ROSE HILL.
A little way out of the village of Dunwood, and situated upon a slight
eminence, was a large, handsome building, which had formerly been owned
by a Frenchman, who, from the great profusion of roses growing upon his
grounds, had given to the place the name of "Rose Hill." Two years
before our story opens, the Frenchman died, and since that time Rose
Hill had been unoccupied, but now it had another proprietor, and early
in the summer Mr. Howard Hastings and lady would take possession of
their new home.
Of Mr. Hastings nothing definite was known, except that he was a man of
unbounded wealth and influence--"and a little peculiar withal," so said
Mrs. Leah, the matron, who had come up from New York to superintend the
arrangement of the house, which was fitted up in a style of elegance
far surpassing what most of Dunwood's inhabitants had seen before, and
was for two or three weeks thrown open to the public. Mrs. Leah, who
was a servant in Mr. Hastings's family and had known her young
mistress's husband from childhood, was inclined to be rather
communicative, and when asked to explain what she meant by Mr.
Hastings's peculiarities, replied "Oh, he's queer every way--and no
wonder, with his kind of a mother. Why she is rich as a Jew, and for
all that, she made her only daughter learn how to do all kinds of work.
It would make her a better wife, she said, and so, because _Ella_ had
rather lie on the sofa and read a nice novel than to be pokin' round in
the kitchen and tending to things, as he calls it, Mr. Hastings looks
blue and talks about _woman's_ duties, and all that nonsense. Recently
he has taken it into his head that late hours are killing her--that it
isn't healthy for her to go every night to parties, concerts, operas,
and the like o' that, so he's going to bury her in the stupid country,
where she'll be moped to death, for of course there's nobody here that
she'll associate with."
"The wretch!" exclaimed Eugenia, who formed one of the group of
listeners to this precious bit of gossip; but whether she intended this
cognomen for the cruel husband, or Mrs. Leah, we do not know, as she
continued to question the old lady of Mrs. Hastings herself, asking if
her health were delicate and if she were pretty.
"Delicate! I guess she is," returned Mrs. Leah. "If she hasn't got the
consumption now, she will have it. Why, her face is as white as some of
them lilies that used to grow on the ponds in old Connecticut; and then
to think her husband won't let her take all the comfort she can, the
little time she has to live! It's too bad," and the corner of Dame
Leah's silk apron went up to her eyes, as she thought how her lady was
aggrieved. Soon recovering her composure, she reverted to Eugenia's
last question, and hastened to reply, "_pretty_, don't begin to express
it. Just imagine the least little bit of a thing, with the whitest
face, the bluest eyes and the yellowest curls, dressed in a light blue
silk wrapper, all lined with white satin, and tied with a tassel as big
as my fist; wouldn't such a creature look well in the kitchen, telling
Hannah it was time to get dinner, and seeing if Tom was cleaning the
vegetables!"
And Mrs. Leah's nose went up at the very idea of a blue silk wrapper
being found outside of the parlor, even if the husband of said wrapper
_did_ have to wait daily at least two hours for his badly cooked dinner!
"Oh, but you ought to see her dressed for a party," continued Mrs.
Leah, "she looks like a queen, all sparkling with diamonds and pearls;
but she'll never go to many more, poor critter!"
And as the good lady's services were just then needed in another part
of the building, she bade good morning to her audience, who commented
upon what they had heard, each according to their own ideas--some
warmly commending Mr. Hastings for removing his delicate young wife
from the unwholesome atmosphere of the city, while others, and among
them Eugenia, thought he ought to let her remain in New York, if she
chose. Still, while commiserating Mrs. Hastings for being obliged to
live in "that _stupid village_," Eugenia expressed her pleasure that
she was coming, and on her way home imparted to Alice her intention of
being quite intimate with the New York lady, notwithstanding what "the
spiteful old Mrs. Leah" had said about there being no one in Dunwood
fit for her to associate with. In almost perfect ecstacy Dora listened
to her cousin's animated description of Rose Hill, its handsome rooms
and elegant furniture, and while her cheeks glowed with excitement, she
exclaimed, "Oh, how I wish I could _really_ live in such a house!"
"And I shouldn't wonder if you did. Your present prospects look very
much like it," was Eugenia's scornful reply, which Dora scarcely heard,
for her thoughts were busy elsewhere.
She had an eye for the beautiful, and, strange to say, would at any
time have preferred remaining in her aunt's pleasant parlor, to washing
dishes from off the long kitchen table; but as this last seemed to be
her destiny, she submitted without a murmur, contenting herself the
while by building _castles_, just as many a child has done before her
and will do again. Some how, too, Dora's castles, particularly the one
of which she was mistress, were always large and beautiful, just like
Eugenia's description of Rose Hill, to which she had listened with
wonder, it seemed so natural, so familiar, so like the realization of
what she had many a time dreamed, while her hands were busy with the
dish towel or the broom.
Dora was a strange child--so her mother and her aunt Sarah both had
told her--so her teachers thought, and so her companions said, when she
stole away by herself to _think_, preferring her own thoughts to the
pastime of her schoolmates. This _thinking_ was almost the only
recreation which Dora had, and as it seldom interfered with the
practical duties of her life, no one was harmed if she did sometimes
imagine the most improbable things; and if for a few days succeeding
her cousin's visit to Rose Hill, she did seem a little inattentive, and
somewhat abstracted, it was merely because she had for a time changed
places with the fashionable Mrs. Hastings, whose blue silk
morning-gown, while discussed in the _parlor_, was worn in fancy in the
_kitchen_.
Dream on Dora Deane, dream on--but guard this, your last imagining,
most carefully from the proud Eugenia, who would scarce deem you worthy
to take upon your lips the name of Mrs. Hastings, much less to be even
in fancy the mistress of Rose Hill.