CHAPTER XXXV.THE PEACE-OFFERING.—Continued.
To Alick there seemed something awful in Everage’s tremendous emotion. He had been a very handsome, fine-looking man, with that natural air of majesty and grace which not even the bitterness of poverty and servitude could take from him; but now he was all broken down.
Deep compassion moved the heart of Alick as he gazed on him.
“What is the matter, Everage?” he softly inquired.
“Coals of fire! Coals of fire!” answered the conscience-stricken man. And covering his bowed face with his hands, ‘he wept bitterly,’ as repentant Peter wept.
Alexander looked on with awe for an instant, and then turned away his head; he could not bear to see such abject grief.
At length, with an effort, Everage gained a mastery over his passion and raised his head, and with a look ofanguish still upon his face, and in a voice still vibrating with intense emotion, he said:
“You ask me what is the matter? Remorse is killing me! Remorse! and now your kindness!”
“‘Remorse,’ Everage?” exclaimed Alexander, in consternation.
“Yes, remorse! I am a criminal of the darkest dye! I am not worthy to live!”
“A criminal!—You!”
“Yes, I!—a God forsaken criminal.”
“God never forsakes the greatest criminal, being penitent. But you, Everage! I cannot understand! I cannot believe you to be a criminal,” answered Alexander, unable to recover from his consternation, and mentally running over the sins most likely to be committed by a poor gentleman under the influence of overpowering temptation. Was it embezzlement? swindling? No, he could have had no opportunity of dabbling in either of these. Was it forgery? Yes, it was most likely forgery. The poor usher had probably, under the pressure of terrible want, forged his employer’s name to a check, or a note, or something of the sort, and was now dying of remorse and shame, and perhaps also of terror. And Alick resolved to help him, if help were possible.
“Everage,” he asked kindly, “do you wish to confide in me?”
“I wish toCONFESSto you, since the offense was committed against you,” groaned the heart-broken man.
“Againstme?” exclaimed Alexander, in a tone of surprise that was not without pleasure; for he instantly thought—“Oh, if he has only forgedmyname to a cheque or a note, or anything of the sort, it will be perfectly easy to save him. It will only be for me to take up the paper without saying anything about it; or, at worst, to acknowledge the signature.” Then, speaking softly, he said:
“Tell me everything, Everage, freely as one sinner speaking to another; for I, too, have sinned too deeply to have any sort of right to judge harshly. Speak freely, Everage.”
Still for a moment the poor gentleman remained silent, he knew that, after having told all, his bosom wouldfeel somewhat relieved, yet he could scarcely bring himself to utter his own shame.
“I will tell you everything. And the more willingly because reparation is still in my power.”
“But, Everage, if such reparation should in any way distress you, it need not be made. Nay, if the confession itself will distress you, withhold it, my friend. If, as you say, the offense is against me, you need not tell it; and believe me, neither you nor any one else shall ever hear of it,” said Alick, kindly.
“Every gentle, generous word you speak stabs my heart like a reproach. I must tell you all. It will shame me, but it will relieve me to do so. Reparation must be made; and it will not distress but comfort me to make it; nay, it will almost do away my guilt. It is a measure that I had already resolved upon. I was only waiting for my poor wife to get over her impendingaccouchementbefore carrying it into effect; for in my poor Belle’s present critical condition, the excitement of a criminal trial would surely kill her. And thus my little girls would be bereft of both parents.”
“Everage, you talk wildly! If the offense is against me, it is already condoned. You may reveal it or not as you please. For myself, I do not see the need of your doing so.”
“That is because you do not know the nature of my crime! Lord Killcrichtoun, it was I who caused your child to be abducted!—There! kill me where I stand if you like! No one will think of blaming you,” said Everage, in a broken voice, as he tottered to his feet and stood before little Lenny’s father.
But Alexander gazed at him in amazement and incredulity for a full minute before he found ideas or words to reply. Then he exclaimed:
“Everage, you are mad to think so! What motive could you possibly have had for getting possession of my child? You who have so many of your own? I say you are mad to think it.”
