THE NEWS AT SCHUYLER HILL.
It came to them one sultry August morning, when the thermometer was 90
degrees in the shade, and the air was like a furnace even before nine
o’clock. Breakfast was very late that morning, and Mrs. Tiffe was
furious. She had committed the extravagance of broiled chicken and
muffins, which of course were spoiled, and she had herself been up since
four o’clock and was in a melting condition, in spite of the thinnest
muslin she could find and the coolest garments she could wear. Miss
Rossiter had not slept well, and, as was her custom after a restless
night, she loitered in bed, and dawdled over her toilet and bath, and
took so much time in dressing, that the clock was striking nine when she
at last entered the dining-room, followed by the three girls and their
governess, all panting and inveighing against the weather, except Emma.
She liked it. Naturally chilly and cold, the heat suited her, and her
face alone was pleasant and contented as she took her seat at the table
and attacked the cold chicken and half-warm, heavy muffins, which her
dyspeptic aunt could not eat.
“Bring me a slice of dry toast,” Miss Rossiter said to Martha, the
waitress, who, on returning with the toast, brought two letters for Miss
Julia, bearing foreign post-marks.
“From father and Godfrey,” Julia said. “Excuse me, please, while I read
them.”
Leaning back in her chair she broke the seal of her father’s first and
read a few lines, then with a start which nearly upset her cup of
chocolate, she exclaimed:
“Oh, horrible, girls! Aunt Christine, listen,—father——”
“Martha, you can go, now,” she said suddenly, remembering the girl, who
departed to the kitchen, where the news was already known, and where the
servants stood open-mouthed around Perry, who was reading the letter his
master had sent to him.
“What is it, Julia?” Miss Rossiter asked, when Martha was gone, and
Julia, whose eyes had run at lightning speed over the contents of the
letter, replied:
“Father is going to be married to a Miss Edith Lyle, Aunt Sinclair’s
hired companion. You remember he mentioned her once before as living at
Oakwood. Hear what he says of her: ‘She is a lady of good family, the
daughter of a clergyman, the friend and companion of my deceased sister,
your late Aunt Sinclair. She possesses many accomplishments, and is what
I consider a very remarkable personage.’ (How like father that sounds!)
‘And I expect that all due deference will be paid to her by _every
member of my household_.’ (He has underscored that.) ‘Please break the
news to your Aunt Christine, and tell Mrs. Tiffe to see that all the
rooms in the south wing are made ready for Mrs. Schuyler. I have written
to Perry about refurnishing them, but Tiffe must superintend it a
little——’
“Oh, dreadful, I believe I am going to faint,—my hartshorn, Emma,
please,” Miss Rossiter gasped.
The hartshorn was found, and two palm-leaf fans were brought into
requisition, and then Miss Rossiter spoke again, this time hysterically
and in tears.
“My poor sister, to be so insulted! A hired companion! and she was a
Rossiter! Oh, I cannot bear it, my poor disgraced nieces, my heart is
breaking for you.”
“But, Aunt Christine, he says she is a lady, the daughter of a
clergyman,” Emma said, soothingly,—hers the only voice raised in defence
of the intruder,—the interloper,—the adventuress,—as Miss Rossiter
termed the expected bride.
Emma’s heart had throbbed painfully at the thought of a new mother, but
it was natural for her to defend whatever she believed abused, and she
spoke up for the unknown Edith, until Julia, who had been reading
Godfrey’s letter, uttered a cry of bitter anger and scorn, and said,
sternly:
“Hush, Em, you don’t know what you are talking about; a lady, indeed,
and the daughter of a clergyman! A woman of forty, with a limp, and
glass eye, and cracked voice, is a nice mother to bring us!”
“A wha-at?” Miss Rossiter gasped, while Alice and Emma both exclaimed
simultaneously: “A limp and a glass eye! What do you mean? Let me see;”
and looking over Julia’s shoulder Alice read aloud what Godfrey had
written.
Godfrey had said, “The sight of her will take your breath away,” and in
fact the very thought of her did that, and for full a minute after the
letter was read there was not a sound heard in the room where the
indignant and confounded ladies sat, each staring blankly at the other,
and neither able to speak or move. Miss Rossiter was the first to stir,
and with a moaning cry, “I cannot bear it,” she went into violent
hysterics, and Martha was called in, and the poor lady was taken to her
room, where she tried, one after another, every bottle of medicine in
her closet, but to no effect; even the Crown Bitters failed, and she
sank upon the bed, shivering with cold, and asking for shawls and
blankets on that August day, with a temperature of ninety degrees in the
shade.
