The Stone Barn.[Illustration: The Stone Barn.]
The Stone Barn.[Illustration: The Stone Barn.]
"A new lake?" inquired a friend who had already accompanied us to Rye and Croton Lakes; "pray how many does Westchester County possess?"
Each new one is of course the prettiest, and beautiful as Rye Lake had been the previous night under the influence of the setting sun, and starlight, we all decided that Lake Wampas was simply perfect.
Dinner was ready upon our return, and before the dessert was placed upon the table a warning whistle was heard, and several of our friends were obliged to bid us a hasty adieu, and rush through Bischoff's garden to catch the train.
In the evening we walked up to the pond for a row among the water-lilies by starlight. There we found the bonny blue boat awaiting us, but the oars had disappeared. Whether Bernard disapproved of water-parties on Sunday, or had merely put the oars away for safety, we could not tell, but having gone so far, we were determined not to be disappointed, so we embarked, and with an old garden-rake, and a long pole to propel the boat, we succeeded, at all events, in having a very laughable row.
The next morning our friends left us; the play-days were over, and we once more settled ourselves to study.
Marriage of a Cousin—A Pretty Bride—Letters—Home Circle Complete—A Letter of Adventures—Wedding Cards—A Musical Marriage—Housekeeping under Difficulties—Telegraphic Blunders—A Bust of Mr. Greeley—More Visitors.
September 10.
A letter yesterday from our cousin Estelle Greeley, signed, however, by a new name, for she was married last week. Estelle is Aunt Arminda's youngest daughter, and although not yet eighteen, was before the death of Theresa's children a great-aunt. She sent us her picture, taken with her husband. She is a very pretty girl, with large, dreamy, blue eyes, and lashes so long and dark as to cast deep shadows—a languishing effect often produced on city belles by artificial means. Her hair is of that sunny brown shade peculiar to so many of our cousins, and she has hitherto worn it floating over her shouldersà la belle sauvage; but now I suppose she thinks sonegligéeand girlish a coiffure incompatible with her new dignity as a married woman, for I observed in her picture that it was wreathed into an imposing diadem braid.
Although Estelle is rather young to have married, the match has received the cordial approbation of tho entire family. She was married at home, but has now gone to live at Columbus, Pennsylvania, where her father-in-law is a prominent merchant. Her letter was full of enthusiasm over her happiness, but I was glad to learn that she did not intend, like so many young brides, to give up her music in the excitement of her new married life.
Our mail was not large this morning, for our friends are now returning to the city, and are busy with the demands of upholsterers and dress-makers in anticipation of the gayeties of the coming season; some few, however, are still enjoying this delicious September weather by the seaside or inland.
Our friend, Mrs. Cutler, the pretty Virginia novelist and society star, is now in Westchester County, and promises us a visit very soon. She speaks with deep feeling of the pleasure it will afford her to visit dear uncle's loved home, and in conclusion sends many kind messages to mamma's "bouquet of girls."
One of my most intimate friends, Marguerite Aymar, after having visited several watering-places, and contributed sparkling letters to different New York journals this summer, has now come to Westchester County to pass away quietly the remainder of the season, and gather up strength for her literary labors during the coming winter. I learn by a letter received from her yesterday, that she is boarding within driving distance of Chappaqua—a very agreeable prospect for me, for Marguerite and I are much given to long talks together, and are very fond of an exchange of ideas over our many literary plans.
Miss Aymar is a clever young writer, by no means confining herself to the graceful poems, stories, and sketches that she dashes off with such ease, but evincing talent and tact in her more thoughtful magazine articles. She is now, she tells me, at work upon a novel.
September 13.
Our home circle is once more complete, for Mrs. Lamson, who left us some weeks ago to visit friends in Connecticut, has now returned to remain with us until we go down to the city.
Mrs. Lamson was one of dear uncle's earliest friends, their acquaintance dating back indeed to the days of Poultney—and we are all deeply attached to her.
September 15.
Arthur's name, I believe, has not yet been mentioned in my journal since he left us early in August. He is a very tormenting correspondent, for he never writes with the promptitude that would be agreeable, but his letters when they do come are always entertaining, and one that arrived this morning, detailing his adventures since his departure from Chappaqua, we found especially so. Before making some extracts from it, I must explain that he left us to join a number of young men from Chappaqua, headed by our neighbor, Mr. Carpenter, who were to camp out at Rye Beach, and indulge in unlimited fishing parties. This out-of-doors life delighted Arthur, accustomed as he had been to foot journeys in Europe, and when the party broke up he bought a waterproof suit, hired a boat and a tent, and rowed up the Sound to Boston, where he lives, sleeping meantime on land or in his boat, as best suited his caprice. I will now give his exploits in his own words.
