THE PALACE-HOME.
Having thus given the incident from the life of Ernest, as far as
possible, in the very words of his MSS., let me continue my history
from the hour when, in company with my mother, I left the cottage home
of the good clergyman. After the incident just related, nothing in my
life can appear strange.
I was riding in the carriage with my mother toward New York.
"You are, indeed, very beautiful, Frank," said she, once more regarding
me attentively. "Your form is that of a mature woman, and your carriage
(I remarked it as you passed up the garden-walk) excellent. But this
country dress will not do. We will do better than all that when we get
to town."
It was night when the carriage left the avenue and rolled into
Broadway. The noise, the glare, the people hurrying by, all frightened
me. At the same time Broadway brought back a dim memory of my early
childhood in Paris. Turning from Broadway, the carriage at length
stopped before a lofty mansion, the windows of which were closed from
the sidewalk to the roof.
"This is your home," said my mother, as she led me from the carriage up
the marble steps into the hall where, in the light of a globular lamp,
a group of servants in livery awaited us.
"Jenkins,"--my mother spoke to an elderly servant in dark livery turned
up with red--"let dinner be served in half an hour." Then turning to
another servant, not quite so old, but wearing the same livery, she
said: "Jones, Miss Van Huyden wishes to take a look at her house before
we go to dinner. Take the light and go before us."
The servant, holding a wax candle placed in a huge silver candlestick,
went before us and showed us the house from the first to the fourth
floor. Never before had I beheld such magnificence even in my dreams.
I could not restrain ejaculations of pleasure and surprise at every
step,--my mother keenly regarding me, sometimes with a faint smile and
sometimes with the wrinkle growing deeper between her brows. A range of
parlors on the lower floor were furnished with everything that the most
extravagant fancy could desire, or exhaustless wealth procure. Carpets
that gave no echo to the step; sofas and chairs cushioned with velvet
and (so it seemed to me) framed in gold; mirrors extending from the
ceiling to the floor; pictures, statues, and tables with tops either
of marble or ebony; the walls lofty, and the ceiling glowing with a
painting which represented Aurora and the Hours winging their way
through a summer sky.
"Whose picture, mother?" I asked, pointing to a picture of a singularly
handsome man, with dark hair and beard, and eyes remarkable at once for
their brightness and expression.
"Your father, dear," answered my mother, and again the mark between
her brows became ominously perceptible. "There is your piano,
Frank,--you'll find it something better than the one which you had at
the good parson's."
The servant led the way, up the wide stairway, thickly carpeted, to the
upper rooms. Here the magnificence of the first floor was repeated on
a grander, a more luxurious scale. We passed through room after room,
my eyes dazzled by new signs of wealth and luxury at every step. At
last we paused on the thick carpet of a spacious bed-chamber, whose
appointments combined the richest elegance with the nicest taste.
It was hung with curtains of light azure. An exquisite and touching
picture of the Virgin Mary confronted the toilette table and mirror. A
bed with coverlet white as snow, satin covered pillows and canopy of
lace, stood in one corner; and wherever I turned there were signs of
neatness, taste and elegance. I could not too much admire the apartment.
"It is your bedroom, my dear," said my mother, silently enjoying my
delight.
"Why," said I laughingly,--"it is grand enough for a queen."
"And are you not a queen," answered my mother, "and a very beautiful
one." Turning to the servant, who stood staring at me with eyes big as
saucers, she said--
"Tell Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, to come here:"--Jones left the
chamber, and presently returned with Mrs. Jenkins, a portly lady, with
a round, good-humored face.
"Frank, this is _your_ housekeeper;"--Mrs. Jenkins simpered and
courtsied, shaking at the same time the bundle of keys at her waist.
"Mrs. Jenkins, this is your young mistress, Miss Van Huyden. Give me
the keys."
She took the keys from the housekeeper, and placed them in my hands:
"My dear, this house and all that it contains are yours, I surrender it
to your charge."
Scarcely knowing what to do with myself I took the keys--which were
heavy enough--and handing them back to Mrs. Jenkins, "hoped that
she would continue to superintend the affairs of my mansion, as
heretofore." All of which pleased my mother and made her smile.
"We will go to dinner without dressing," and my mother led the way down
stairs to the dining-room. It was a large apartment, in the center
of which stood a luxuriously furnished table, glittering with gold
plate. Servants in livery stood like statues behind my chair and my
mother's. How different from the plain fare and simple style of the
good clergyman's home! Nay how widely contrasted with the rude dinner
in a log cabin to which Ernest and myself sat down a few hours ago!
In vain I tried to partake of the rich dishes set out before me; I
was too much excited to eat. Dinner over, coffee was served, and the
servants retired. Mother and I were left alone.
"Frank, do you blame me," she said, looking at me carefully--"for
having you reared so quietly, far away in the country, in order that
at the proper age, strong in health and rich in accomplishments and
beauty, you might be prepared to enter upon the enjoyments and duties
suitable to your station?"
How could I blame her?
I spoke gratefully again and again of the wealth and comfort which
surrounded me, and then forgetting it all--broke forth into
impassioned praise of my cottage home, of the good clergyman, of old
Alice and--Ernest.
Something which came over my mother's face at the mention of Ernest's
name, warned me that it was not yet time to speak of my engagement to
him.
That night I bathed my limbs in a perfumed bath, laid my head on a
silken pillow, and slept beneath a canopy of lace, as soft and light
and transparent as the summer mist through which you can see the blue
sky and the distant mountain. And resting on the silken pillow I
dreamed--not of the splendor with which I was surrounded, nor of the
golden prospects of my future,--but, of my childhood's home, and the
quiet scenes of other days. In my sleep my heart turned back to them.
Once more I heard the voice of the good old man. I heard the shrill
tones of Alice, as the sun shone on my frosted window-pane, on a clear,
cold winter morn. Then the voice of Ernest, calling me "Wife!" and
pressing me to his bosom in the forest nook. I awoke with his name on
my lips, and,----
My mother stood by the bedside gazing upon me attentively, a smile on
her lips, but the wrinkle darkly defined between her brows. The sun
shone brightly through the window curtains.
"Get up my dear," she kissed me,--"You have a busy day before you."
And it was a busy day! I was handed over to the milliners and
dressmakers, and whirled in my carriage from one jeweler's shop
to another. It was not until the third day that my dresses were
completed--according to my mother's taste,--and not until the fourth,
that the jewels which were to adorn my forehead, my neck, my arms and
bosom, had been properly selected. Wardrobe and diamonds worthy of a
queen--and was I happy? No! I began to grow homesick, for my dear quiet
home, on the hill-side above the Neprehaun.