A Birthday--A Surprise--The Day celebrated by a Dinner--An Awkward
Mistake--A Queen of Fashion--A Drive to Tarrytown--A Poem to Ida.
_July 16_.
An air of mystery has pervaded the house for the past week. My offers
to take Ida's letters to the post, or to go and fetch home the mail,
have been met with a hasty negative, and Minna despatched forthwith to
attend to them; and whenever I might enter Ida's room, it would appear
to be at a most inopportune moment, for the earnest conversation that
had been going on between herself and Gabrielle would instantly stop,
and their countenances assume a most transparent expression of
indifference. Long whispered conversations with mamma were continually
taking place, and Ida seemed to be more frequently called to the
kitchen by Lina than I had ever before known her to be, that autocrat
being ordinarily by no means tolerant of her presence there. Finally,
Ida was summoned to New York upon important business--to meet her
lawyer, I supposed, but wondered why she did not simply authorize papa
to represent herself, as well as Gabrielle, whose guardian he is, and
thus spare herself a tedious day in the city in such sultry weather.
Yesterday was my birthday, and to-day is Marguerite's. As the fêtes
occur in midsummer, we are usually--if in America--upon the Catskill
Mountains, or some equally inaccessible place, so that a celebration is
not practicable; indeed, our birthdays have not been celebrated since
1869, when some friends in Paris took us all to St. Germain, where we
passed a most delightful week at the Pavilion Henri Quatre (a hotel
built upon the spot where Louis XIV. was born), and daily drove and
picniced in the grand old forest for which St. Germain is noted. The
events of yesterday were therefore most unexpected and agreeable.
Ida and Gabrielle, after congratulating Marguerite and I, and giving us
some elegant presents (for we usually receive our presents upon the
same day, as less than twenty-four hours separate our anniversaries),
asked us to drive down to the station with them to meet the train, and
gently intimated that as some one might come up from New York with
papa, we had better put on our best bombazines. Quite obediently I
went upstairs, put on the dress with its weight of crape, clasped on my
new black velvet _ceinture_, with its buckles of oxidized silver in
delicate filagree work, (Marguerite's gift), and obtuse to the
inappropriateness of a dress fan for morning use, suspended from the
châtelaine another birthday gift--a black lace fan. Then, when I had
put the finishing touch, in the shape of dear Ida's present--a
vinaigrette of oxidized silver formed like a half-furled fan--I was
quite satisfied with my toilette; before the day was over, however, my
_ceinture_ was adorned with a tortoise-shell châtelaine, whistle, and
tablets, as well as a dainty riding-whip--papa's present--and I deeply
mourned the impossibility of wearing two beautiful pictures, a new
novel, and a large box of Iauch's best bonbons.
When the train arrived, papa emerged, followed by our artist neighbor,
Mr. John Hows.
"Why, papa has brought up Mr. Hows!" I said. "How very--" my
exclamation of pleasure was checked by surprise at the appearance of
his brother, the musical editor of the _Express_, followed by our
friends, Dr. Taylor and Colonel Rogers.
"Is this a surprise party?" Marguerite and I inquired blankly.
My dear friend Lela Paraf then tripped out, assisted by her elegant
husband, and followed by Mr. Eugene Durkee and his brother, two Paris
friends of ours. Then the car door opened once more, and "our young
chief," as papa calls Mr. Reid, and Colonel Hay issued--a surprise
party indeed.
Ida had intended to invite only a few young gentlemen to spend the day
with us, fearing that if she sent out invitations to ladies to dinner,
some enterprising reporter might announce that she had given at least a
_fête champêtre_, if not a _bal masqué_, which in our deep mourning
would not be an agreeable report to be in circulation; but Lela is so
charming and dear to us all, and has remained so faithfully my most
intimate friend for the last six months, notwithstanding the rival that
I dreaded in her husband, that Ida made an exception for her.
As we were marshalling our regiment to return to the house, a tall,
dark, distinguished-looking gentleman, elegantly dressed, hastened
towards us. Who he was I could not imagine, but as his face seemed
familiar, I welcomed him with a beaming smile. He must, however, be
very near-sighted, I thought, for he overlooked my extended hand,
merely bowing very low, and going on towards the house.
"Who is he, Ida?" I said in a whisper; "I don't remember his name."