"I remained on the beach some time after Mr. Carpenter and the others left, caught and made food of many fishes, and came near making myself food for them, for in hauling up anchor in a rough sea I tipped out of the boat, but luckily saved myself by clutching its side, and lifting myself in at imminent risk of turning the whole concern bottom upwards.
"Being wrapped in slumber on the rocks one night with a big fire burning beside me, my bed of dry seaweed caught fire, and woke me by its fierce breath; but escaping an evil fate for the present, I came safely home to Boston, which I felt keen joy to see once more.
"I have gone into the office of a lawyer here, and am engaged in the delightful occupation of 'sooing folks' (as the old fellow pronounces it). You may imagine me seated on the extreme top of a high stool, forging like a young Cyclops with malignant pleasure, the writs and summonses which are presently to be flourished by the Sheriff in the face of the astonished Defendant."
Among our other letters this morning was a package from London containing the dainty wedding-cards of a beautiful young American pianist (Teresa Carreño) and her handsome violinist husband, accompanied by a long letter from the bride. The letter was overflowing with happiness, and the naïveté with which she described all the little annoyances of her new married life, and especially the trials of a young housekeeper, was quite delicious. Her furniture had not yet come from Paris, and there were but two chairs in the parlor; consequently, when a visitor came, her husband was obliged to stand, she said, with the greatest ceremony. She sat by the kitchen table to write to me, and the cook overturned her ink, making a blot upon the page: all of these little details made up a perfect picture of her life. Of course the letter was full of "my husband," and the signature was no longer the impulsive, girlish—"With a thousand kisses, my darling, ever your own Teresita," but a decorous and matronly ending: "Yours affectionately, Teresa Carreño Sauret."
Two more letters by the evening mail; one having the features of the "Re Galantuomo" upon the postage stamps, is from a young American music student in Florence, a pupil of Hans Von Bülow, who will, upon her return to her own country, be known as one of our finest amateur pianists.
There is also a letter from our estimable friend, Miss Booth, the accomplished Editress of Harper's Bazar. She will spend next Saturday with us, accompanied by her friend, Mrs. Wright.
September 20.
Ida went down to the city yesterday, to see both her lawyer and dress-maker, saying that she would return by the half past six o'clock train. We went down accordingly to meet the cars, but she did not arrive upon them; a telegram, however, was shortly sent up to the house, announcing that she would come on the eight o'clock train, accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Wiss.
"Mrs. Wiss!" exclaimed mamma, upon reading the telegram, "who can she be? I do not know any such person."
Gabrielle could not remember any one by the name of Wiss among Ida's friends, and suggested that the ladies might be old friends of her father's, whom Ida had never before seen; so remarking that the eight o'clock train was a late one for ladies to travel upon alone, mamma rang for Minna, and told her to delay our tea an hour and a half longer.
When we heard the footsteps of the travellers upon the piazza, we all went out with some curiosity to meet our unknown visitors. For a moment we were speechless, as we recognized in the matron of the party, Ida's charming Southern friend, Mrs. Ives, and in the tall young man (her son) who accompanied her, the supposed Miss Wiss. How the telegraph operator could have so confused the names, no one could imagine.
Mrs. Ives is a brilliant talker, and a woman of great polish and high family connections. She has lived North for several years, but will return to Baltimore this winter to our great regret, for her picturesque home near the Manhattanville Convent was a most delightful place to spend an hour, while listening to the entertaining conversation of the hostess, and the exquisite harp-playing of her sister.
September 25.
A letter this morning from the little sculptress, Vinnie Ream. She is at Washington, and writes me that she has sold her bust of dear uncle to the Cornell University. I have not seen the bust since it was put into marble, but when I saw it in clay at her New York studio two years ago, I considered it a spirited and excellent likeness. Vinnie is full of the high courage that never deserts her through all of her trials from public and private criticism, and she has my best wishes for a bright and successful future.
September 28.
Two arrivals by the morning train: Mrs. Gibbons, a friend of many years of dear uncle, Aunt Mary, and mamma, and a lady at whose hospitable residence uncle often found a pleasant home, when his family were absent, and Lucy White, an intimate friend of Ida and myself.
Miss White has just returned from a three months' visit to Europe, and she gave us a very lively account of her gay season in London, and her visit to Paris. I was glad to learn from her that my favorite Italian and Spanish pictures again occupied their accustomed places in theSalon Carréat the Louvre, and that the diadem mode of dressing the hair, so becoming to my tiny figure, was by no means out of style in Paris, but was, on the contrary, more fashionable than ever.
September 30.
