A Visit from Papa--A Musical Squirrel--Letters--Croquet--Extracts from
Letters--Visitors--The Loss of the Missouri--The True Story of Ida's
Engagement.
_June 13_.
Papa came up late last night with a supply of the latest periodicals,
weekly journals, etc., and my pet squirrels in a new and spacious cage.
These little creatures were presents to me this spring, and are very
pretty, and partially tame. I remember, however, one escapade of
theirs shortly before we left the city.
My balcony at home is enclosed with glass, and there I frequently
allowed the squirrels to play. A game of _cache-cache_, of half an
hour or so, was generally necessary before I could induce Fliegende
Holländer, the livelier of the pair, to return to the narrow limits of
his cage. One day, however, through some carelessness, the door from
the balcony into my room was left open, and the squirrels were missing.
Senta (christened after the heroine of Wagner's clever opera) was
captured after some little difficulty, but not the Dutchman. Being a
flying squirrel, he was so very tiny that he could easily conceal
himself in a dark corner, and although I descended upon my knees to
peer under my sofa, bureau, writing-table, and _chiffonnière_, my
search was fruitless--the Flying Dutchman had evidently vanished to
join the Phantom Ship. I felt very uneasy, fearing he might fall a
prey to my two cats, who would no doubt find cold squirrel a very
tempting _entremet_; or if he escaped this Scylla, the Charybdis of
death by starvation lay before him. The hours passed, and Fliegende
Holländer did not appear. Senta was cheerful, and reigned mistress of
the revolving wheel--always the bone of contention between the pair.
Once, during the afternoon, I fancied I heard a scratching as if of
tiny claws, but could not obtain even a glimpse of his vanishing,
fan-shaped tail.
In the evening two or three gentlemen were present, and Marguerite sang
for them. After the song (Gounod's "Naïade," a lovely _salon_ piece),
we were speaking of the loss of dear little Holländer, when one of our
friends exclaimed:
"Why, that squirrel was perched over the register while Miss Cleveland
was singing, but he was so quiet that I thought he was stuffed."
"He evidently is fond of music," said another; "pray sing something
more, Miss Cleveland, and perhaps he may again come out."
He had travelled down from the third story to the parlor through the
flue (fortunately there was no fire), and was now commencing to desire
society and food again.
"Since he is fond of music," said Marguerite, "I will sing the ballad
of the Flying Dutchman from Wagner's opera--that ought certainly to
draw him out again."
A music-loving squirrel evidently, and one versed in the art; for with
the first strains of those curious harmonies and chromatic runs,
descriptive of the howling winds that herald the coming of the Phantom
Ship, Holländer's tiny head peered out, followed, after a furtive
glance about, by his little body. Two gentlemen started to capture
him, and then a chase ensued. Holländer tried to scamper up a picture,
but tripped upon its glass, and fell. At last, the Colonel captured
him in an attempt to scale the curtains, and after much struggling,
kicking, biting, and other vigorous protestations from Holländer,
landed him safely in his cage.
The squirrels evidently enjoy country life very much. Early this
morning Minna took them out of doors, and removed the bottom of the
cage that they might play upon the grass, which so much exhilarated
them that I am convinced they fancied they were entirely free. Then I
removed the hot cotton from their little nest, and filled it with fresh
clover-leaves, which I am sure they much prefer. They run no risk of
being devoured here, for Aunt Mary always disliked cats, so that there
is not one upon the place, and Gabrielle's pet dog, a native of
Bordeaux, has viewed them from afar, and snuffed at the cage, but is
evidently too well-bred a Frenchman to desire even to tease them.
_June 14_.
A letter to-day from one of my Paris friends, Jennie Ford. She says:
"How divine it must be at Chappaqua! I am glad you are enjoying
yourself, and are well. But you do not say a word of your Western
trip. I hope you have not given it up."
Then follows a cordial invitation for me to visit her in her beautiful
home upon Lake Erie, now looking its prettiest in the leafy month of
June. All sorts of pleasant inducements are held out: a croquet-lawn
of velvet softness, long drives, and charming rides in which to display
my stylish new beaver and habit, moonlight excursions upon Lake Erie,
and no lack of handsome cavaliers, including naval officers. However,
despite all these attractions, I do not think I shall care to leave
Chappaqua this summer.
