MRS. PENELOPE SEYMOUR.
Magdalen felt herself growing very nervous and uneasy as the long train
came slowly into New York, and car after car was detached and drawn away
by horses. She was in the last of all, and was feeling very forlorn and
homesick and half inclined to cry, just as a voice by the door asked:
“Is Miss Lennox, from Belvidere, here?”
There was reassurance in the tone of the voice, and reassurance in the
expression of the frank, open face of the young man, who, as Magdalen
rose from her seat, came quickly to her side, and doffing his hat, said:
“Miss Lennox, I presume? I am Guy Seymour, Aunt Pen’s nephew, or as she
would tell you, her husband’s nephew, and she has kept me in a constant
state of worry the entire day on your account. I was at the depot at
least an hour before there was any possible hope of the train, and as
you are an hour behind, that makes two hours I have waited, so you see I
have done my duty. Allow me to take your satchel and umbrella. You
haven’t a bandbox, have you?”
The comical look in the saucy brown eyes, which turned upon Magdalen,
betrayed the fact that he was quizzing her a little. But Magdalen did
not mind it. She felt a kind of security with him, and liked him at once
in spite of the bandbox thrust.
“This way, please; perhaps you’d better take my arm,” he said, as he
made his way through the crowd to a carriage, which was waiting for him.
When once fairly seated, Magdalen had leisure to study her _vis-à-vis_
more closely. He was apparently twenty-five or twenty-six years of age,
a young man who had seen a great deal of fashion and society, and who
still retained about him a certain air of frankness and candor and
simplicity, which opened a way for him at once to every stranger’s
heart. There was something in the wave of his hair and the cast of his
head which reminded Magdalen of Roger, and made her feel as if she had
found a friend. He was inclined to be quite sociable, and after
exhausting the weather, he said to her, “You are from Belvidere, I
believe? Do you know a Mr. Irving there, the one who has so recently
come into a fortune?”
Magdalen looked quickly up, and her face was scarlet as she replied, “I
know him, yes. Is he an acquaintance of yours?”
“I was two years behind him in college, but sophs and seniors are as
widely apart as the poles. I wonder if he is greatly improved. I used to
think him a kind of a prig.”
“I may as well start with a right understanding at once,” Magdalen
thought, and she answered a little haughtily. “Mr. Frank Irving is a
friend of mine. I have known him ever since I can remember. Millbank is
the only home I have ever had.”
Magdalen thought her companion came near whistling in his surprise, and
she felt sure that he was regarding her more curiously than he had done
before, while for some reason he seemed more attentive and polite, and
by the time the St. Denis was reached, she felt as if she had known him
months instead of a brief half hour.
“You must not mind if you find Aunt Pen a little stiff at first. She has
a great deal of starch in her composition,” he said as he ran up the
stairs and down the hall in the direction of No.——.
And stiff, indeed, Magdalen did find Aunt Pen, as the nephew called her.
A little, short, straight, square-backed woman of sixty or thereabouts,
with iron-gray hair, arranged in puffs around her forehead,—a proud,
haughty, wrinkled face, and round bright eyes, which seemed to look
straight through Magdalen as Guy ushered her into the room.
“Miss Lennox, Auntie Pen,” he said, and taking Magdalen by the arm he
led her up to his aunt, who felt constrained to offer her jewelled hand,
but who did it in such a way that Magdalen felt the conventional gulf
there was between them in the lady’s mind, and winced under it.
“I hope you’ll order dinner at once,” Guy continued. “The train was an
hour behind, and Miss Lennox is fearfully tired. I’ll ring myself,” and
he touched the bell rope while Mrs. Seymour was saying something about
being glad to see Miss Lennox, and hoping she was not very tired.
Oh how strange and lonely Magdalen felt, when at last she was alone in
her room for a few moments, while she arranged her hair and made herself
more presentable for dinner! The windows looked out into a dreary court,
and tears sprang to Magdalen’s eyes as she felt the contrast between
these dingy brick walls and that damp, mouldy pavement, and the fresh
green grass and wealth of flowers and shrubbery and forest trees which
for years had been hers to gaze upon. Suppose she was to live at the St.
Denis for years, and to occupy that room into which the sun never
penetrated. And for aught she knew, such was to be her fate. She had
made no inquiries as to where she was to live, whether in city or
country, hotel or private house. Her orders were to come to the St.
Denis, and there she was, and her heart was aching with homesickness,
and a longing to be away,—not at Millbank, but with Roger, wherever he
was. With him was home and happiness and rest, such as Magdalen felt she
should never find again. But it would not do now to indulge in feelings
like these. There was dinner waiting for her, as Guy’s cheery voice
announced outside her door. “Never mind stopping to dress to-night. It
won’t pay, and Aunt Pen don’t expect it. She is dressed enough for
both,” he said; then he went away, and Magdalen heard him whistling a
part of a favorite opera, and felt glad and grateful that at the very
outset of her career she had met Guy Seymour to smooth away the rough
places for her as he was doing in more ways than she knew of, or ever
would know. To him she owed it that she was not left to find her way
alone from the depot to the hotel.
