Chapter VII: The Girl’s First Grief

One hurried kiss, one last, one long embrace,
One yearning look upon her tearful face,
And he was gone—C. H. W. ESLING.

At ten years of age little Drusilla met her first great grief; and very heavy it was, for it nearly crushed out her life.

Mr. Alexander being twenty-two years of age, and having completed his college course, graduated with some honors, and returned home to spend a week or two of the beautiful spring weather with his parents previous to starting on his travels.

The family had not yet left the town house in Richmond, where General Lyon and Miss Anna, now a blooming young lady of sixteen, came to visit them.

During this visit it was arranged that Mr. Alexander should travel for two years and then return and marry Miss Anna, and that the young couple should take up their permanent abode at Old Lyon Hall.

But in all the interest and excitement of arranging his own and his promised bride’s affairs, Alexander did not neglect Drusilla. He had come into a little property of his own, left him by a bachelor brother of his mother; and so before he went away he said to the old lady:

“Mother, little Drusilla is going on eleven years old and ought to be sent to school. And I wish you, if you please, to look out a good one for her, the best that can be found, and send her. I wish you to do this for me at my expense. My money is in the City Bank, and I will leave you a number of blank checks, to fill up as you may require them. Will you attend to this for me, mother?”

Mrs. Lyon hesitated and pondered, and then answered:

“Yes, Alick. I can’t refuse you anything on the eve of a voyage. And I don’t see any harm in this—a good common school education——”

“Oh, mother, not that only; but the best—the very best—that can be got for her. See what a bright, intelligent, industrious little creature she is,” hastily interrupted Alexander.

“What! do you mean that she shall learn languages and music, and——”

—“Everything that a young lady is taught, mother. Everything that Anna knows. Why not? Think how small the cost, after all, to me; how great the good to her.”

“That is true, Alick. You are really a very noble-minded young man. I must say it, if you are my son.”

“Bosh, mother, begging your pardon, I’m nothing of the sort. But I like to do a good thing now and then.”

“And this will be a good thing for her. It will enable her to get her living as a governess.”

“Not a bit of it, mother; Heaven forbid that my child should ever become a governess, to be teased by stupid children and snubbed by insolent mammas.”

“Then I am afraid you and Anna will have to adopt her,” said the old lady drily.

“And what’s to hinder us? Think what a charming companion my child will be for Anna, and how much more charming if she should be well educated.”

“Why, you talk as if you were her father.”

“Well, I feel as if I was!” said the young man, as a real tenderness softened the expression of his face.

The next day Mr. Alexander left home for his distant travels.

No one took the parting hard but his mother and his “child.”

His father and his uncle shook hands with him heartily, wishing him a good voyage. His mother held him to her heart and prayed and wept over him. Miss Anna kissed him with a cordial, cousinly smack, and told him not to forget her in foreign parts.

But when he lifted Drusilla up, as he had been accustomed to do, and kissed her on the mouth once, twice, thrice, and said feelingly:

“I cannot do this when I come back again, my child!”

She clung to his bosom and gasped, but could make no reply, she was so suffocated with grief.

He set her down very gently and went away.

The general and the judge looked for the morning papers.

Miss Anna sat down to cut the leaves of a new novel.

But old Miss Lyon took the hand of the pale, tearless, motionless child, and led her away.

Little Drusilla, sensitive, impressible and inexperienced, dropped under the heavy blow that had fallen on her with all the force of a first great sorrow. She fell ill, nearly unto death, moaning, in her semi-delirium, snatches of her grief:

“Oh, don’t go! don’t go! Two years—two long, long years! Oh! so far away! His man could go with him, and not I—not I who will die about it! Oh, come back! come back, or I will die—indeed I will die!”

Mrs. Lyon soothed this distress as well as she was able, and when, after weeks of illness, the little girl grew better, the old lady told her of all Mr. Alexander’s plans for her welfare—that he had decided she must be sent to school and educated like a young lady; that afterwards she was to be taken to live as a companion to Miss Anna.

Drusilla listened very humbly and gratefully to this communication; but much as she loved knowledge, and anxious as she was to acquire it, she felt too bereaved and sorrowful to take delight in that or in anything else, as yet.

As soon as the child recovered her health, she was fitted out and put to one of the best boarding schools in the city.

Her mother made no objection, only mumbled to herself this piece of philosophy:

“If we don’t know much of the future, of this we may be certain—when we expect anything to turn out _this_ way, it will be sure to turn out _that_. I thought the child was going to be a nuisance and a bore, and behold! she is a treasure and a pet! And so it is with everything!”

