Chapter VI: The Next Few Years

When she commenced to love she could not say,
Ere she began to tire of childish play.—WORDSWORTH.

The little girl grew to be a great favorite with the old lady; first, for her beloved and only son’s sake.

“Poor Alick was so fond of the child,” she said; though why she called the gay and prosperous young collegian “poor,” only aged mothers can tell.

Afterwards she loved the little one for its own sake.

“The child is such a quiet little creature,” she said, “and so intelligent and obliging.”

Little Drusilla had the freedom of the house. When her tasks were over in the housekeeper’s room she might wander where she would, and was tolerated like a pet kitten.

She would creep into the old lady’s sitting-room, and nestle down at her feet, ready to hold a skein of silk for her to wind; to pick up her scissors when she should drop them; to ring the bell for a servant, or to do anything else that her little hands and willing mind could accomplish.

And so it came to pass that she became useful and even necessary to her benefactress.

“You have no idea how many steps about my room the little creature saves me,” said Mrs. Lyon to the child’s mother.

“I am very glad to hear it, madam; it is her duty to make herself useful,” replied the housekeeper.

“And then she is so much company.”

“I hope she knows her place, madam, and is not pert.”

“She is a little dear, and I would not be without her for anything; so don’t be troubled.”

“I trust in you, madam, to send her away whenever she becomes annoying to you.”

“Quite right; when she becomes annoying I shall do so,” laughed the old lady.

Whenever Mrs. Lyon got letters from Mr. Alexander she read them to little Drusilla; and in no one could she have found a more attentive, intelligent and sympathizing listener. In almost every letter the young gentleman wrote:

“Give my love to my little pet, and kiss her for me,” or words to that effect.

Whenever Mrs. Lyon wrote to Mr. Alexander she would smilingly ask the child what message she had to send; and little Drusilla would answer:

“Please say I sent him a love and a kiss; and I ask our Father to bless him whenever I say my prayers.”

And the message would be faithfully transmitted.

Sometimes when Mrs. Lyon chanced to be out of her room the little girl would creep to the door of Judge Lyon’s study, and peep shyly in.

And whether the old lady happened to be there or not the old gentleman would call the child in, and pat her head, and talk to her, and feel in all his pockets for stray pennies to give her.

Little Drusilla had but one use for pennies—“to drop in the purse” that was carried around on Sundays in the Sunday school.

Mrs. Sterling, seeing how really welcome her child was, “in hall and bower,” no longer tried to keep her confined to the housekeeper’s room.

So the winter passed away, and the spring opened.

Early in the season the family, with their whole establishment of servants, migrated to Crowood, the fine old country-seat of the chief justice, situated in the dense forest-land of the valley. Of course Mrs. Sterling and her child went along with them.

Among woods, fields, and streams, birds, shrubs and flowers, little Drusilla seemed in her native element, and with her fellow-creatures. Her enjoyment of nature was intense and her delight unbounded. Her joy overflowed and communicated itself to every one in the family. Even the old justice said:

“The child makes me long to have my grandchildren about my knees; for, after all, this little one isn’t ours.”

“Well, if she isn’t she’s a pet of poor Alick’s, and that makes _me_ think a deal of her,” answered Mrs. Lyon.

The old lady was a great flora-culturist, and had one of the most beautiful flower-gardens in the country. It was her pleasure to tend it herself; and she passed much of her time in dibbling and digging, weeding and watering, planting and transplanting her favorite specimens.

And on these occasions the child was always at her heels, with little spade, rake, hoe, watering-pot, or guano basket; and she soon learned to know the name, and watch the growth of every variety of flower as well and as carefully as her benefactress could.

Mrs. Lyon was also a poultry fancier, and had some of the finest broods in the neighborhood. Moreover, she chose to look after her hen-roosts and nests in person.