“No,” said Everage, dropping back in his chair and covering his face. “No, not madnow: but I was mad then, when I caused the child to be carried off! I was mad blind, and Heaven-forsaken!”
“Not Heaven-forsaken, Everage, or you would not have been brought to this confession. But is this really true? You caused the child to be carried off? You said the reparation was still in your power!—thatmeans the child still lives! Where is he? Is he in London? Is he in our reach? Is he well?” inquired Alexander scarcely able to control the violence of his emotions—his strangely mingled and warring emotions—of astonishment, indignation, ecstasy and impatience.
“Yes, to all your questions,” answered Everage, dropping his face into his hands.
“But, good Heaven, whatpossiblemotivecouldyou have had for carrying off my child? Youmusthave been mad!”
“I was! I was, my lord! mad and blind and God-forsaken! I was tempted beyond——”
“Stop, Everage! don’t tell me just now. I must see my boy immediately. Can you take me to him now?”
“Yes,” answered the poor gentleman, in an almost inaudible voice.
“How far is it?” asked Alexander, with his hand upon the bell.
“About two miles from here,” breathed Everage.
“Then we must have a carriage,” observed Alexander, ringing the bell.
“A cab, immediately!” he said, as the waiter appeared.
“And now, Everage,” he continued, when they were left alone together again, “now tell me what could possibly have caused you to have my child carried off. Do you know his loss has nearly broken his mother’s heart?”
“Do Inotknow it? Have I not felt it? felt it day and night since the devil deluded me into doing this deed? Lord Killcrichtoun, look at me! See the wreck remorse has made of me! No sooner had I done this deed than remorse, like a consuming fire, than which the fires of Hell cannot be fiercer, entered my heart and burned my life away to this.”
“Burned your guilt away, Everage, but not your life.”
“This agony of remorse I would not have borne for a week, but for my wife’s critical condition.”
“But she must have been very much distressed by the change in you.”
“She was; but she ascribed it all to overwork in the school. And I soothed her by saying that after her confinement I should leave the school. I did not tell her,for the Old Bailey.”
“Hush, Everage, there will be nothing of that sort. But you have not yet told me what it was that tempted you to load thus your conscience.”
“I will tell you all—I will keep nothing back, and then you can do as you please.”
But, before he could say another word, the waiter opened the door, and announced the cab that had been ordered.
Alexander and Everage left the house, Everage tottering with weakness and scarcely able to walk without the support of Alexander’s arm, which was readily given him.
Everage gave the order.
“Black street, Blackfriars’ Road.”
And then, with the help of Alexander, entered the cab.
When they were both seated and the vehicle was in motion, Everage commenced the story of little Lenny’s abduction, and the causes that led to the act.
With a shame-bowed head, in a broken and almost inaudible voice, he spoke of the bitterness of his poverty and his servitude; of the love, which was agony, for his beautiful, pale-faced wife, and lovely, fading little girls; of the jealousy with which he saw the Killcrichtoun estate, that might have been his own, and the salvation of his famishing family, pass away to a foreigner, so wealthy that he cared nothing for the half-sterile Highland acres; of his belief that the present baron’s life was so precarious that in a very short time no one but little Lenny would stand between himself and the inheritance of Killcrichtoun; and of the intensity of the temptation that finally maddened and conquered him, and drew him on to crime; and finally, again he spoke of the fierce remorse that like the fires of Tophet devoured his life.
“And now,” he concluded, “do with me what you will! I have nothing to say in my defense, nothing whatever! You can prosecute me for the abduction. You can send me to penal servitude for Heaven knows how many years! It will be just! I only entreat you, in any case, not to let my innocent family starve!”
“My poor Everage! I could not look in your face and see the wreck remorse has made of you, and raise my hand or voice against you! ‘Penal servitude!’ Your whole life has been penal servitude! Besides, besides, in my more favored position, without any of the temptations that beset you, I myself have been too great a sinner to dare to be a harsh judge! In your position, Everage, heaven knows, I might have been tempted to do the same things!” said Alexander, gravely.