A letter this morning from Katie Sinclair. I rejoice to learn that her health is improving, for, when we visited her some weeks ago, her cheeks were almost as white as the pillows upon which they rested.
We were disappointed that we could not hear Katie sing that day, for we had anticipated quite a little musical matinée; but her sister Mary, who is an enthusiastic pianoforte student, made amends by playing with much taste and expression, a dreamy "Melody," by Rubenstein.
"All that's Bright must Fade"—Departures—Preparing the House for the Winter—Page's Portrait of Pickie—Packing up—Studious Habits of the Domestics—The Cook and her Admirers—Adieu to Chappaqua.
October 1.
"All that's bright must fade."
This long, delightful summer is now over, and the time approaches for us to return to the din and whirl of city life.
Miss Worthington left us this morning to return to her beautiful Southern home, and Gabrielle, too, has gone back to the quiet of her convent school, guided by the Protestant Sisters of St. Mary.
Ida is busily counting, and packing away the dainty china and silver, suggestive of so many pleasant gatherings of friends that we have had this summer, and Minna has brought down from the store-room large chests to contain the heavy linen sheets with Aunt Mary's initials beautifully embroidered in scarlet.
The guest-room and the parlors commence to wear a dismantled look, for one by one the pretty trifles that ornamented them are being removed, and although many of the pictures still hang upon the walls, dear little Pickie's portrait stands in an unoccupied bedroom swathed in linen, and ready to journey to the city when we do, for Ida prizes it so highly that she will not box it up and send it by express, but intends to have one of the servants carry it under her supervision, lest some harm may befall it. I do not wonder that it is priceless to her; I also think it of inestimable value, for not only is it a portrait of the beautiful little cousin whom I never saw, but even one uninterested in Pickie would, I am sure, be attracted by it as a rare work of art. It is a full-length picture: the child holds in his hands a cluster of lilies—a fit emblem of his spotless purity, and his undraped limbs are perfectly moulded as those of an infant St. John. His hair, of the line that Titian and Tintoretto loved to paint, falls upon his shoulders like a shower of ruddy gold, and for depth of tone and richness of color the picture more resembles the work of one of the old Venetian Masters than a painting by modern hands.
Whilst in town the other day, I called in the Tenth Street Studio Buildings to ask Mr. Page when he could give a few days of his time to restoring Pickie's portrait, as it has been somewhat affected by the dampness during the years that it has stood in the house in the woods. Mr. Page gave me a very amusing account of the difficulty he experienced in obtaining sittings from Pickie.
"Young children," he said, "are always averse to having their portraits painted, and there is usually a struggle to induce them to submit to the confinement of posing for me; but in Master Pickie's case, the child was so full of life that I might almost as well have tried to obtain sittings from a butterfly as from him."
Pickie's rapid illness and sudden death occurred before the picture was completed, and although Mr. Page worked upon it for some time from memory and from daguerrotypes of the child, a few finishing touches remain to be added.
October 3.
This morning I at last realized what I have been endeavoring to banish from my mind—that the day of our departure from dear Chappaqua is at hand. This fact was brought home to me in a very practical manner by the arrival of our immense French trunks from the side-hill house, where they have been stored this summer, and the necessity of packing them, coupled with an intimation from mamma that it would be as well to put my books and music in the bottom, and my dresses in the top of my trunk. I am somewhat of a novice in packing, for during the preparations for our eight ocean voyages that duty never once fell to my lot; however I flatter myself that suchveryelementary instructions were not necessary.
Quite tenderly I took down from the shelves the books that I had brought from New York for summer reading, for mingled with every page was some pleasant association. One chapter in Kohlrausch's "Germany" seemed still to retain the faint perfume of the pale primroses that I gathered in the meadow that day to mark my stopping-place, and my little volume of Voltaire's "Charles Douze" recalled an interesting argument upon the relative claims to greatness of that hero, and my hero par excellence, the first Napoleon.
My ponderous volumes of Plato brought before my mind Arthur's reading, and the life with which he invested the words of these old-time philosophers that had so keen an interest for him; while Madame de Staël's "Allemagne," and my little copy of Ehlert's "Letters on Music" were associated with almost every hour of the day. They had lain upon my writing-table the entire summer, and it was my habit whenever I laid down my pen for a moment to take up one book or the other, and glance at a page of Ehlert's criticisms upon opera, symphony, or song, or Madame de Staël's profound essays upon art, morals, and politics.