Perhaps Miss Rossiter herself had not been aware how much Colonel Howard
was to her, or how hard it would be to see another woman there in her
sister’s place. She had too much sense to believe she would ever fill
it, yet the first smart had been that of disappointment and a sense of
wrong to herself, while the second was a keen pang of mortification and
anger, that if he must choose another he had chosen that caricature on
womanhood described so graphically by Godfrey. It is true she did not
quite believe him literally. Neither did his sisters, who sat in the
library with white faces and tearful eyes. Julia was wrathful and
defiant, and was already in a state of fierce rebellion against the
woman of forty with the crack in her voice. So much she believed, but
the limp and glass eye were too thoroughly Godfrey’s to be trusted.
“Probably the woman is lame and wears glasses,” she said, when she could
trust herself to speak at all, “and perhaps she squints, but I have no
faith in the glass eye. Godfrey made that up. Father is not the man to
marry such a monster, and then expect us to pay all due deference to
her. The idea of my deferring to such a woman. I hate her. I’ll poison
her, the wretch!”
Julia Schuyler was terrible in her wrath, and with that expression in
her flashing eyes and about the white quivering lips, she looked equal
to anything, and Edith might well have trembled could she have seen the
dark-faced girl, who, with clenched fists, threatened to poison her.
Julia would not of course acknowledge that she really had murder in her
heart, but she felt outraged, and insulted, and disgraced, and as if she
must do something to avert the horrible evil threatening them all. But
what could she do? To oppose her will to her father’s was like trying to
move a mountain of stone with her puny strength. The mountain would not
be hurt, and only she would suffer from the attempt.
There was no help, no hope, and when her anger had spent itself she
burst into tears and sobbed passionately, just as Emma had done from the
first, but with this difference, she cried from wrath and indignant
mortification, while Emma’s tears were more for the dead mother whose
place was to be filled, and whose death it seemed to her now had only
been yesterday.
The governess, who knew that remark of any kind from herself would be
resented as impertinent, wisely said nothing, while Alice, too, was
silent, except as she occasionally said to Julia, “It is too bad, and I
am sorry for you; sorry for us all.”
Looking upon Godfrey as her own especial property, Alice felt that
whatever affected the Schuylers affected her, and she was sorry
accordingly for this thing about to happen, but it did not hurt her as
it did Julia and Emma, who must call the strange woman mother, and who
wept on until Miss Rossiter sent for them to come to her room together
with Miss Creighton. She had taken some brandy, and felt better, though
her heart was aching still with a dreary sense of loss, and
disappointment, and disgrace, if half Godfrey had written was true, and
half was all that any stretch of her imagination would allow her to
believe, and when the young girls entered the room she said to them:
“I have sent for you to talk over this dreadful thing, and to say that I
do not credit all Godfrey’s story. He is a sad boy to exaggerate, you
know. Still, let the woman be what she may, we do not want her here
where we have been so happy.”
Miss Rossiter’s voice faltered a little, but soon recovering herself,
she continued:
“No, we do not want her here; and I for one declare war,—_war to the
knife!_”
She spoke bitterly now, and her black eyes flashed with contemptuous
scorn.
“But Aunt Christine,” Emma said, “it is father’s house, and he will not
let you treat her badly.”
“Nor shall I,” Miss Rossiter said, loftily; “I shall let her alone
severely, and leave as soon as possible after her arrival. Nor shall I
leave my sister’s daughters with the adventuress. I’ve been thinking it
over, and have concluded to rent or buy a place in New York, and set up
housekeeping for myself, in which case you will go with me, and leave
your father to enjoy life with his low-born bride.”
“Father wrote she was a lady, and Godfrey says we shall like her,” Emma
quickly interposed, feeling that for herself she preferred staying with
the “adventuress” to living with Aunt Christine.
Julia, on the contrary, was caught with the house in New York. The city
was far more to her taste than the dull country, and, with a withering
glance at her sister, she said:
“I’m ashamed of you, Em, that you cannot appreciate auntie’s offer, but
speak, instead, for that woman. I, for one, am greatly obliged to
auntie, and shall go with her to New York?”
“And I, too, if she will have me. I’d rather live anywhere than at Uncle
Calvert’s,” Alice said; “and I hope the house will be near the Park.
Won’t it be nice, though?”
“Yes, I mean to have it nice,” Miss Rossiter said, warming into
something like enthusiasm as she thought of a home of her own. “I shall
furnish it elegantly, and have a reception every week, with little
_recherché_ dinner parties for our circle.”