“But I never meant to harm the child. I would have taken the best care of him I could.”
“I believe you, Everage. And let me find the child alive and well, and let me have the happiness of laying him upon his mother’s lap; and then let the whole matter pass into forgetfulness. It shall not in any way interfere with my plans for your welfare.”
“God bless you, sir!” wept the poor gentleman; “God, in his great mercy, bless you!”
“Black street, sir,” said the cabman, pulling up his horses and waiting further orders.
“Turn into it and drive on until you reach Bushe Lane. It is on the left hand,” answered Everage.
The cabman turned his horses’ heads and drove down the street for some distance and then pulled up again.
“Bushe’s Lane, sir.”
“Turn into it and go on until you reach Blood Alley. It is also on the left side,” said Everage.
The cabman turned into the dark, unwholesome lane and drove on for a short distance and then reined up his horses again.
“Blood Alley, sir,” he said.
“We must get out here, the alley is too narrow to admit the passage of the carriage,” said Everage opening the door.
And both men stepped down at the entrance of the foul alley, dark, loathsome and offensive to every material sense and moral sentiment.
“Wait here until we return,” said Everage to the cabman.
The man touched his hat in assent as he thought to himself:
“Them two coves be two detectives on the scent of thieves.”
Everage led the way and Alexander followed him, picking his steps as well as he could through the fermenting filth of the alley, and shuddering to think his child was exposed to such deadly air.
About midway down the alley Everage paused before a tall, tottering tenement house, occupied by the lowest caste of thieves and beggars.
“Here is the place,” he said, opening the door and entering the passage-way without either obstruction or even observation; for at this hour the tenants were out upon their tramps.
Everage led the way up several flights of quaking stairs to the attic floor, which certainly, from its height, had the advantage of a purer air.
Everage opened a door immediately in front of the landing and signed Alexander to enter.
Alick passed the threshold and found himself in a room with a sloping roof and a skylight.
The room was clearer than when he saw it last, for Meg had been supplied with soap, and had kept it so for little Lenny’s sake; but it was almost as bare of furniture as before.
There were but two persons present—a wild-looking, dark-haired, bare-footed girl walking the floor: and a child in her arms—a pale, wan baby-boy, with his fair-haired head dropped heavily upon her shoulder, his violet eyes closed, and his long fringed eyelids lying down upon his dead white cheeks. His little clothes were old and faded and patched, but as clean as hands could make them.
As the two men entered the room the girl looked up, pointed to the sleeping child and signed them to be quiet.
It was too late. Poor little Lenny had become a nervous and irritable sleeper. The slightest noise would awaken him. And now the sound of approaching footsteps startled him from his sleep, and he awoke with a shiver. His first words were:
“Doosa tome, Met?”
Then looking up and seeing only two men, he dropped his head upon Meg’s shoulder and wailed forth his disappointment:
“Doosa not tome! Doosa not tome! Lenny want see Doosa! Lenny want to see Doosa so bad!”
“And you shall see Doosa, my darling boy! You shall see Doosa before the sun goes down. You shall sleep on your mother’s bosom to-night, little Lenny!” exclaimed Alexander, in great agitation, as he went to the child and held out his arms.
But Lenny turned away and clasped his own arms around Meg’s neck and renewed his plaintive cry:
“I want to see Doosa! I want to see Doosa so bad! I don’t want anybody esse!”
“And so you shall see Doosa, my beloved boy. Look at me, little Lenny! don’t you know me?” coaxed Alexander.
“Ess, I do! But I want see Doosa!”
“Look at me, my darling! Come to me! I will take you to Doosa directly!” pleaded Alexander, holding out his arms and gazing earnestly in the face of his son.
Now little Lenny had been deceived by fair but false promises, and his faith was failing. But there was an earnest truthfulness in the looks and words of the man that now carried conviction to the heart of the child. His face lightened, beamed, became transfigured with ecstasy:
“You tate me see Doosa? You tate me now?” he joyously exclaimed.