“There is no need of your going for her. People of her class can always
find their way,” his aunt had said to him in the morning, when he asked
what time she expected her _Yankee school-ma’am_ to arrive, saying he
wished to know so as to have nothing in the way of his going up to meet
her.
To his aunt’s suggestion that “people of her class could usually find
their way,” he gave one of his pet whistles, and said,
“How do you know she is one of the ‘people of her class?’ And supposing
she is, she is a woman, and young and possibly good looking, and New
York is an awful place for a young, good-looking woman to land in, an
entire stranger. So, _ma chère_ auntie, I shall meet her just as I
should want some chap of a Guy Seymour to meet my sister if I had one.
And, auntie, I beg of you to unbend a little, and try to make her feel
at home. I’ve no doubt she’ll be as homesick as I was the first time I
ever visited you when I was a boy, and cried so hard to go home that I
vomited up that quart of green gooseberries I had eaten surreptitiously
out in the garden. Do you remember it?
And so kind-hearted Guy had his way, and when he told Magdalen that his
aunt had kept him in a constant worry on her account, he had reference
to a widely different state of affairs from what his words implied and
what he meant they should imply. He had been fighting for her all day
and insisting that if she was a lady she should be treated as a lady,
and when he met her at the depot, he felt that he had been wholly right
in the course he had pursued.
She _was_ a lady, and pretty, too, as nearly as he could judge through
the drab veil which covered her face. The veil was off when she came out
to dinner, and Guy, who met her at the door and conducted her to the
table, started a little to see how beautiful and graceful she was, and
how like a queen she bore herself toward his aunt, who took her in now,
from her black, shining hair to the sweep and cut of her fashionable
travelling dress.
“That is last spring’s style. It must have been made in New York,” was
Mrs. Seymour’s mental comment, and she felt a growing respect for one
whose dress bore so unmistakably the New York stamp upon it.
_She_ was dressed in satin,—soft, French gray satin,—whose heavy folds
stood out from her slender figure and covered up the absence of hoops,
which she never wore. There was a point lace coiffure on her head and
point lace at her throat and wrists, and diamonds on her fat white
hands, and she looked to the full a lady of the high position and blood
which she professed, and she was very kind to Magdalen, albeit there was
a certain stiffness in her manner which would have precluded the
slightest approach to anything like familiarity had Magdalen attempted
it.
Evidently there was something about Magdalen which riveted her
attention, for she omitted no opportunity for looking at her when
Magdalen did not know it, and at certain turns of the head and flashes
of the large, restless eyes which sometimes met hers so suddenly, she
found herself perplexed and bewildered, and wondering when or where she
had seen eyes like these whose glance she did not like to meet, but
which nevertheless kept flashing upon her, and then turning quickly
away. Guy, too, caught now and then a familiar likeness to something
seen before; but it was not in the eyes or the turn of the head,—it was
more in the expression of the mouth and the smile which made Magdalen so
beautiful, while there was something in the tone of her voice like
another voice which in all the world made the sweetest music for him. He
knew of whom Magdalen reminded him, though the faces of the two were no
more alike than a brilliant rose and a fair, white water-lily. Still the
sight of Magdalen and the silvery ring of her voice brought the absent
one very near to him, and made him still kinder and more attentive to
the young girl whose champion he had undertaken to be.
“Is it still your intention to leave New York to-morrow, or will you
give Miss Lennox a day in the city for sight-seeing? I dare say she
would like it better than plunging at once into that solitude of rocks
and hills and running rills,” Guy said to his aunt, who replied: “I had
intended to leave to-morrow. I am beginning to long for the solitude, as
you call it, and unless Miss Lennox is very anxious to see the city—”
“Of course she is. Every young girl wants to see the Park and Broadway
and the picture galleries, especially if she has never been in New York
before. But I beg your pardon, Miss Lennox; for aught I know you were
born here.”
Magdalen had been a close listener to the conversation between the aunt
and nephew, and gathered from it that her destination was the country,
and she was not to live in the noisy city, which would seem so dreary to
her from contrast with the gayeties of last winter, when she was there
under very different auspices. She had no desire to see Broadway, or the
Park, or the pictures. She had seen them all, with Roger as her escort,
and they would look so differently now. So to Mr. Seymour’s suggestion
that she was possibly born in New York, she replied:
“I was here last winter, and saw, I think, all there is worth seeing. I
would rather go at once to ‘the rocks and hills and running rills.’ I
feel most at home with nature.”
She flashed a bright smile on Guy, who felt his blood tingle a little,
while his aunt thought, “I knew her clothes were made in New York;” then
to Magdalen she said, “I have many acquaintances in the city. Possibly
you may have met some of them, if you were _in society_.”
She laid great stress upon the last two words, and Magdalen colored,
while Guy, who saw his aunt’s drift, said laughingly, “Don’t pray drive
Miss Lennox into telling whether she was a belle or a student, copying
some picture, or perfecting herself in music. You’ll be asking next if
she knew the Dagons and Draggons, whom not to know is to be nobody
indeed.”