Jennie enclosed a photograph of the lady who reigned as belle of the
American colony in Paris, some four or five years ago--Mrs. Horace
Jenness, then Miss Carrie Deming. Three years of married life have
changed the beautiful Carrie somewhat, if this picture is a truthful
one. The perfect outline of her face is unaltered, but the haughty
expression that "La Princesse" wore in former days has vanished, and
the fond young mother, grouped with her two little children is prettier
than ever.
_June 15_.
I feel singularly indolent, and indisposed to journalize this evening.
Perhaps it is the result of two hours spent in croquet, a game in which
I am very unproficient and therefore find decidedly wearisome; but
Gabrielle, who is the best croquet player in Chappaqua, is in the city
to-day, and my feeble assistance was necessary to make up the quartette.
Two entire hours spent in this game seem quite an unwarrantable loss of
time, but we have had a guest from New York to-day, and therefore both
Plato and Kohlrausch have remained under lock and key in the library.
I think no one enjoys the country more thoroughly than a physician when
he can escape from his patients for a holiday, and Dr. Howe, our
visitor of to-day, was not an exception. This gentleman is, I fancy,
quite young in his profession, for his figure is of almost boyish
slenderness; his face, too, which reminds one somewhat of Shelley in
its delicacy and brightness, and its dark eyes and luxuriant curls, is
quite youthful for a fully fledged M.D.
Dr. Howe returned from Europe some months since, and brought us a
letter of introduction from a friend of mamma's in Florence; but owing
to mamma's long illness and the seclusion in which we lived last
winter, we have not seen him many times.
I have in my lap a number of letters received in this evening's mail.
One is from my dear friend, Mrs. Knox, the charming contralto of Christ
Church. We had expected her to visit us this week, but her unexpected
departure for the West has prevented her from doing so. She says:
"You must truly be enjoying Chappaqua these heavenly June days. I hope
that the fresh air and rest are putting roses into your pale cheeks and
giving you health and strength for your literary labors. My sudden
departure compels me to forego the pleasure I had anticipated in seeing
you at Chappaqua--at least until the fall. I am appreciative of the
courtesy of your dear mamma in inviting me to spend a day in that
lovely retreat, already made sacred to me by my high regard and
admiration for your most noble uncle, whose home it was."
Another letter is written upon most dainty stationery, bearing the
impress of Tiffany, and adorned with a prettily devised monogram in
lavender and gold (handsome stationery is one of my weaknesses). This
letter I know to be sprightly and amusing before I open it, for my
friend Lela has been for two or three years one of my most entertaining
correspondents. We were intimate friends in Paris three or four years
ago, when Lela was a school-girl, and I an _enfant de Marie_, and
although we have been separated by hundreds of miles, by the ocean, and
finally, by Lela's marriage, our attachment continues; so, no
reproaches upon school-girl friendships, I beg.
Lela was married last winter, but she and her handsome French husband
are yet in the honeymoon, which will last, I fancy, forever--certainly
the former Queen of Hearts seems now to care for only _one_ heart. She
says:
"You must be having a lovely time in such a charming place. We have
been to Saratoga. It was stupid enough to send your worst enemy there."
_June 17_.
This week has been quite lost, so far as study is concerned, for nearly
every day has been interrupted by visitors.
Looking out of the window this morning, I saw a carriage containing two
strange young ladies stop before the house. In answer to their inquiry
for Miss Greeley and Miss Gabrielle, Minna informed them, in her broken
English, that they were both in the city for the day. They looked
quite aghast upon receiving this information, for they had already
dismissed their carriage, in which they had driven from Pleasantville,
and knew probably that there was no down train till 4.45, so quite
helplessly they inquired if _no_ members of the family were at home.
Learning that Mrs. Cleveland and her daughters were here, one of the
young ladies, a stylish girl in mourning, desired Minna to announce
Miss Hempstead and her cousin. I puzzled a little over the name while
glancing in the mirror to see that my crape ruffle was properly
adjusted, and my hair in tolerable order. The name seemed familiar,
and yet I knew that no friend of mine bore it.
I found the young ladies in the music room. Miss Hempstead introduced
herself by saying:
"Perhaps you may have heard my name, although you do not know me. My
brother was a friend of Mrs. and Miss Greeley, and was purser of the
_Missouri_."
I was then somewhat surprised that I had not divined Miss Hempstead's
identity from the name and her black dress; but the burning of the
_Missouri_ made scarce any impression upon me at the time, surrounded
as I was last fall by such heavy family afflictions; and the name of
the young purser, whose tragic fate then filled the newspapers, had
since then almost entirely passed from my memory.