“Yes, my darling, now this moment! Come to me,” said Alexander, still holding out his arms.
Lenny bounded into them.
“Oh, sir! you will not take him from me! It would break my heart! he is all I have to love in the world, all that loves me! I would work my fingers to the bones, I would for him! Please, sir, don’t take him away!” cried Meg, lifting the corner of her apron to her eyes.
“I must take him to his mother, my girl. She too is pining for him,” said Alexander, kindly.
“Oh, Lenny, you won’t leave me! You won’t leave poor Met?” she wept, appealing to the child.
“No! no! no!” said Master Leonard, peremptorily. “Notleave Met! Met go too! Met go too! Met go too!”
“But, my darling, Met can’t go!”
“I will, I will, I will! Lenny love Met! Lenny not leave Met. Met go too!”
“But, Met cannot go,” remonstrated the father.
“Oh, yes, sir, I can,” sobbed Meg. “If you will takehim, I can go, if you will let me; and I will be a faithful servant to him all my life, and never want any wages.”
“Met go too! Met go too!” sang out little Lenny. It was the chorus of the song.
“But, my girl, how can you go? I would willingly reward you for the care you must have bestowed upon my child, who, but for you, might have perished in this horrible place, but how can I take you away? you have parents or guardians who must be consulted.”
Meg left off crying, and laughed aloud;
“No, sir; little ladies and gentlemen have them things, not the likes of us! The people I live with ain’t no kin to me, though I do call the men uncle, and the woman grannam; I am only their drudge, sir; I am free to go with the child; if you will let me.”
“Met go too! Met go too!” cried the little despot, beginning now to scream and kick with impatience.
He had not been used to have his will crossed. He had been accustomed to prompt obedience from his white slaves.
“I see that you are ‘a chip of the old block,’” smiled Alexander.
“Met go too! Met go too!” screamed the young tyrant, making his feet fly with such velocity that they looked like a drove of feet.
Meanwhile, Meg, with her apron to her eyes, was sobbing violently. A scene was certainly impending.
“I think, sir, if I were you I would take the girl along. I think well of her. I believe her account of herself to be true. And I believe it would be a good work to take her from this haunt of sin and misery—alas! I beg your pardon, I had forgotten myself, I have no right to preach,” said the poor penitent, bowing his head.
“I will take her at your word, Everage; but, good Heaven, look down at her feet!”
“Well, they are not cloven!” said the poor gentleman, with a sad attempt at a pleasantry. “Give her a sovereign sir, and let her run out and fit herself with a bonnet, and shawl, and a pair of shoes and stockings. I’ll warrant she’ll do it all in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll do it in less time, sir; indeed I will, if you’ll only let me go with little Lenny!”
“Very well; be quick,” said Alexander, handing over a sovereign.
“Oh, please, sir, give it to me in smaller change. If the shopkeeper was to see the likes of me with a whole suvring at a time, they would stop it, and send for the police,” said Meg.
“That is quite likely,” thought Alick, as he replaced the offered coin in his purse, and then gave her a half sovereign in gold, and a half in silver change.
Meg was as quick as her word. She hurried out, and, in fifteen minutes hurried in, equipped for her ride. It was in less time than they supposed she could have effected her purchases.
Then she took Lenny in her arms, and prepared to follow the two gentlemen.
The whole party went down Blood Alley towards its outlet upon Bushe Lane.
Little Lenny laughed and patted Meg’s cheeks, and prattled all the way.
“Going to see Doosa, Met! Met going to see Doosa too! Lenny love Met! Lenny not leave Met! Met going to see Doosa!”
When they reached Bushe Lane, where the cab was waiting, the astute cabman, looking around upon the party, said to himself:
“There—I knew it! They’ve caught one on ’em; and what a young sinner to be the mother of a child that big!”
Everage put Meg and Lenny into the cab, and then followed with Alexander.
Lenny was still full of joyous babble.
“Wide in cawidge, Met! Met wide in cawidge too!” he kept saying, as he patted her cheeks and kissed her.