This long summer has been one of great sweetness and content to us all. A tinge of sadness has, it is true, been mingled with our daily life, but we have felt the spiritual presence of our loved ones always near us, urging and encouraging us to persevere and fit ourselves to join them hereafter. With this feeling we have worked constantly and closely, and our record of improvement has been somewhat satisfactory—to ourselves at least. We have gone through the weighty volumes that we had given ourselves as summer tasks; we have written and practised; and, although Minna constantly exclaims upon our close attention to study, a desire for improvement has extended (unconsciously to ourselves) from the parlor to the kitchen. Going down there one night to give some orders for the next day, I was amused by overhearing Lina say, "It is time to go to school now." Immediately Minna's bright-colored knitting was laid aside, and the two women drew up to the table with their books. After studying their English lesson, they recited it to each other, followed by a brief reciprocal lesson of Swedish and German.
Bernard also had his book, and was studying with great apparent industry, although in what foreign tongue he was accomplishing himself I do not know. Perhaps he was trying to master the intricacies of the German language, that he might offer himself to Minna through the medium of her own tongue. I was amused to see that he occupied what might be called the neutral ground, at a table lighted by a flickering candle, and at an equal distance from his sweetheart and his foe; for since Bernard has commenced to take moonlight strolls with Minna, Lina has taken deadly umbrage, which she manifests by giving him candle-ends, cutting off his supply of coffee, and reducing his comforts generally.
At first I felt quite sorry for Lina, so completely excluded as she was at one time from the society of the other two, especially as she was much older than Minna, and not at all prepossessing in appearance; but since I have learned that she has in the village four Swedish admirers who make her weekly visits, I have ceased to waste any sympathy upon her. We were quite amazed one Sunday afternoon to see four stalwart blond men wending their way kitchen-wards, and inquiring in broken English for "Swedish girl;" for of all places our quiet little Chappaqua is the last one where we would have thought of seeing any of Lina's compatriots. These men, it seems, are employed in repairing the railroad track; and learning that they had a countrywoman in the village, called to make her acquaintance; so Lina can now triumph over Minna. I have heard from Minna that each one of the four men has already offered himself to Lina, and that she refused them, remarking, however, that she knew a girl in New York who would like to marry one of them. The men thanked her, but thought the distance rather too great to go for a wife.
Despite their little difference over Bernard, the two women have lived together quite amicably this summer; and it has been a great relief to dear Ida, while so gracefully presiding as mistress of the house, to feel that harmony reigned in the kitchen.
October 5.
Our last day in dear Chappaqua; we go down to the city to-morrow morning. How dread is the thought of leaving the poetic quiet of our country home, to return to the confusion and excitement of city life; that city, too, that will be fraught with such sad memories for us during the last days of October and November.
How quickly it has gone, this long, sweet summer. I cannot realize that near five months have passed since that bright May morning that we arrived here, and found dear Chappaqua in all her tender spring freshness. Imperceptibly the days have flown; the delicate hues of leafy May have deepened and gone; the summer is over, and autumn with her glowing tints has stolen upon us. Now in vain do we hunt for daisies to pull apart petal by petal with the old French rhyme that every schoolgirl knows,"Il m'aime un peu--beaucoup,Passionément,--pas du tout!"
The daisies have gone with the sweet double violets and roses, and the fragrant heliotrope and mignonette, of which we used to make bouquets to dress the table and adorn the rooms; whilst brilliant, scentless flowers now fill our garden beds, and the maples with their aureolas of flame color and molten cold tell the same sad story—summer has fled.
For the last time I have walked up to the pine grove, and have taken leave of that spot where dear uncle's feet have so often trodden, and said farewell, too, to the forest trees whose trunks still bear the impress of the axe once wielded by that hand now forever at rest; I have drunk once more from the spring that Aunt Mary so dearly loved, and which is far sweeter to me than the vaunted waters of Trevi, and entered for the last time her loved home in the woods over whose threshold her weary feet will never pass again."Tempo passato, perche non ritorni a me?"
Adieu to Chappaqua and to my journal. My daintily bound volume, so large that I feared not easily to fill its pages, is closely covered, and only a few blank lines remain whereon to take leave of it forever. Adieus are always saddening, and I close it with the words unspoken.
And for dear, dear Chappaqua, I can find no words more fitting to express my love than those verses written, it is true, in honor of another Westchester Home, but so appropriate that I will insert them here, trusting their author, Mr. JOHN SAVAGE, will pardon me for so doing.
OUR DEAR WESTCHESTER HOME.
Where'er my hopeful fancy dares,Or toiling footstep falls--Through ancient cities' thoroughfaresOr Fortune's festal halls;O'er mountains grand, through forests deep,Or crest the yielding foam,I find no spotLike that dear cot,My own Westchester Home!
Bedecked with every sylvan charm,By loving Nature blest,Embraced between the ocean's armAnd Hudson's bounteous breast,Westchester, in her beauty smilesTo Heaven's protecting dome,For all the good.By field or floodThat crowns our happy home!
THE END