An ordinary passenger ship is wrecked or burned, "Extras" are issued, a
three days' excitement follows, and it is then a thing of the past; but
as the _Missouri_ bore, on this memorable voyage, not indeed Caesar and
his fortunes, but the supposed _fiancé_ of dear Ida, its loss is an
event still interesting to the gossiping public. It was useless to try
to convince any one that no engagement had ever existed between Mr.
Hempstead and Ida: no one would credit my most solemn protestations.
Many people not personally acquainted with us, but who knew the facts
"upon the best authority," as outsiders usually do, said that the
marriage was to have taken place before the election, but after Aunt
Mary's death it was postponed for three months. Before two weeks had
elapsed, however, Mr. Hempstead was, in the poetic language of the
journals, "sleeping beneath the coral wave," and poor Ida received as
many well-meant condolences over his death as over Aunt Mary's.
When the tragedy of last autumn was all over, the interest of the
public was greater than ever, and Ida, "who had within four short weeks
lost mother, lover, and father," formed the subject of many a pathetic
editorial and sermon. A London journal styled Ida the "maiden widow,"
spoke of uncle's fond attachment to Mr. Hempstead, and announced that
the loss of his prospective son-in-law was an affliction that
precipitated Mr. Greeley's death.
I first heard of Mr. Hempstead in the winter of 1869-70. Aunt Mary,
who was then commencing to fail, went with Ida to Nassau to spend the
cold months. Her state-room, engaged at the last moment, was a very
uncomfortable one, and Mr. Hempstead, then purser of the _Eagle_, gave
up for her use a large deck state-room with three windows--a great
comfort to Aunt Mary, who was always so partial to an airy bedroom.
The voyage proved, however, a very stormy one, and the waves dashed in
through these three windows, quite drenching poor Ida, who suffered so
much from sea-sickness as to be quite indifferent to danger or
discomfort.
In writing to me after reaching Nassau, Ida mentioned Mr. Hempstead in
a few words:
"The purser was an agreeable and gentlemanly officer, and so kind to
mamma."
She did not, however, mention his name, and I never knew it till last
summer.
After their return to New York, in the spring of 1870, Aunt Mary
invited Mr. Hempstead to visit them at Chappaqua, as she felt under
some obligations to him for having given her his state-room, and
subsequently executed some little commissions for her, between New York
and Nassau. He came out here, and made a visit of a week. In July of
the same year. Aunt Mary and Ida went abroad, and from that time the
acquaintance dropped. That he admired Ida know, but how any one could
manufacture an engagement from such slight material, I cannot imagine.
One day last summer, during the excitement of the campaign, I had taken
up a rose-tinted society journal as a little respite from politics,
when my eyes fell upon a paragraph announcing Ida's engagement to Mr.
William Hempstead, Purser of the _Missouri_; and then I for the first
time learnt the officer's name. My astonishment can be imagined; and
to this day it remains an enigma who invented that little society item.
If a fertile-minded reporter had desired to head his column of
Engagements in High Life with Ida's name, and had announced that she
would shortly be led to the hymeneal altar (I believe that is the
correct phrase in newspaper parlance) by any one in our circle of
acquaintances with whom she was at all intimate, it would not have been
surprising; but why a person whom she had not seen or heard of for two
years should have been selected, is a mystery worthy of G. P. R. James.
But in writing about Mr. Hempstead, I have neglected his sister. Miss
Hempstead was a tall, fine-looking young girl, with, however, a
strikingly foreign appearance for an American _pur sang_. She was
born, she told me, in Belize, Central America, where her father was
United States Consul. A tropical sun had given her a complexion of
Spanish darkness, heightened by large black eyes and jet black
hair--the exact counterpart, Ida afterwards told me, of her brother,
who was often mistaken for a Cuban.
When the period of the consulate of Mr. Hempstead père was over, he had
become so much attached to Belize, that he decided to make it his
future residence. His daughter said she could not imagine what he
found to like in the place, for between earthquakes and yellow fever,
one was in a continual state of terror; there was no society, the
population being almost entirely negro, and no schools; consequently
the children of the few white resident families were obliged to go to
England or to the United States to be educated.
Miss Hempstead was sent to London, and five or six years of the
discipline of a first-class English school have made her quite
different from the fully fledged society queens who graduate from our
Murray Hill _pensionnats_ at sixteen or so. A little English reserve
to tone down somewhat their sparkling natures is all that our
bewitching American girls need to make them perfect, but I fear they
will for several years yet bear the stigma of, "Charming, but too wild."