He spoke sarcastically now, and Magdalen’s face was scarlet, though she
could not help laughing at his allusion to the “Dagons and Draggons”
whom she had met, and so was not lacking in that accomplishment. She
knew it was very natural that Mrs. Seymour should wish to know something
of her antecedents, and she said, “I was _not_ here to copy pictures. I
came with friends, and saw, I suppose, what is called society; at least
I met the _Dagons_ and _Draggons_, if that is any proof. I was
chaperoned by Mrs. Walter Irving, of whom you may have heard.”
“Mrs. Walter Scott Irving, of Lexington avenue,” Mrs. Seymour exclaimed;
“I have heard of her. Are you a relative of hers?”
“No, madam, not a relative. I was adopted by her husband’s half brother,
Mr. Roger Irving, when I was a very little child. He was as kind to me
as if I had been his sister. I have always lived at Millbank, and always
intended to live there until circumstances occurred which made it
desirable for me to seek a home elsewhere and earn my own livelihood.
There was found a later will than the one proven at the time of Squire
Irving’s death, and by virtue of that will Mr. Roger’s nephew, Frank,
came into possession of the estate, and Roger went away, while I
preferred not to be dependent.”
She had told all of her history which it was necessary to tell, and
after a little more conversation she bade her new acquaintance
good-night and retired to her room.
“Well, Guy, what do you think of her?” Mrs. Seymour said, coming to her
nephew’s side.
“I think she’s splendid,” he replied; “but who the deuce is it she looks
like? She has evidently been as delicately brought up as Alice herself.
It’s the finding of that will which has turned her adrift upon the
world, no doubt, and I pity her, for she is every inch a lady; and, Aunt
Pen, don’t for gracious sake put on airs with her, as if you were the
great Mogul, and she some Liliputian. Remember from what a height she
has fallen! Think of her knowing the Dagons and Draggons!”
He was teazing her now, but however much of a scapegrace she might think
him to be, Auntie Pen was pretty sure to consider and follow his advice,
and the next morning she was very polite to Magdalen, and offered of her
own accord to stay another day in New York if she liked, saying Guy
should drive them to the Park, or wherever she wished to go. But
Magdalen longed to be out of the city, and an hour or two after
breakfast the carriage came round to take them to the train.
Mrs. Seymour had not been very communicative with regard to Beechwood,
the place to which they were going. She had said merely that it was on
the Hudson. That it was her niece who was the invalid; that they had
been some years abroad; that the house was very pleasant; that for
certain reasons they saw but little company; and then had asked abruptly
if Miss Lennox was nervous. Guy, who was not to accompany them, had
asked the same question in connection with something he was saying of
Beechwood, but Magdalen did not heed the question then, or attach to it
any importance. She was very anxious to be off, and was glad when, at
last, the car began to move, and she knew she was leaving New York.
It was a warm, still day in early October, and Magdalen enjoyed the ride
along the beautiful river, and was sorry when at last it came to an end,
and she was left standing on the same platform where, years before,
another young girl had stood looking about her, half sadly, half
regretfully, and wishing herself away. It was a different carriage now
which was waiting for the travellers,—a new, stylish carriage, drawn by
two beautiful horses, which would have driven Frank Irving wild, and
John, the coachman, in high-crowned hat and white gloves, was very
deferential to Mrs. Seymour, and touched his hat to Magdalen, and saw
them both into the carriage, and then, closing the door, mounted to his
seat, and started up the mountain road, over which _Alice Grey_ had
ridden many a time, for it was to her that Magdalen was going. She knew
it at last, for as they rode up the mountain side she said to Mrs.
Seymour:
“I do not think you have told me the name of your niece. I have heard
you call her Alice, and that is all I know of her.”
“Surely, you must excuse me,” Mrs. Seymour replied; “I thought I had
told you that her name was Alice Grey. You may have heard of her from
Mr. Irving. We met him abroad, and again in New York.”
“Yes, I have heard of her,” Magdalen replied, her face flushing, and her
heart beating rapidly as she thought of the strange Providence which was
leading her to one of whom she had heard so much, and of whom when a
little girl she had been so jealous.
“Hers is a most lovely character, and you are sure to like her,” Mrs.
Seymour continued. “She has been sorely tried. We are all sorely tried.
You told me, I think, that you were not nervous?”
This was the second time she had put the question to Magdalen, who was
not now quite so certain of her nerves as she had been when the question
was asked her before; but Mrs. Seymour did not wait for an answer, for
just then they came in sight of the house, which she pointed out to
Magdalen, who thought of Millbank as she rode through the handsome
grounds and caught glimpses of the river in the distance. The carriage
stopped at last at a side door, and conducting Magdalen into a little
reception room Mrs. Seymour asked the servant who met them, “where Miss
Grey was?”
Magdalen could not hear the answer, it was so low; but she saw a cloud
on Mrs. Seymour’s brow and divined that something was wrong.
“Show Miss Lennox to her room, the one next to my niece’s,” the lady
said, and Magdalen followed the girl to a large upper room the windows
of which looked out upon the river and the country beyond.
It was very pleasant there, and Magdalen threw off her hat and shawl and
was just seating herself by the window for a better view of the charming
prospect, when there came a gentle knock at her door, and a sweet
musical voice said softly, “Please, may I come in?”