"I suppose not," said Ida, laughing; "though you have seen him often
enough. It is Emile, from Delmonico's. I sent for him to help Minna
serve the table."
I was no longer surprised that my distinguished-looking gentleman did
not shake hands with me.
When we were upon the croquet ground, I had an opportunity to admire
Lela's toilette. A born Queen of Fashion, her dresses even when as a
school-girl were my admiration, and her toilette for my birthday showed
the refinement of delicacy and taste: for, not wishing to be the only
lady present in colors, she wore a black grenadine, with black bows and
a black lace hat; her diamond ear-drops and one half-blown deep red
rose alone testifying that her mourning robe was only worn through
sympathy.
We had sat three hours at the table, and were lingering over the ices
and awaiting the coffee and fruit, when a shrill whistle, warning the
guests that the train was nigh, caused a flight more rapid than that of
Cinderella. Farewells were left unspoken, and "French leave" taken in
good earnest, as our friends made a short cut through the garden of
Bischoff, the trainmaster, who lives opposite us. Their departure
could scarcely be said to be graceful, but as they had only three
minutes' time to meet the train, it was obligatory.
Lina had exercised all of her art in preparing the birthday dinner, and
as Ida gave her _carte blanche_ in her most extravagant demands--such
as twenty pounds of beef for gravies, and an entire bottle of Madeira
for the soup, the dinner was very elegant and satisfactory. Lina
would, I fancy, have been much aggrieved, had she known that her
artistic dishes were supposed to have been sent up from Delmonico's.
_July 20_.
A drive to Tarrytown to-day. After two months of inland air, the
change to the exhilarating salt breeze blowing up from the Hudson was
very refreshing, and made us quite regret, during the few hours we
spent there, that Chappaqua could not be occasionally transported to
the seaside.
"I am especially fond," said Ida, "of living by the sea, although I do
not enjoy an ocean voyage; but a cottage at Newport is my ideal home
for the summer."
"Newport air," said mamma, "would, I think, be too strong for me. The
most agreeable sea air that I ever experienced was upon the Isle of
Wight. There the climate was so mild as to be very beneficial to me.
But you must know as much or more than I do about the Isle of Wight
air, for you spent several months there with your mother when last in
Europe, did you not?"
"Yes, we spent a winter and spring at Ventnor," said Ida; "that town,
you know, is especially recommended to people with lung troubles,
although I could never see that it did poor mamma much good."
"Did you ever see, Aunt Esther," inquired Gabrielle, "the poem that was
addressed to Ida while she was at Ventnor?"
Mamma had not before heard of it; therefore, upon our return, Ida took
it out of her portfolio, and showed it to us. It was written by a New
York editor and poet, and was, we all thought, very beautiful and
appropriate. As it was in MSS., Ida allowed me to copy it into my
journal.
A FAMILIAR IDYL.
FOR IDA LILLIAN GREELEY.
Dear friend! If I could step to-day
Upon your cosey English isle,
Victoria's chosen home erewhile,
And hallowed by the Laureate's lay;
Though beauty breaks from every view,
And one long splendor edge the shore,
I should not pause an hour before
I touched the terrace graced by you.
For what's a Queen's or Poet's worth?
The light that lies on land and sea
Resplendent? Dearer far to me
The friendship which outweighs the earth.
Should I not find you--happy chance--
Just where your ivied cottage stands,
Dreaming with hope of western lands,
Or facing torn and tortured France?
And you could tell of sunny days?
Of chalky cliffs and spreading downs;
Nature is more than bustling towns,
And country life than city ways.
But hearing now a robin sing,
I wonder if his English mate
May not be hopping near your gate,
A harbinger, with ours, of Spring.
I know the precious charge you hold;
But now, when comes the budding year,
I wish the rather you were here
To see our leafy months unfold.
To watch the coming choir of birds,
And note the lengthening twilight hours,
The miracles of buds and flowers,
And tender shows too sweet for words.
But you who hear the throstle sing,
And greet the lark's high ecstasies,
May learn to care no more for these,
And spurn each weaker voice and wing.
I will not think it--home is home;
And much as other skies may do,
Ours will not reach its sweetest blue,
Nor May seem perfect, till you come.
_March 1, 1871_.