Chapter III

THE HOUSELESS WANDERER AND THE BRIDE ELECT.

They whispered—sin a shade had cast,
Upon her youthful frame,
And scornful murmurs as she past
Were mingled with her name.

“She is not beautiful,” they said,
I saw that she was more;
One of those women, women dread,
Men fatally adore.—ANON.

And the homeless wanderer through the wild winter-night, she who had called herself Anna Lyon, stood in the presence of the bride elect.

“Drusilla! Drusilla Sterling! Is it you? Is it really you! Oh, my poor child, how happy I am to see you!” exclaimed Miss Lyon, in the utmost surprise and delight, as she advanced with extended hands to welcome her unexpected guest.

Drusilla suffered her cold fingers to be clasped, and she raised her soft, appealing eyes to the young lady’s face; but she spoke no word in reply.

“Oh, my dear child, how sorrowful we have been for you! Why did you leave your home? Where have you been? What have you been doing? Where did you come from last? And how came you out on such an awful night? And oh, poor girl! in what a state you have come back? Don’t try to answer any of my questions yet! You must be warmed and fed first,” said Miss Lyon, who in her excitement had hurried question upon question to the exhausted girl, and seeing that she could not answer, repented her own thoughtless vehemence, and turning to her servants, said:

“Marcy, take off her cloak and hang it up, and sit her down in that arm-chair before the fire, and remove her wet shoes. And, Jacob, go down stairs and ask Mrs. Dill to send up a glass of hot port wine negus, and some warm, dry toast. And be quick about it!”

Jake hurried away to do his errand.

And the young wanderer permitted the old nurse to remove her cloak, and seat her in the chair before the fire, and take off her wet boots.

Marcy had not failed to see the fact that had also been apparent to the old woman at the toll-gate. And as she was passing out of the room with the wet cloak over her arm, and the wet shoes in her hand, she stopped and whispered to her young mistress:

“Lord pity her, poor thing, I’m right down sorry for her; but she is not fit to be in your presence, Miss Anna.”

For an instant the pure and high-born maiden recoiled with a look of pain and horror; but then quickly recovering herself, she murmured:

“Hush, no more of that. Take those damp things from the room and hang them before one of the spare fires, Marcy.”

And when the woman had gone, Miss Lyon walked up to the poor wanderer and laid her hand tenderly on her shoulder.

The little pale face turned itself around to hers. The soft pleading eyes were raised:

“Yes, Miss Lyon, that is well. Send all your women from the room, for I must speak with you alone,” she murmured, in a voice vibrating with suppressed anguish.

“Speak to me, then, my child; and speak freely. No mother could listen to your story with more sympathy than I shall,” said the heiress, drawing a chair to the fire and sitting down near the girl.

“You are not yet married? the ceremony has not yet been performed?” the wanderer inquired, looking wistfully at the bride.

“No, certainly not, or I should not be here; we are waiting for the minister. Did you want to see the pageantry, my child? If so, you can do so,” said the bride elect, smiling, as if to encourage her desponding protegée.

“_I_ want to see it! No, Miss Lyon, I came here to-night to put a stop to it,” exclaimed the girl.

“To put a stop to it! Drusilla, are you mad, my dear?” said Miss Lyon, in amazement.

“I wish I was! I should have no duties to do then! Oh, Miss Lyon!”

“Explain yourself, my dear Drusilla; for indeed I fear some great grief has distracted your mind.”

“No, no; but oh, Miss Lyon, I am about to give you great pain! as great almost as I suffer myself. Would I could suffer alone! Would I could suffer for both!” moaned Drusilla, in a voice full of woe, as she bowed her head upon her hands.

“Speak out; speak freely,” said Miss Lyon, gravely.

“If I alone were concerned, I could be silent. If it were not to save one from crime and another from misery I could be silent.”

“Nay now, nay now, you do alarm me, Drusilla! To the point, dear child! to the point!” urged Miss Lyon.

“You are thinking ill of me?” asked the girl, raising those meek prayerful eyes to the face of the young lady.

“No, Drusilla! No one can judge you with more leniency than I shall, my poor, dear child. Do not fear to open your heart to me,” said Miss Lyon.

“I have no cause to fear on my own account, lady. You said that you would judge me with leniency. You meant that you would judge me with charity. But I am not a subject of charity, Miss Lyon, I am a subject for justice,” answered the girl, with gentle dignity.

“I am waiting to hear your communication, Drusilla, whenever you please to tell it to me,” said Miss Lyon.

But at that moment the door was opened, and Matilda entered with a tray in her hand.

“If you please, Miss, ole Marse say how the carriage hasn’t come back long o’ the min’ser yet, and when he comes he will send and let you know,” the maid announced.

“Very well, Matilda; what have you got covered up on that tray?” inquired Miss Lyon.

“Please, I overtook Jake, awkward fellow, tumbling up stairs with this in his hands, which he said he was ordered to fetch it up for some one as was with you, and took it away from him to fetch it myself, because if I hadn’t, he’d have fallen down and broken all the glass and spilt all the wine,” answered the girl, turning a wistful glance upon the stranger.

“Quite right! Put the tray on that little table, and set the table here by the fire, and leave the room,” said Miss Lyon.

The maid obeyed orders.

When she was gone Miss Lyon uncovered the tray, and pressed the refreshments upon her visitor.

Drusilla eagerly drank the warm wine and water, but declined the dry toast.

“I have so much thirst all the time, but I cannot swallow a morsel of food, for it always chokes me!” she said, in explanation.

When the girl had emptied the glass, she seemed somewhat revived in strength, and Miss Lyon again suggested that she should make the communication she promised.

With a deep sigh, with her head bowed upon her bosom and her hands clasped upon her knees, the girl began the story of her short life and long sorrow.

But perhaps we had better tell it for her, because, for one reason, she suppressed much that would have vindicated herself; since to have related it would have criminated another. We will, with even-handed justice deal fairly by both.