And whenever she visited her poultry yard for this purpose little Drusilla would walk behind her with a basket, which she would carry full of corn for the chickens, and bring back full of fresh eggs for breakfast. And the child knew the relative merits of bantam, dominicho, duck-legged, or Spanish broods, as well as their mistress. Shanghais and Cochin Chinas were unheard of in that day.

But Mrs. Lyon’s pride of prides was her drove of cows—unexcelled and even unapproached in all the country around. And to these especially, the old lady often gave her personal attention.

And whenever she walked down to the cow-pen in the afternoon milking-time, to see for herself that her cows were in a good condition, and that her milk-maids did their duty faithfully, little Drusilla walked behind her, with a little basket in her hand full of small, sweet apples to treat the pets. And with her own little hand she would hold a small apple up to the great mouth of some prize cow, and laugh to see the long red tongue thrust out and folded around the morsel to be crunched up by the teeth. And the child knew the name and pedigree of every prodigious prize cow there, and could tell the distinctive points of the Durham, Alderney, Ayrshire, or other breeds.

In a word she became the old lady’s “shadow,” and she learned all the old lady could teach her without giving her teacher the least trouble, but on the contrary a great deal of assistance. She gained much practical knowledge, if but little book learning.

Strangers who saw them together invariably took the little girl to be the old lady’s grand-daughter; and Mrs. Lyon was always rather pleased by the mistake.

And little Drusilla was “as happy as the day was long.”

So passed the spring and half the summer.

But in the middle of July the chief justice and his wife went to the mountains, to old Lyon Hall, on a visit to the general and his daughter, where they expected to be joined by Mr. Alexander.

Little Drusilla wept over the departure of her friends; but when they were gone she occupied herself with the commissions Mrs. Lyon had left to her—left with the purpose of interesting and amusing the lonely child during her own absence. These were to weed the flower beds, feed the chickens, and take small sweet apples to the favorite cows at the afternoon milking-time.

All these pleasant tasks did the little girl gladly and faithfully perform.

Nevertheless the days seemed long, now that her dear old friends were gone.

But days and weeks, however tedious, pass away in time.

At the end of six weeks, on the first of September, the chief justice and his wife come back to Crowood.

Mrs. Lyon could not enough praise the fidelity of her little handmaiden. There was not a weed to be found in all the flower beds; the chickens were fat, and the cows in a good condition (though this last item was of course due more to the fine grazing than to the little treats of sweet apples tendered to them by the little Drusilla.)

The old lady and the child became better friends than ever. Mrs. Lyon had a great deal to tell about Mr. Alexander, and little Drusilla was never tired of listening.

And so three more pleasant months were passed at Crowood, and then the family went back to the city. They were comfortably settled in their town house by the first of December.

Mrs. Lyon went out in the carriage to shop, and took Drusilla, and purchased for her pretty, bright colored merino dresses, suitable for childhood.

Christmas came, and brought General Lyon, Miss Anna and Mr. Alexander, on their annual visit. And Mr. Richard Hammond came, an uninvited but not an unwelcome guest.

Little Drusilla was now always with Mrs. Lyon. The housekeeper had fairly given the child up to the old lady.

And Mr. Alexander, who, on this occasion was the first of the Christmas party to arrive, found Drusilla in the drawing-room, neatly dressed in a crimson merino frock, with a ruffled white apron, and with her pretty hair curled and tied back with crimson ribbons.

After affectionately greeting his mother and father, he turned to the child.

“Why—is this? No, it isn’t. Yes, it is actually my little Drusilla. Why, what a bright little bird you have grown, to be sure!” he exclaimed, snatching her up in his arms and kissing her boisterously, as she clung around his neck, smiling in delight, and timidly hiding her face.

“Well, I will say, mother, she does you credit. You have quite transfigured her. What have you been doing to her to improve her so much?”

“Giving her a little more sunshine, that is all, Alick,” smiled the old lady, greatly pleased because the son of her old age was so.