“They should never be separated,” murmured the poor gentleman, timidly, as if speaking to himself.
“They shall not be, if I can help it,” replied Alexander who had read with approval the letter of recommendation contained in Meg’s face.
They drove rapidly up Bushe Lane, through Black street, and up Blackfriars’ road. But little conversation was carried on until they reached the Strand.
When drawing near to Wellington street, where Everage lived, he said.
“But you will not take the child to his mother this afternoon?”
“Certainly,” replied Alexander.
“What—now, immediately?”
“Yes.”
“Will not the shock be too great?”
“No; I have heard that she is almost morbid on the subject, and is constantly looking for the child, and expecting to find him, or to have him brought home to her. I also had a sort of conviction that I should have the happiness of finding him and carrying him as a peace-offering to his mother. It was a very remarkable presentiment, I think.”
“Presentiments when believed in, often fulfil themselves,” said Everage.
“However that may be, I so firmly believed that I should find the child, that I instructed his mother’s friends to encourage her hopes and keep up her expectations of seeing him, so that when I should bring him to her, she should not sustain a fatal shock of joy.”
By this time they had reached Wellington street, and at the request of Everage the cab was drawn up.
The poor gentleman got out.
“Give me your hand, Everage,” said Alexander; and holding it, he added, “I shall see you very soon, and remember, you are to have that Highland property.”
Everage pressed the hand of his magnanimous friend with a look more eloquent than words, and then turned and walked rapidly up Wellington street.
“Drive on,” said Alexander.
“Where now, sir?” inquired the cabman, touching his hat.
“Morley House, Trafalgar square.”
In a very few minutes the cab drove up to the hotel and stopped.
One of the servants of the house, seeing Lord Killcrichtoun’s face at the window, came out to him.
“Do you know if Mr. Hammond is in the house just now?” inquired Alexander.
“Yes, sir; he is in the reading-room.”
“Take in my card and ask him if he will do me the favor to come out.”
The waiter vanished, and Dick soon made his appearance at the cab door.
“Oh, Dick! I have found him!” exclaimed Alick, pointing to the child.
“Little Lenny! Thank God!” cried Dick, jerking open the door, jumping into the cab, and seizing little Lenny and seating himself.
“Oh, Dit! Dit! Lenny tome home see Doosa! Met tome too! Lenny wide in tab! Met wide too! Lenny not leave Met! Lenny love Met!”
And so the child prattled on, patting Dick’s cheeks, and pulling his whiskers, and kissing him.
“Oh, I am so glad! Where did you find him, Alick? How was it? Tell me all about it!”
“Too long a story, Dick. I must take him to his mother. Can I do so with safety?”
“I think so. I have constantly encouraged her hopes of finding the child; and yet perhaps it would be well to be cautious. I will just step up and prepare her a little. I will tell her that we have better hopes than ever of finding her child; and that we have heard from him, and know where he is; and that he is now on his way to her, and so forth. But I will not tell her thatyouare bringing him. I will leave that delight to yourself.”
“Thank you, Dick. Make haste, and don’t be gone a moment longer than necessary.”
“I will come back as soon as possible,” said Dick as he disappeared.
“See Doosa! see Doosa!” exclaimed little Lenny impatiently.
“Yes, my boy, you shall see Doosa, Dick has gone to look for Doosa and tell her,” said Alexander.
“Dit done look for Doosa?”
“Yes, my darling.”
So Lenny prattled on.
Dick was gone rather longer than was expected, but at length he returned.
“You can go to her now. I have led her to expect that a gentleman from Jersey has found the child, and is on his way home with him, and that he may arrive by any train now. The news has made her very happy, as you may judge. And now you may go up to her. She is alone in her chamber.”
“Thanks, Dick! many thanks for your kindness. Come, Meg,” said Alick, stepping out upon the sidewalk.
Meg followed with little Lenny in her arms.
“You must come and show me her room, Dick,” said Alick.
“Certainly,” replied Hammond.
The whole party entered the house and passed up-stairs.