Julia began to be interested, and hoped she should see a little society
before she was quite forty, while Alice resolved to be married from that
house near the Park, instead of “Uncle Calvert’s poky little bandbox
down on Washington Square.”
And while the three ladies planned and talked of the new house in the
city, each was conscious of a pang as she thought of leaving the
delightful place, where was so much of comfort and luxury, with no
shadow of care or trouble. And of the three, Miss Rossiter felt it the
most keenly. Naturally indolent and fond of her ease, she had enjoyed
her sister’s house, and hated much to leave it, but the fiat had gone
forth.
There was to be a new mistress at Schuyler Hill, whose name was not
Rossiter, and she must go. She settled that point at once, and then said
to the young girls by way of caution, for pride in her brother-in-law
was still strong within her:
“I think it will be better not to mention Godfrey’s letter,—that is, not
to speak of the woman’s personal appearance, which may not be so bad as
we fear. Let her show for herself what she is. We must tell, of course,
of the expected marriage, but we need say nothing further.”
In this reasonable advice all three of the girls concurred, and yet
through some agency it was soon rumored all over Hampstead that the new
lady of Schuyler Hill was _deformed_, and homely and poor, and the hired
companion of the late Mrs. Sinclair, and that Miss Rossiter had declared
war to the knife, while Julia talked of poison, and Emma cried day and
night and would not be comforted. Who told all this, nobody knew.
Possibly it was the governess, and possibly Mrs. Tiffe, who bristled all
over those days with importance and secret exultation over her routed
and discomfited foe, poor Miss Rossiter. Mrs. Tiffe had had her letter
from Col. Schuyler, and Perry, her son, had his also, in which were
numerous instructions with regard to the refurnishing of the rooms in
the south wing. “All the rooms,” the colonel had said, and he was minute
in his directions with regard to the corner room with the bay-window
overlooking the river and the mountains beyond. This was to be Mrs.
Schuyler’s boudoir, or private sitting-room, and was to be fitted up in
drab and pale rose pink, while the sleeping-room, which was separated
from it by bath-room and dressing-closet, was to be furnished with blue,
and the little room beyond, where the colonel kept his books and private
papers, was to be green and oak.
“Let everything be new and in the latest style,” the colonel wrote to
Perry. “You can get men up from New York who will know just what is
needful, while the ladies and your mother will give you the benefit of
their advice and good taste, so I shall expect to find everything
perfect when I come.”
To Mrs. Tiffe the colonel wrote, saying that from past experience he
knew he could rely upon her, and hoped she would give the matter her own
personal supervision, in which case it would be right. Thus flattered
and trusted and deferred to, Mrs. Tiffe espoused the cause of the new
wife, and hurrahed for the coming change of government at Schuyler Hill.
Anything was preferable to Miss Rossiter, and Mrs. Tiffe cared little
whether Edith walked with two crutches or one, provided she freed her
from the enemy.
“My son will obey orders to the letter,” she said, crisply, when Julia
asked what Perry meant to do. “If the colonel says the south wing must
be cleared and refurnished, it will be, and Miss Rossiter may as well
vacate to-day as to-morrow. There’s no time to be lost in dawdling.”
Now, the corner room, with the wide bay-window, was the room of all
others which Miss Rossiter preferred, and she had appropriated it to
herself and held possession of it in spite of Mrs. Tiffe’s broad hints
that there were other apartments in the house besides the “very best
chamber.” But she must give it up now, and with many a sigh of regret
she saw Kitty gather up her bottles of medicine, her boxes of pills, her
wine and her brandy, and galvanic battery, and bear them to another
closet on the opposite side of the house, away from the river and
mountains, where her only view was the little town, which she detested,
and the hill rising darkly behind it. It was hard, and Miss Rossiter
felt very much injured and aggrieved, and cried softly to herself, and
thought very bitter things of that woman who had brought her to this
strait, and for whom the house was being turned upside down.
Mrs. Tiffe was already at work with her maids in the south wing taking
up carpets, removing furniture, washing windows, and in the room just
vacated by Miss Rossiter burning coffee, and sugar, and paper by way of
removing the smell of drugs with which the apartment was permeated. But
do what she would the faint odor of valerian was still perceptible,
making the good woman “sick as a dog,” as she expressed it, and bringing
into requisition as a last experiment burnt feathers, which, combined
with the valerian, made the atmosphere of the place unbearable.
“Paint will do it and nothing else,” was Mrs. Tiffe’s final verdict, as
she retreated to the open window and leaned out for a breath of pure
air.
