THE OLD MANSION-HOUSE.
A few old houses still remain among the villas, hotels, and cottages
that make Staten Island a little Eden. Many of these are on the shore,
and not being so accessible as these modern structures, are of course
less known. One of these buildings, situated almost in the verge of the
Island, surrounded by groves of primeval trees, fruit-orchards, and
flowing thickets, must now become the scene of our story.
The house was an old, rambling affair, with irregular wings and a centre
building three stories high, with heavy stone chimneys, that time itself
seemed incapable of destroying, and a peaked roof, with gable-windows,
that, however, were all for outside show, looking only from an open
garret. It was a substantial edifice, built of stone, but the wings were
of wood, with verandas and French windows, half buried in creeping vines
and climbing roses. A tall elm-tree towered upward in front of the
centre building, sweeping its long pendent branches over the roof, thus
softening the contrast between the grim old front with its stone portal,
and the wings with their fanciful drapery of flowers. The ground sloped
unevenly from the front of the building, and was broken up here and
there with fruit-trees and flowerthickets, until it was separated from a
gentle hill by one of those small inland streams that render quiet
scenery of this kind so beautiful. Here a clump of weeping-willows gave
their waving and golden green to the air, forming one of the most lovely
features of a landscape every way Arcadian.
It was a large house, and the modern portion seemed quite unnecessary,
save as an embellishment, for two quieter people could not well have
been found than the old couple who had inhabited the centre building,
with its antique furniture and old-fashioned mouldings, for more than
half a century.
One day, not far from the time of our last chapter, old Mrs. Ford was,
or seemed to be, alone in this dwelling; for the kitchen was so far away
from the room she occupied, that no household-sound reached her. It was
a calm June day. The air was balmy with fruit-blossoms. The sky was
softly blue, with a white cloud here and there drifting soft snowy
billows over it; for a light rain had just passed away, leaving heaps of
pearl clouds on the horizon and a world of diamond drops among the
green-leaves and fruit-blossoms, that impregnated them with perfume.
The window of her sitting-room was open, and Mrs. Ford leaned out, not
to gaze upon the landscape, though she felt all its beauty, but with a
keener interest and deeper anxiety than mere familiar Nature could
afford.
Her husband, a very old man, had gone to the city, and the old lady was
anxiously watching his return. It was now two hours beyond the time. He
had driven a fiery horse and was without attendant; what might have
happened? Why would not her husband be content to drive a staid family
horse, or take the man-servant with him? Why did he go to the city at
all? These might have been her reflections on ordinary occasions; but
now a deeper cause of anxiety gave keenness to those aged eyes, and sent
a nervous quiver to those locked hands, whenever a sound startled her.
At last, she distinctly heard a carriage coming down the road, and
rising slowly from her seat, she walked forth into the front porch,
where, leaning against one of the stone pillars, she stood pale and
motionless, save that a quiver ran through her frame, somewhat more
sharply than should have been possible to the simple tremor of old age.
Decorous old age is always beautiful, and this dear old lady, in her
dark dress and pure muslin cap scarcely less white than the hair it
covered, formed a touching picture, as she stood in the shadow of her
home, waiting—for her husband—and alas! for the only child of their
love—another might come, but the old lady scarcely thought of that, her
heart was too full.
Slowly the carriage came up from the road and swept around to the front
door. The old lady could not move. She seemed chained to the stone
pillar that supported her. A mist, but not of age, crept over her
vision, and through it she saw her husband descend to the ground, and
then, as if moving through a cloud, she saw two female forms sinking, as
it were, toward the earth, and coming steadily toward her.
She could not stir or speak, but held out her trembling arms.
A tall, thin woman, whose large brown eyes, full of sorrowful reproach,
seemed to look through and through her, came up the steps, paused a
moment so close that the trembling hands touched her, and walked on
without a word.
Then the old woman cried out in her anguish,—
“Oh! Elsie, Elsie, will you not speak to me?”
The tall woman turned at this, came a pace back, and looked at the old
lady with her great, mournful eyes, silent as before.
“Elsie, Elsie! It is your mother. Speak to me!”
Insanity is sometimes very cruel. How steadily those great eyes looked
upon the quivering anguish of that beautiful old face! How coldly the
woman turned away, and walked into the shadows of her old home, holy
with so many memories, all lost in the darkness that had settled on her
brain!