When they arrived at the door of Drusilla’s chamber, Alick took little Lenny in his arms and said:
“I must enter alone. Dick, be so good as to take this girl to your wife and tell her that she is to be an under nursemaid or something of the sort. After I have seen Drusilla we will attend to the girl’s case.”
“Very well, Alick. Heaven speed you,” said Dick, beckoning to Meg, who followed him meekly, and moving towards Anna’s room.
“Where Met gone? where Met gone?” impatiently demanded Lenny.
“Met has gone to see Anna,” answered Alexander.
“Met tome back soon?”
“Yes, she will come back soon.”
“Met go see Doosa too?”
“Yes, Met go see Doosa too. Now, Lenny, be a good,quietboy. We are going to see Doosa.”
“Lenny be good boy den.”
“And mind, you must be very, very still. You must not jump and kick and scream; if you do you will hurt Doosa,” said Alexander, looking very gravely into the child’s face.
“Lenny be good boy! Lenny not hurt Doosa,” answered the child with owlet-like solemnity.
Still Alick paused at the door. How many minutes he paused before he could sufficiently compose himself for the joyous trial before him. But then he had not yet recovered from the effects of his wound.
At length, with a prayer in his heart, he opened the door so softly as not to disturb the inmate of the room.
She was sitting at the window, with her elbow resting on its sill, and her head bowed upon her hand. How worn and wan she looked! Her face was scarcely less white than the snowy robe she wore. Her face wasturned partly towards the window, and had an anxious, listening look, as if constantly watching for the coming of some beloved and long-expected one.
As soon as little Lenny saw his mother, he forgot all his promises, and sang out with all the strength of his baby lungs:
“Doosa! Doosa! See Lenny tome home!”
She turned her head quickly, screamed, and started up to meet him; but overwhelmed with emotion, sank back again into her chair and gasped for breath.
“Hush, hush, my boy; see you have hurt Doosa; be very good now!” whispered Alexander in a tone that awed the child into silence.
Then he crossed the room, knelt at her feet, and said:
“My wife, I have no word to say for myself. Let our child plead for me.”
And he laid little Lenny on her lap.
No, there was no scene that could he fully reported here.
Husband and child, both restored to her in an instant! It is a wonder she had not died then and there! But she did not even faint. Heaven, that had sustained her through such long-drawn-out, unutterable sorrows, gave her strength now to meet the sudden shock of joy.
She gently put little Lenny aside for a moment, where the child, still awed into silence, stood quietly.
She stooped and fell upon her Alick’s neck and clasped him to her; she wept over him in ecstasy; she kissed him again and again, sobbing words of the fondest endearment—sacred words not to be written here.
Lenny looked on in wonder and awe for some time; but at last his impatience overcame every other emotion, and he sang out:
“Me, too! Me, too! Me, too! ’Top it, Doosa! Tate Lenny up!”
Alick, with a face radiant with joy, once more snatched up the child, and kissed him rapturously, and put him in his mother’s arms, saying:
“Tell him who I am, darling wife! Tell him who I am!”
“Does he not know?” inquired Drusilla, who was covering her child with caresses.
“No. I never felt that I had any right to tell him.”
“Lenny, love, do you know who that gentleman is?” she asked, looking fondly at the child and then at the father.
“Ess I do! he bring Lenny home to Doosa,” answered the boy.
“Look at him, Lenny. He is your papa.”
“Lenny’s popper?” inquired the baby looking with great eyes at the stranger, who had now taken on a new interest for him.
“Yes,” softly answered his mother.
“Lenny dot poppertoo?”
At this innocent question, in which so much was expressed, Alexander, again conscience-stricken, turned away his head to hide the tears that rushed to his eyes.
But for all reply, Drusilla stooped and kissed her child and handed him back to his father.
The reconciliation was perfect.
Later, they went into the drawing-room, to which Dick brought Anna and General Lyon all of whom, amid tears and caresses, offered their earnest congratulations to the reunited pair; and rejoiced with an exceeding great joy over the restoration of little Lenny.
