Visitors--A Sunday Drive--Croton lake by Daylight--A Sail--A Sudden
Squall--Anxiety about our Fate--Miraculous Escape from Drowning--Arrival
of a Pretty Cousin--A Child Poetess.
_August 4_.
A gap in my journal of several days, during which time I have found it
impossible to write. I have now several events to record.
Papa came out Saturday afternoon to make us his weekly visit, accompanied
by Mr. Reid.
Papa's "young chief" looked as well as though he had not the weight of
the new nine-story Tribune building upon his shoulders this hot weather,
and was exceedingly agreeable. Those who have only known Mr. Reid in New
York _salons_ and in editorial rooms can have no idea what a different
man he is when enjoying the relaxation of the country. Never could I
have imagined that the haughty young proprietor of _The Tribune_ would
condescend to participate in "ring toss," croquet, and similar
frivolities; but I have found this summer that, besides being an adept in
the masculine accomplishments of driving and riding, he is an
enthusiastic champion of croquet, taking apparently the same pleasure in
sending an adversary's ball to the extreme limits of the croquet-ground
that he would in refuting a _Times_ editorial.
The evening was devoted to cards and ballad-singing, for, although so
prominent a member of New York literary society, Mr. Reid does not, I am
glad to say, think it necessary to dislike music.
For the next day an expedition to Croton Lake had been planned. When
alone, we never drive on Sunday, except to church, lest our sober Puritan
neighbors should be shocked; but as we had a guest for that day, we made
an exception to our usual severe rules; for a Sunday in Chappaqua is
somewhat gloomy to a visitor. Immediately after breakfast, therefore,
the carriage came, and Ida and I, with papa and Mr. Reid, started on this
pleasant little excursion, papa mischievously suggesting that we should
_look_ pious, and the neighbors would never know that we were _not_ going
to church.
One little _contretemps_ marked our departure. The Duchess had been lame
for a day or two, and another horse had been hired for the day to replace
her. The strange horse was evidently the property of a Quaker, and more
accustomed to going to meeting than on frivolous pleasure parties, for
she was a very staid and subdued animal, and strongly _dis_inclined to
keep up with the lively pace adopted by spirited little Lady Alice. The
drive, therefore, was decidedly an interesting one. Papa held the reins,
and Mr. Reid devoted himself to whipping up the laggard beast. In this
style we proceeded over the country at a moderate pace, and finally
reached the beautiful lake and the hotel upon its banks. The shade of
the broad piazza formed a very pleasant relief from the heat overhead,
and we were glad to rest a little while. We had not been there many
minutes before some one recognized Mr. Reid, and informed the portly
landlord, who immediately hastened upon the scene, and welcomed him to
Croton Lake with enthusiasm.
In the parlor the piano was open, and half a dozen children were drumming
upon it; therefore, seeing that "music" on Sundays was not prohibited by
the rules of the house, I went to the piano when the children wearied of
it, and sung, at Ida's request, an Ave Maria, and grandpapa's favorite
"Rock of Ages." We had some little amusement over the necessity of going
four miles from home in order to enjoy music on Sundays.
The water looked very inviting, rippling up to the beach, and a row to
Croton Dam was proposed. After some little delay, a boat and a very
good-natured negro boatman were procured, and we departed.
The sun, I must own, was rather hot at that hour of the day, and struck
with peculiar force upon our hot bombazine dresses, and heavy crape
veils. Ida and I looked with a sigh at Mr. Reid's cool white flannel
suit. Sam, the boatman, ceased to row, and let the boat drift, being
overcome by the heat, while papa sat in the bow, and looked disconsolate
that he had not the morning news to read.
We were now at quite a distance from the shore, and as there was no one
present but the boatman to be shocked by hearing secular music, I
ventured to sing a few simple ballads, for music and water I think blend
most harmoniously.
Soon light, fleecy clouds commenced to shield us from the sun's scorching
rays; we closed our parasols, and played with the deliciously cool water,
wondering meantime like Miss Helen, in that exquisite "Atlantic" story,
if we could call up a mermaid front below. But while we were drifting
along so charmingly, the clouds had become heavier and blacker, and
seizing the oars, Sam commenced to row with desperate haste. We were,
however, beaten in our race with the storm, and reached Croton Dam in a
perfect tempest of thunder, and lightning, and dashing rain.
Unfortunately Ida and I had worn slippers, not having expected to walk,
and there was only one umbrella in the party--our little parasols with
their crape borders and bows being more suitable for ornament than
service; however, we scrambled up the steep bank as best we could, and
ran to the protecting doorway of the water-house (the house itself was
locked as it was Sunday). Here we stowed ourselves away like so many
sardines, and waited patiently under the umbrella for an hour. Finally
the sun broke out, and we made our way over deep ponds of water back to
our boat. Sam looked up with a dejected expression as we approached, and
feared the boat wasn't fit for the ladies to go home in; he was bailing
it out as fast as he could, but it was very wet.
