And there is no one here, and no one likely to come.”

“Yes, my dear, but it is the night appointed, and your bridegroom is in the house, and the minister will soon be here.”

“Gran’pa,” pleaded Anna, leaving her seat and coming and sitting on his knee, and putting her arm caressingly around his neck—“dear gran’pa, I cannot bear to be married under these evil auspices, without witnesses, without bridesmaids, and on a dark night and in a heavy storm. Why cannot the marriage be deferred until to-morrow morning? What difference can a few hours make? At least, what difference that is not very desirable? By to-morrow the storm will be over. The ceremony can be performed early in the morning. I can be married in my travelling dress. The supper will do for a breakfast. And we can start immediately upon our wedding tour. Say, gran’pa, may not the marriage be deferred until the morning? It is awful to be married in solitude, on a dark, stormy night. Say, dear gran’pa! _May_ not the marriage be put off until the morning?”

“My dear, no; it cannot be.”

“But—why not?”

“For many reasons. For one—Anna, I confess, old soldier as I am, to a little superstition on some subjects. This marriage has been already put off _twice_. If it should be put off a third time, it will never take place. A marriage thrice deferred never comes to pass. There, my child, go and dress. It is nine o’clock. You are two hours behind time. Alexander is nearly ready, and the minister will be here in a few minutes,” said the old gentleman, rising and gently leading his favorite out of the room.

“‘A marriage thrice deferred never comes to pass.’ I wish _I_ was sure of that, and could defer mine just _once_ more,” mused Anna, as she went back to her room. “And yet,” she added, compunctiously, “that is unjust and ungrateful to Alexander. Poor Alick! I dare say, in all these years, he has never even dreamed of any other girl but me, while I—while I—Ah, Heaven have pity on us! Well, well, I will bury the past deep in forgetfulness, and I will try to make him a good wife.”

When she reached her room she found Matty and Matty’s mother, Marcy, who was her own old nurse, in attendance. The fire was mended, the hearth swept and the lamps lighted. The two on her dressing-table shone down upon an open casket of jewels that blazed with blinding radiance.

Anna went wearily up to look at them.

“Mars’ Alic sent them in by his man, honey,” said Aunt Jenny in explanation.

It was a splendid set of diamonds, consisting of ear-rings, breastpin, necklace and bracelets.

“You will wear them, honey, dough dere ain’t anybody to see them?”

“Except the giver! Yes, auntie, I will wear them. Poor Alick!” sighed Anna, sitting down on her dressing-stool, and resigning herself into the hands of her attendants.

They went willingly to work. The task of arranging their mistress for her bridal was with them a labor of love.

Old Marcy standing behind the chair brushed and braided the beautiful hair. Young Matty on the floor, encased the dainty feet in silken hose and satin slippers. And then the beauty stood up and let them remove her wrapper and put on her robes and her wreath, and her veil. But with her own hands she clasped the diamond necklace around her throat and the diamond bracelets on her wrists, and put ear-rings in her ears, and the brooch upon her bosom.

And when her toilet was completed she looked, if looks were all, a very royal bride, fit to share a young monarch’s throne.

She sat down again and said:

“Matty, you may go and tell your master that I am ready.”

The girl left the room to take the message, but in the hall she ran against some one who seemed on his way to speak to the bride. And so she turned back to say.

“Miss Anna, here’s Jake asking if he can have a word with you.”

“Certainly. Tell the boy to come in,” said the young lady.

The son of the coachman, one of the younger grooms, entered, hat in hand, bowing low.

“Well, my boy, what is it?” inquired his mistress.

“If you please, Miss, I telled her as she couldn’t, and she said as she _must_, and I telled her as she shouldn’t, and she said she _would_,” replied Jake, rather incoherently.

“‘Would?’ what?—who? I don’t understand you, boy.”

“Her, Miss. I telled her she couldn’t, nohow, but she ’lowed she _must_, anyhow. And I telled her she shouldn’t then, there! and she ’lowed she _would_, so there!”

“Would what, Jake?”

“See you immediate, Miss.”

“_Who_ would see me?”

“Her, Miss.”

“Who is she?”

“The young woman, which I think she is crazy, Miss, and not safe to be seed.”

“Oh, dear! dear me, Jake, what young woman are you talking of?” said Miss Lyon, impatiently.

“Her as runned in out’n the storm, Miss, and said how she must see you; and I telled her she wasn’t fit to be seed herself, being drippen’ wet, nor safe to be seed, being sort o’ cracked, and—oh my laws! there she is now, a followed of me!” exclaimed the boy, breaking off in dismay, to stare with wide mouth and eyes at the opening door.

Miss Lyon turned her head in that direction, and saw standing there a slight, pale young creature, enveloped in a long gray cloak, with its hood drawn over her head and shading her face.