And meanwhile, with one great bond of sympathy between them, the old lady and the little girl grew faster friends than ever.

But her devotion to Alexander—it grew with her growth and strengthened with her strength. It was her one faith, hope, love—her inspiration, her religion, her soul; it was a part of herself—no, her _very_ self—this all-absorbing, all-concentrating, all-devoting love to him.

His bosom was her home, though he might never let her into it; what the nest is to the bird his bosom was to her—the bourne of all her thoughts, the safe and happy resting-place of her heart, though as yet she was an exile from it.

The sphere of study was around her; it did not govern her, but served her, for all that she could get from it was drawn in to help the one great moving power of her being. She loved learning so much for his sake, that she did not know whether she loved it for its own. Her expanding intellect seemed only her enlarging love. Her advancement in knowledge seemed only to be progress towards him.

She seemed to herself to belong to him—to have been made _for_ him, made _of_ him, almost _by_ him. She was as the rib taken from her Adam’s side, conscious of her dislocation, and longing to be put back again, and made one with the life of her life. If Alexander had died at this time, I think that Drusilla would have ceased to live.

One other such case as hers I have seen in common life, and that must be nameless, and one I have met in history, the love of the child-queen, Isabella, for her grown-up consort, Richard II. And that there are many other instances of such devotion, I have no doubt.

Drusilla remained at the “Irving Institute” for nearly three years. With her love of knowledge and desire for improvement, her quick perception and retentive memory, her progress in education was both easy and rapid.

As yet she had not seen enough of the world to know herself by comparison with others, so there were some things in her school life that gently moved her wonder; first, in the study hours, to see that the pursuits which were pastime and delight to her, were labor and vexation to most of her classmates; and second, at the school parties, to which the younger brothers of the pupils were invited, to see girls of her own age actually engaged in flirtations with boys who were no older than themselves, and who seemed to her, to be children.

With the great religion, idolatry—call the passion what you will—that inspired her soul, she could not understand such silliness in her companions, and therefore, pretty and intelligent as she was, her reserve made her somewhat unpopular.

She wrote to Mr. Alexander every week, because he had requested her to do so and she had promised, and also because writing to him was the greatest pleasure she had in this world except receiving his letters.

She wrote to him regularly every week, as I said; and about once in two months, on an average, she got a letter from him; but she could not complain for his mother got one no oftener, and both made excuses for him; he had “so much to engage his attention,” they said.

At length, when he had been gone more than two years, the letters ceased, or seemed to cease, altogether. Several months passed, and nothing was heard of Mr. Alexander. His father opined that he had passed over into Africa, where post-offices were few, and mails doubtful, and hoped that he would soon return into a more civilized section of the world, from which he would write to his relations.

Old Mrs. Lyon grieved and complained. She was sure that he had been killed by the Arabs of the Desert, or sold into slavery by the Algerine pirates.

Drusilla pined in silence, or if she opened her mouth to speak upon the subject, it was to try to encourage her old friend, and herself also. She told Mrs. Lyon that Bedouin outrages and Barbary piracies were horrors belonging to the past. She showed her the modern map of Africa, and pointed out how few and far apart were the points from which letters could be sent home, and she sought to demonstrate that the absence of post-offices and mail routes was the all-sufficient cause of the silence of the traveller in Africa. Thus she succeeded in cheering the old lady; and whenever Mrs. Lyon felt more discouraged than usual, she always sought Drusilla to be comforted by her.

General Lyon thought as the judge thought, that Alexander being in Africa could not write home; and he wished as the judge did, that the wanderer might soon return to Europe, civilization, and post-offices.

Miss Anna never troubled her head about the matter. She was his promised wife, and so his mother hoped that he might write to her, if to no one else. And Mrs. Lyon often wrote to Anna, to ask if she had heard from Alick yet. And Anna always answered—“I have not had a letter from him for ages. _He has forgotten me._” And Anna’s “wish was father to this thought.” And furthermore, she advised her correspondent not to be uneasy. Alick, she thought, would come back safe in time, no doubt.

People who are not anxious can be so rational!

But at length suspense was ended.

It was early in December. The judge and Mrs. Lyon were in their town house, looking forward to the annual Christmas visit of the general and Miss Lyon, when the old lady received a letter from her son. It was dated from Paris, and contained the joyful news that he had returned from Africa in perfect health and spirits, and was going over to Southampton to take the first steamer bound for New York; and that soon after they should get his letter they might expect him in person.

Mrs. Lyon, after reading this letter to her husband, and receiving his comment:

“Well, I told you so. I shall be glad when he is safe at home, though;” hurried off to the Irving Institute, to tell the joyful news to the only one from whom she would be sure of perfect sympathy, in this her great happiness.