Not the slightest interest did either of the ladies show in the changes
being made, but Mrs. Tiffe and her son felt themselves equal to the task
until it came to selecting carpets, and furniture and curtains in New
York. Then Perry said some one ought to go with him and not let him take
the entire responsibility.
But neither Miss Rossiter, nor Julia, nor Alice, made any response, and
the probability was that he would go alone until the morning came, when
Emma appeared at breakfast in her walking-dress and announced her
intention to accompany Perry.
“Somebody ought to go for father’s sake,” she said; “and if no one else
will, I must. I shall stop at Uncle Calvert’s and get auntie to help
me.”
To this there was no open opposition. Miss Rossiter had the toothache
and could not talk, while Julia merely raised her eyebrows in token of
her surprise; and Alice said:
“You are certainly very kind, Em, and forgiving, to be so much
interested for that woman.”
“It isn’t for that woman; it’s for father, and because I know he wishes
it,” Emma replied, as she put on her hat and shawl and started with
Perry for New York.
She was gone three days, and at the end of that time four men appeared
at Schuyler Hill and commenced the work of measuring, repainting and
frescoing the rooms intended for the bride. Then in due time came the
carpets, and the lambrequins, and the lace curtains, and the furniture,
and more men to see that everything fitted and was as it should be.
“Handsome enough for the queen herself,” Mrs. Tiffe said, when all was
done, and she walked complacently through the suite of rooms, sniffing
occasionally as she passed the open closet, to see if there lingered yet
the faintest approach to valerian or drug of any kind.
There did not. Paint and varnish had killed all that, and the air of the
rooms was pure and sweet as the rooms themselves were beautiful and
attractive. I used those days to be occasionally at the great house,
and, as I never presumed upon my acquaintance with the ladies, or tried
to force myself upon their notice, they treated me with a good deal of
kindness, and seemed to like my society. So when, one Saturday morning
after the repairs were finished, I met Miss Julia in the village, and
she said, in her usual half-cordial, half-indifferent tone, “What an age
it is since you were to see us. Suppose you come round this afternoon,
and have a game of croquet, and stay to dinner,” I accepted the
invitation, and at about 4 p.m. rang the bell at Schuyler Hill.
I did not suppose I was very early, especially as we were to play
croquet; but the ladies, who always slept after lunch, were not yet
dressed, and so I went with Mrs. Tiffe to the kitchen, to see some jelly
she had been making, and which had “come beautifully.” As I was about
returning to the parlor she said to me:
“Don’t you want to see them rooms?”
I knew what she meant, and answered that I did.
Taking me first into the green room, where the oak leaves in the rich
velvet carpet looked as if you might pick them up, Mrs. Tiffe opened the
doors through, and asked what I thought of the effect. It was beautiful
beyond anything I had dreamed. Especially was I delighted with the
parlor, where the carpet was of that soft chiné pattern so tasteful and
exquisite; and the furniture was delicate drab, with trimmings of pale
rose pink. There were rare pictures on the wall, and curtains of
finely-wrought lace before the windows, with lambrequins of rose pink
satin to match the furniture, while cushions, and easy-chairs, and
ottomans, and inlaid tables, which almost told their price themselves,
were scattered about in such a way as to give the room an air of cosey,
home-like comfort as well as elegance.
How lovely it all was, and how like a dream it seemed to be looking at
it, and knowing that it was real and not a mere illusion! Then, as I
remembered what I had heard of the bride’s deformity and plainness, I
thought it such a pity that the occupant of these rooms should not be
lovely like them, and a fitting ornament for so much grandeur.
Lady Emily, with her pale, sallow face and expressionless eyes, would
have looked better there, I said, or even Miss Rossiter herself, who
when dressed and feeling well was still very attractive, and when I went
down stairs and found her sitting on the veranda, in her white cambric
dress, with the scarlet shawl she wore so much wrapped around her, her
glossy black hair becomingly arranged, with a single white flower among
the heavy braids, I thought the colonel would have done far better to
have taken her than the bride he had chosen.
We had a very quiet, stupid, six-hand game of croquet, and the dinner
was quieter, stupider still, for all the ladies seemed preoccupied and
disinclined to talk. Not a word was said of the marriage by any one
until I was leaving, when Emma came up to me, and whispered softly:
“They are in New York. We had a telegram this afternoon.”
She did not say who _they_ were, but I pressed her hand in token of my
sympathy, for I knew that _they_ had reference to the new mistress of
Schuyler Hill.