“I declare I never saw such a change in any creature. I left her a year ago, a dingy little chimney swallow. I come back, and find her a brilliant oriole. Indeed, I didn’t know her at first, and I shouldn’t have known her at all, but for her eyes and forehead; _they_ will never change. I say, father, by the way, talking of her forehead, look at it. If there be any truth in phrenology _she_ must have intellect.”

“I don’t think it requires an appeal to phrenology to prove that the child has rare intelligence,” said the chief justice.

“Intellect is a snare as well as beauty; goodness is the quality most to be desired,” remarked Mrs. Lyon, gravely. Then, speaking to the child, she added:

“Now run away into the garden and play for half an hour or so. This clear, frosty air outside is good for little girls.”

Mr. Alexander put his pet down, and then the little creature ran out of the room.

“I must beg you both, my husband and son, not to say such things as you have been saying in the child’s presence again. I have too real a regard for her to wish to have her spoiled.”

“All right, mother; I wouldn’t do anything to spoil her for the world,” said Mr. Alexander.

And the chief justice also acquiesced, for the old lady was queen-regnant in her own family kingdom.

An hour later General Lyon and Miss Anna arrived. And at night Mr. Richard made his appearance. And with the coming of Dick the holidays really commenced.

On Christmas morning a great many presents were interchanged. And while rich jewelry, furs, shawls, dresses, laces, slippers, caps, gowns and gloves were given and received, little Drusilla ran from one group to another, deeply interested and sincerely sympathizing in the pleasure and satisfaction of her friends.

“I have not forgotten you this time, little one; see here, what a lot of pretty stories to read these long winter evenings,” said Mr. Alick, unwrapping a parcel from which he took a large volume of “Fairy Tales,” profusely illustrated with splendidly colored engravings.

What child’s heart does not dote on Fairy Tales and on colored pictures?

Little Drusilla’s eyes fairly leaped with joy, and she caught the young man’s hand and kissed it eagerly, and pressed it to her heart, and put it on her head. Apparently she could not do enough to express how much she was obliged to him.

“Oh, nonsense; I’m not the Emperor of Morocco or Khan of Tartary, to be worshipped after that fashion,” laughed the young man, “and my knuckles must be knobby sort of kissing. Up here, crimson lips, and kiss me on the mouth, if nothing but kissing will relieve your mind. Come, Miss Anna won’t be jealous, not now, at least, though I don’t know what she might be if you were seventeen instead of seven.” And he took her up in his arms, and kissed her very fondly.

“And now see here,” he said, as he put her down again, “here is something else I have got for you—a pretty little _papier mâché_ writing desk, furnished completely. See, here is an inkstand and a sand box, here are pens of several sizes, and pencils of all qualities, and here are envelopes and note-paper of every color and shade. Now I know you can write a little, as well as read a great deal. So, when I go away again, I want you, instead of sending me messages, to write me nice little notes, and give them to my mother, and she will put them inside of hers, and send them to me. Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir,” said the child, gravely, as the tears stole down her cheeks.

“Now, then, what are you crying for?”

“Because you are so good to me, and—and you are going away again, and I shall not see you for—for—for a year,” sobbed the little Drusilla.

“Whe-ew! here’s borrowing trouble! Why, I shall not go for six weeks yet, and who knows but the world may come to an end before that time, and we may all go to Heaven together? Come, stop crying. What! you can’t? Hey day! Do you love me as much as all that comes to?”

“Yes, sir,” sobbed the child.

“Well, then, if you do love me, mind what I say, and stop crying. It blubbers your face all up, and makes you ugly, and I couldn’t possibly love an ugly little girl.”

Drusilla wiped her eyes by rubbing her fists into them, and then, little woman-like, turned her head aside, and stole a furtive glance at the mirror opposite, to see if she had made herself as ugly as Mr. Alexander said, and finding that she _had_, she began to compose herself.

And in a few minutes afterwards she seemed deeply interested in sorting the contents of her writing desk.

This was one of the merriest Christmas seasons that the young people of the Lyon family ever passed. The weather was very fine. Everybody was in good health and high spirits. Amusements were many and various. And where-ever the young party went they took little Drusilla with them. She was the family pet.