She sent for Drusilla into the reception parlor, and told her all the news, and then read the letter to her.

The girl clung to her old friend and wept with delight.

“This letter came by the steamer that got into New York harbor on Wednesday. This is Friday, and there is another due this week! He may be in it!” said Mrs. Lyon.

“There is another due now, and he will be sure to be in it. Think, madam, the steamer that brought this letter should have been in last Saturday. The steamer that should have followed it in order must be at her pier now. We may expect Mr. Alexander by every train,” said Drusilla, as soon as she had recovered her composure.

“That is true! So we may! And, my dear child, you always say something to comfort or delight me! And you shall go home with me directly, so as to be there to welcome him when he arrives. There is nobody in the world he will be gladder to see. And this is Friday afternoon, and of course there are to be no lessons Saturday or Sunday, and so you can just as well as not go home with me and stay over until Monday. I will speak to the principal about it.”

And she rung the bell, and desired the parlor-maid who answered it to take her respects to Mrs. Irving, and say that she should be pleased to see her in the parlor.

“I told the judge to write to the general, and let him and Anna know that Alick was expected every day, so they might hasten their coming. But la! you know, my dear, these cross-country mails are so slow, it will be impossible for them to receive the letter in time to get here to welcome him on his first arrival. However, I know they will come as soon as ever they can. And I suppose we may prepare for a gay wedding soon. And no doubt you will be one of the bridesmaids. You are quite old enough—nearly thirteen, and I like the bridesmaids to be much younger than the brides.”

And so the delighted old lady twaddled on until the door opened, and Mrs. Irving entered the room.

Old Mrs. Lyon soon told her news and made her boon.

And the accomplished principal warmly congratulated her visitor, and graciously granted the request.

And Drusilla left the parlor to prepare for her ride, and in ten minutes returned, ready to accompany Mrs. Lyon home.

They reached the house in time for the old lady to hustle into the housekeeper’s room, and order sundry dishes of oysters, poultry, game, pastry, cakes and jellies added to the bill of fare for supper.

“For you know he may arrive by the nine o’clock train—that is the first one in,” said the old lady.

“Who may arrive, Madam?” inquired the housekeeper, who had not heard one word of the good news.

“My son, to be sure, you stupid woman—who else?” exclaimed Mrs. Lyon, delightedly. And then she poured forth the news of the letter she had received from him.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Sterling. And she turned and kissed her daughter, inquiring:

“How came you out of school?”

“Madame brought me home with her to welcome—my benefactor,” answered Drusilla, returning her mother’s kiss.

“Oh,” said the housekeeper a second time. “Well, I’m going to be very busy to get up all these dishes in time for supper, so don’t interrupt me.”

“Can I not help you?” asked Drusilla.

“No, you would only hinder me. I have no time to direct new hands now,” answered her mother.

“Come with me, Drusilla, my dear, and we will go and see that his rooms are opened and aired,” said the old lady, beckoning to her favorite.

They went up stairs together, attended by Mary, the colored housemaid. This girl herself could have done the duty well enough alone; or at most with the instruction of either Mrs. Lyon or Drusilla; but both chose to see to the work and make it a labor of love.

The handsome bed-chamber, with dressing-room and bath attached, was opened and aired. A fine fire of sea coal was lighted in the polished steel grate. His rich dressing gown was taken out from the sandal-wood chest into which it had been packed with sundry other garments he had left at home: and it was shaken well and hung over the resting chair beside the fire. His slippers were laid upon the rug. A complete and well-dried change of clothing was spread out upon the bed.

“For you see, my dear, his luggage may not be here for hours after he arrives; and he will want to change his dusty travelling suit for clean clothes as soon as possible, so as to be sweet and nice and comfortable for the evening,” said Mrs. Lyon, as she laid a couple of fresh, scented pocket-handkerchiefs beside his other personal equipments.

Then fine soap and fresh towels were laid upon his wash-stand. And the Bohemian glass bottles on his dressing-table were filled—one with Cologne water and the other with Macassar oil. Finally the wax candles each side the glass were lighted. And then, after a glance around to see that all was right, Mrs. Lyon called Drusilla and the housemaid to come after her, and left the apartment.

She passed to her own chamber and put on her best black moire antique dress, and her finest point lace cap and collar.

And then she went down into the drawing-room to wait for her son.

“And after all, we have no assurance that he will come to-night. We do not even know that the steamer is in, or if it is, that he is aboard,” sighed the aged mother impatiently.

“He will come to-night, Madam. In one hour he will be here. I feel sure that he will,” said Drusilla, cheerfully.