But all this was nothing to the frantic delight of Pina when she heard little Lenny had been found. She ran to him, she snatched him up, kissed him and hugged him, and laughed and cried over him to such a degree that even Master Leonard, who could bear a great deal of that sort of thing, was obliged to order her to—
“’Top it.”
And then she ceased, and bore him off to dress him in all his finery for dinner.
Yes, the reconciliation was perfect. And as it very seldom happens that any human being suffers as Drusilla had suffered, so, also, it falls to the lot of very few to be so happy as she was that evening and ever thereafter.
She never learned the true history of little Lenny’s abduction. She was left to believe in the policeman’s theory that the child had been stolen by thieves for the sake of the jewelry on his person. She was told, however, of Meg’s cherishing care of her baby, and she saw for herself the strong attachment existing between them;and so she appointed Meg under nursemaid, and fitted her out with a decent wardrobe. As to Meg’s “parents and guardians,” the thieves of Blood Alley, they were left to their own conjectures on the subject of her absence, and they probably came to just conclusions, and being in possession of their ill-got money, were also probably satisfied.
What else?
Clarence Everage, the sincerely repentant sinner whom misery had tempted to crime for which nature had never intended him, and whom conscience had afterwards constrained to confession and restitution—Clarence Everage, the poor, proud gentleman, the oppressed public school drudge—was put in possession of the Highland estate, and he became Everage of Killcrichtoun.
Alexander advanced the funds to make the house habitable and the land arable.
In the bracing air of the mountains his fading wife, and pale little daughters grew rosy and happy, well and strong. Everage also recovered his health and good looks, but never regained the raven hues of his hair. And when his wife or any friend would suggest that it was perfectly proper so young a man—so prematurely gray—should dye his hair, he would shake his head with a melancholy smile and say:
“No, no! I wear my gray locks in memory of a great temptation and a great fault, that might have been a fatal one but for the Lord’s goodness.”
No one, not even his wife, knew what he meant. And no one ventured to ask him. They saw that the matter was a sacred confidence between himself and his Creator, with which none might intermeddle.
In truth, nobody ever knew all the circumstances of little Lenny’s abduction except those immediately concerned in it. Alexander had been generous in his recovered happiness, and had spared the name and fame of the poor gentleman.
The Lyon family, of which little Lenny was the greatest lion of all, did not immediately return to their own country. They made the tour of Europe, and worked hard at it, and so they saw about one trillionth part of what was worth seeing.
They were accompanied by the Seymours and by Francis Tredegar.
At the end of a year they went back to America, and down into Virginia.
Soon after their arrival several important family events occurred.
First, Drusilla presented little Lenny with a little sister, who was named Annette, and who became his especial delight.
Next, Anna became the mother of a fine boy, to the direct controverting of the gipsy fortune-teller’s prediction, which had promised her only girls.
And finally, Nanny Seymour and Francis Tredegar were married; and the young couple, after a prolonged bridal tour, took up their abode with Colonel and Mrs. Seymour.
Pina made Jacob inexpressibly happy by accepting the dusky hand and honest heart of that “gorilla.” Her place being made vacant by her marriage was well filled by Meg, now grown to be a pretty civilized-looking young woman, and promoted to be head of the nursery at Crew Wood.
When I last heard of these friends of ours, General Lyon was still living, in the enjoyment of a hale and happy age, at Old Lyon Hall, surrounded by Anna and Dick and their children, who made their home with him. And Hammond Hall was kept in good order by a steward and a housekeeper. And in the fishing season, the family, with a party of friends, usually occupy it for a few weeks. And there, as well as at Old Lyon Hall, they are often joined by Alexander and Drusilla.
Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Lyon live chiefly at Crew Wood, where they spend their days in doing good, and in rearing their beautiful young family.
Their other country seat, Cedarwood Cottage, is still in the care of “Mammy” and her “old man.” And every winter Alick and Drusilla, with their children, go there to be near Washington in the season. And Mr. and Mrs. Hammond and General Lyon come to them. The old General never loses his interest in what is going on at the capital.
THE END.
THE END.
THE END.