Bright seasons must terminate, as well as dark ones, and the merry Christmas holidays came to an end, and the happy Christmas party separated.

Again little Drusilla was inconsolable, until time reconciled her to the absence of her friend.

But she obeyed his order, given half in jest and half in earnest. She wrote a little letter to him to be put in every one that his mother sent. And real love-letters they were too, though scratched in the most awkward of infantile hands.

“I love you so; I do love you so much; I do love you more than anybody in the world; every time I say my prayers I thank Our Father for making you, and I pray to Him to bless you and to keep you good. And I do all you tell me to do, and it makes me feel glad. And I don’t do what you tell me not to do. And when anybody wants me to do anything well that is hard, they speak your name and then it seems easy for me. I let mother cut off all my long curls and did not cry, for she said that my hair would grow out so much nicer by the time you come back. But oh, how long it will be before you come back. But I won’t cry after you, for you say it makes me ugly and you couldn’t love an ugly little girl. Mother says I must not wish to be pretty; but oh, I do, because you like pretty people. But if I am good you will always like me, won’t you? Is there any little girl at college that you like as well as me? You’ve got the little dog, I know. You took him with you. To think you could take the little dog and couldn’t take me. It does seem hard, because I love you, oh so much more than the little dog could. I’m not jealous of the poor little dog; don’t think that, only it seems so hard, when I love you so much.”

Such was the sort of ardent nonsense the little child wrote to her big hero; but after all, it was no worse nonsense than many of her grown-up sisters write to the heroes of _their_ imaginations.

Old Mrs. Lyon never looked into little Drusilla’s scrawls—or, if she did, she never took the trouble to decipher them.

Mr. Alick would smile over them; because they pleased him. He liked to be loved. The preference of any dumb brute was pleasing to him; how much more so then the worship—for it was little less—of this fervent, earnest, enthusiastic little girl?

“How devoted to me the little quiz is, to be sure. Christopher Columbus! if this sort of thing should grow with her growth and strengthen with her strength, what will become of me? Bosh! by the time she is seventeen or eighteen some young prig of a parson will cut me out and there an end.”

And Mr. Alick laughed at the conceit, and thought of the black-eyed girl he had danced with at the last party.

But for all that he could not do without the child’s love or the child’s letters; and he cherished both.

This first year of Drusilla’s life with the Lyon family was a sample of several that followed.

Every Spring the family went to Crowood, taking the housekeeper and her child and all the servants with them; and Drusilla renewed her acquaintance with woods and fields and streams; and increased her knowledge of plants, poultry, cows, and animate and inanimate nature generally, from personal observation.

Every midsummer she was left princess regent of the poultry yard, etc., while her benefactors went to visit their relatives in Old Lyon Hall in the mountains.

Every autumn the family returned to Richmond to spend the winter.

And every Christmas came the grand family re-union, in which, to the child’s worshipping eyes, Mr. Alexander was the central figure. This Christmas gathering became to her the crowning glory of the year, for then she saw him. He became thus associated with all that was best and brightest in her life. He brought her the books and pictures for which already her intellect and imagination had begun to hunger. He always examined into the progress of her education; though that was scarcely necessary, for the constantly improving style of her letters to him revealed her steady advance. I believe that with her bright intelligence, she would have studied well from the pure love of knowledge, even if Mr. Alexander had never patronized her; but now all cooler motives were lost in the ardent desire to please her friend. And indeed she did please him; he was proud of her, vain of her, not as if he had been her father, but as if he had been her creator. He seemed to think, as she grew in beauty and bright intelligence, that he had made her what she was. To his apprehension, he was the sun and she the sun-flower, ever turning towards him for light and life.

Every one, who is not blindly selfish, likes to patronize where to do so costs little or nothing. Mr. Alexander’s patronage of this child amused and interested him; cost him nothing; but won for him a vast return of love and gratitude.