Wet indeed! Why Sam had not drawn the boat up on the beach and turned it
over during the rain, no one could imagine; but that brilliant idea had
not occurred to him. Therefore we were obliged to row back with our feet
reposing in little pools of water.
Before long, down came the rain again in torrents, but stimulated by the
prospective fee, Sam rowed with giant strokes. About a mile from the
hotel, we met the landlord rowing with desperate haste. It seems that
the rain had been even more violent at _his_ end of the lake, having been
magnified into a squall upon the water, and a tornado upon land, blowing
down trees, and breaking away the lattice-work of the hotel piazza;
consequently he supposed our boat must have been ingulfed, and had come
to look for the corpses. His amazement at finding us alive, and, though
very wet, in excellent spirits, was great.
An entrée into the hotel in our wet dresses was rather a formidable
affair for Ida and myself, as all the boarders were assembled upon the
piazza to see, I suppose, how we looked after our "miraculous escape from
drowning." Hastening past them into a private room, we took off our
dripping wraps, and supplied their places with brilliant plaid shawls
lent us by the landlady, in which we drove back to Chappaqua--to the
wonder, I doubt not, of all who recognized us on the way. The horses
this time went more evenly, and the entire strain of propelling the
carriage did not fall upon poor Lady Alice. But when we reached home,
Mr. Reid's white suit, and our dresses, veils, and even faces, were a
sight to behold from the liquid mud with which we were bespattered. We
had to turn out of our way for a couple of miles, as a tree blown down by
the storm lay across the main road, and this second detention did not
increase the enthusiasm of our welcome from Lina, for dinner had been
ordered at half-past three, and it was five when we reached the house.
Her pet dessert, a lemon _soufflée_, intended to be eaten as soon as
baked, was not, I must own, improved by standing so long; but otherwise
no serious damage was done to the dinner, and we were thankful that our
adventures when indulging in pleasure parties on Sunday were over.
The evening passed quietly, but very agreeably. Mr. Reid went down to
the city in the six o'clock train, and papa read aloud to us Byron's
splendid, stirring "Isles of Greece," and portions of "Childe Harold."
Reading poetry is quite an accomplishment of papa's, and although he is
very happy in sentimental and heroic verse, he has also a keen sense of
humor, and his reading of comic and dialect poems, especially those of
Hans Breitmann, have been much complimented; indeed, in "our circle" he
is the reader par excellence of Bret Harte, John Hay, and Hans Breitmann.
_August 7_.
Marguerite and Ida went down yesterday to the city for a day's shopping,
a relaxation of which we are all quite fond. I walked down to the
station to meet them upon their return, and was not a little surprised to
see a third black-robed figure emerge from the cars with them. Too
_petite_ to be Gabrielle, who has been visiting a school-friend for the
last week, it was not until the second glance that I recognized the
abundant golden-brown hair and romantic eyes of our pretty cousin,
Theresa Walling.
Theresa is Aunt Arminda's granddaughter, and although only eighteen, is
entitled to pass through a door in advance of Marguerite, Ida and I, and
to occupy the back seat in a carriage, for she is married, and has had
two sweet little girls, one of whom died during that sad month of
November, last year, and the oldest, her pretty Theresa Beatrice, only a
week ago. Quite delicate from her childhood, the loss of her babies has
been a great affliction to their poor little mother, and Ida brought her
out to visit us, hoping that change of scene might bring back the former
rose-flush to her pale cheeks.
Early marriages appear hereditary in that branch of the family, for Aunt
Arminda was married at fifteen, and Theresa's mother at fourteen;
consequently, Aunt Arminda found herself a great-grandmother when some
years short of sixty.
I said that Theresa lost her youngest child within the thirty days that
elapsed between uncle's and Aunt Mary's deaths; but those were not the
only bereavements in our family that sad winter; before the spring came,
Theresa's father and a little girl, our cousin Victoria's child, had also
died.
Theresa's beauty is not the true Greeley type--blonde, with blue eyes.
Her complexion is somewhat like her grandmother's--a delicate olive with
an exquisite flush, when in health. The contour of her face is a perfect
oval; her eyes are dark and pensive, and although her hair is almost
golden in its brightness, both her eyebrows and lashes are of a dark
chestnut brown. In figure she is, as I said, very _petite_; she and I
are the two "little ones" of the family.
Theresa displays considerable taste for literature; and, notwithstanding
the demand that her children made upon her time, has written some
romantic stories that have been published in New York journals.
She has a bright little brother, and three sisters--Fannie, Jessie, and
Lillian; all pretty and clever children. Fannie, who is now only
fourteen, will, I hope, when older, become a graceful poetess; for the
verses that she has already had published under her pretty signature,
"Fannie Fawn," are very musical, and promise well for the future.