Then the old woman sent forth a cry of anguish, and reaching out her
arms, fell weeping upon her husband’s bosom.
“She does not know me. Oh! John, John, I thought she would have known
me!”
The old man, himself trembling with fatigue and agitation, bent down and
kissed the forehead of his wife. But he had no words of comfort to
offer. It was a terrible thing for an only child to walk thus stonily by
the yearning heart of a mother. The poor old man wept over his wife; it
was all he could do.
But as his fond arms relaxed, a beautiful comforter appeared, breaking
through the mist that grief had cast over those aged eyes like some
shadowy angel. Those two withered hands were softly clasped, and a
sweet, tranquillizing voice murmured,—
“Do not be troubled; she is so much better, she must know you at last.
Have patience, only have a little patience!”
“I will have patience. Oh! is that a new thing to me, poor bereaved
mother that I am?” answered the old lady, shedding less bitter tears.
“But who are you that speak so confidently, and so well?”
“This—this is the young person who has done so much for our Elsie at the
asylum,” said the old gentleman. “She has come to stay with her and live
with us!”
“What! This young girl,—this pretty, frail creature? I thought it was a
woman!”
“And so it is, if suffering can make a poor girl grow old,” replied
Catharine, mournfully, for it was no other than Catharine Lacy, or
rather Catharine De Marke, the lost wife, or, as she was only known then
in that house, Catharine Barr.
“And so you have been good to my Elsie?” persisted the old lady, wrapped
up in the one idea of her heart so completely, that she left the poor
girl’s words unheeded. “No wonder she loves you so much!”
“Only wait a while, and she will love you as well. Perhaps in a little
time she will know that you are her mother.”
“Do you think so? Do you really think so?” said the old lady, with tears
in her eyes.
“See how she is looking at us!” was the reply.
Mrs. Ford looked up; and there, in the dim hall, she saw her daughter
watching them keenly. As their eyes met, the aged mother smiled through
her tears, and the crazed woman began to glide slowly toward her, as if
drawn by some magnetic force.
“Oh, you have done this!” cried the old lady,—“she comes this way—she
looks kinder!” and bowing her head, with a gush of tenderness she kissed
the young girl.
Instantly the insane woman darted forward and separated them. With her
hands she held them apart, creeping softly toward her mother’s bosom.
Not a word was spoken. But the swell and beat of that aged mother’s
heart brought back true life into the cold bosom of the daughter.
“Mother!” she said, lifting up her two palms and smoothing down the gray
hair on each side of that wrinkled forehead. “Mother, how white your
hair has grown.”
“Thank God!” cried the aged husband, as he saw this. And in the flood of
tender joy, through which these words were spoken, he lifted his clasped
hands to heaven.
The sound, tender and holy as it was, drove that poor creature back into
her insanity. She turned from her mother, looked coldly upon the old
man, and then, with a faint shake of the head, walked into the house
again.
“Come,” said the old man, tenderly, to his wife, “let us wait God’s
time. It is something that she has known you for a minute!”
“Something,” repeated the old lady, overwhelmed with gratitude; “John,
it has given me new life.”
Hand-in-hand, full of holy faith, and beautiful in the deep love of
their old age, they followed Catharine and her charge into the family
sitting-room.
“Sit down here, my daughter, while I take off your bonnet and shawl,”
said the old lady, wheeling an easy-chair to the window.
Elsie sat down in silence and gazed wistfully in her mother’s face, as
the aged parent removed the bonnet from her head, that poor head whose
ever burning heat had scattered those long black tresses so heavily with
snow.
“See,” said the woman, trembling beneath the joy of that look, “there is
the old pear-tree yet, white with blossoms. I am sure we might find half
a dozen robins’ nests in the boughs, if you were only young enough to
climb them, Elsie.”
Elsie smiled. Some vague association seemed breaking through her mind.
“To-morrow you shall go down there, darling; father and I will go
anywhere with you.”
“Anywhere?” said Elsie, with a fierce look. “Then take me to _him_.”
The old lady recoiled, and looked wistfully at her husband.
“Take me to _him_, I say!” almost shrieked the daughter, gazing angrily
from her father to her mother.
“No, no,” said Catharine, quietly, “that is for me. They must show you
nothing but the brook, the birds, and these beautiful trees. I must do
the rest. Come.”
As if spellbound, the insane woman arose and followed the young girl.