Em. AT THE COMMODORE’S
That lonely mansion stood upon a cliff,
By a great mountain spring—just elevate’
Above the winter torrents did it stand,
Upon a craggy brink; and now it wore
One sober hue; the narrow cleft which wound
Among the hills was gray with rocks, that peered
Above its shallow soil; the mountainside
Was loose with stones bestrewn, which oftentimes
Clattered adown the steep, beneath the foot
Of struggling goat dislodged.
SOUTHEY.
It was a glorious morning in October when Em., amid the kisses, tears
and blessings of the whole family, left the valley of the Wilderness for
her new home on the mountain.
Seated by her father in the little, old-fashioned chaise, drawn by one
steady, old, draught horse, and with her little trunk containing all her
worldly goods strapped on behind, she commenced her journey.
They could not go by the way up which Em. had watched her lover ride
until man and horse disappeared in the thicket above because that was
but a narrow though nearer bridle-path which led up the mountain from
the rear of the manor-house and was used only by horsemen and foot
passengers.
They drove down the old avenue leading through the thick woods that lay
between the house and the park wall to the lodge gate, where they found
both ’Sias and Sereny on duty to bid a final good-by to “Miss Em.”
She felt for a moment distressed that she had no parting token of regard
to bestow on these attentive friends; then she quickly took the clean
linen collar and cuffs from her neck and wrists and gave them to Sereney
and the neatly-folded handkerchief from her pocket and bestowed it upon
’Sias.
Both received these little presents with grateful smiles and promised to
use them for her sake.
And both threw old shoes after the chaise as it passed through the gate
and turned to the left.
“Why, my girl, you have half stripped your neck and hands for them
darkies. You’ll look a perfect dowdy when you get to the commodore’s,”
said John when they were out of hearing of the gate-keepers.
“Oh, no, father dear. See, my shawl will cover all deficiencies until I
reach my journey’s end, and then I can get new cuffs and collar from my
trunk,” smilingly replied Em., as she drew her shepherd’s plaid wrap
closer around her shoulders.
Their road ran southward between the mossy gray stone wall of the park
on the left and the richly-colored autumn woods on the right. Overhead
was the most glorious October sky; underneath a road so thickly strewn
with fallen leaves that the horse’s hoofs and the carriage wheels went
softly and silently on.
Passing the southeast angle of the park wall the road continued through
the forest, but began gradually to ascend the wooded mountain range,
half way up which, on a natural plateau, was situated the old house.
The way was very lonely. Sometimes indeed a fox squatted on the road
before them, startled by their approach, would spring up, scamper off
and disappear in the forest. Sometimes a hawk, perched on some bending
bough above them, frightened by their appearance, would take wing with a
scream and be lost in the clouds afar.
But such were the only signs of life that met them. No human being
appeared on this almost totally abandoned road.
It wound up and up the wooded precipice until all of a sudden it came
out of the woods and on to the back of the old house—a long, low
building of gray stone, without any pretensions to architectural beauty,
but with a look of spacious, homely comfort that was very attractive.
Entering by a side gate and driving over a stony road, they came around
to the front of the building, which stood within a yard bounded by a
stone wall upon the very edge of the precipice.
A short flight of broad, low stone steps led up to the flagged piazza
and thence to the front door of solid oak, adorned with a huge iron
knocker.
As there was no one in sight, John Palmer got off his seat, fastened his
horse and helped Em. to alight.
Then both went up the steps, and John knocked loudly at the door.
It was opened by an old negro man, who stood silently waiting the
pleasure of the visitors.
“Is your mistress in?” inquired John.
“Yes, sar.”
“Then tell her that the young person she expected this morning has
arrived.”
“Yes, sar,” said the old negro, and then bethinking himself of proper
civility, he added: “You may walk in here and take a seat in de hall, if
you please.”
John Palmer, followed by Em., entered the hall, which was of the type of
nearly all the halls in all the large old houses in the country, running
through the house, with a front door and back, a great staircase in the
midst and room doors on either side.
John and Em. sat down on a heavy oaken settee, while the man went off to
announce their arrival to his mistress.
“Em, this is a cold, hard, sterile place, and my heart sinks like lead,
my girl!” sighed honest John, looking about him.
“Why should it, father dear? Mine doesn’t. Don’t get blue, dear father.
Remember, Sunday is the Lord’s day, and every Saturday night you are to
send Tom for me or come yourself, and I will go home and stay till
Monday morning—two nights and a day with you, dear father,” said Em.
cheerfully.
“Yes, there is some comfort in that, and if it wasn’t for that I should
not have let you leave home to come here at all,” replied John, just as
the old servant reappeared and said:
“You is to come inter de back parlor and wait until de madam is ready to
see you. She will come down presently.”
Once more John and his daughter arose and followed their guide.
He conducted them down the hall, opened a door on the right hand and
showed them into a moderate-sized and plainly-furnished room with
oak-paneled walls and polished oak floor, and with a broad fireplace, on
which burned a fire of huge hickory logs. This fireplace was flanked by
two deep recesses, in one of which stood a carved oaken beaufet, full of
old china, and in the other stood a cabinet with glass doors, behind
which might be seen a collection of small curiosities from all quarters
of the world, brought by Commodore Bruce from his various voyages.
Two large easy chairs, covered with flowered chintz, were drawn up to
the fireplace, before which lay a rich Turkey rug.
John placed himself in one of these and Em. in the other.
She was busily employed in gazing at the old, old china in the beaufet
on her right and curiosities in the cabinet on her left when the door
opened and Mrs. Bruce sailed in.
“Sailed” is the only term to use in regard to the carriage of this lady,
so smooth and majestic was her motion.
“Ah, my dear, you are very punctual. I am glad to see you,” she said,
taking the hand of Em. and then nodding graciously to John, who arose
and bowed and remained standing while he said:
“Well, madam, I have brought my girl to you according to her promise. If
she should not happen to suit, just drop me a word by one of your grooms
and I’ll come and fetch her home with more pleasure than I have brought
her here.”
“Oh, I have no doubt in the world that she will suit me excellently
well,” said the lady, smiling at the bluntness of John and looking
kindly upon Em.
“I will try my best to please you, madam,” said the girl.
“I am not very hard to please, little one,” replied the lady.
“But in any case, I shall be here Saturday night at six o’clock to take
my girl home to spend the Sabbath,” said John, who could not help
feeling in a very unchristian and aggressive humor; for why should this
proud lady have the light of his eyes, the core of his heart, his
darling little Em., merely because she wanted her services and was rich
enough to pay for them?
John felt himself rapidly growing into an agrarian, a communist, a
revolutionist or any other sort of incendiary Satan should desire to
make of him.
“There can be no objection at all to that. Indeed, if you like, you can
come at an earlier hour,” replied Mrs. Bruce.
“I thank you, ma’am; but I will come at six o’clock, the regular hour
for knocking off work all over the world, I believe,” answered John, who
did not wish to receive any favors.
Then he went up to his daughter, took her in his arms and kissed her
heartily, put her down, caught up his hat from the floor, bowed to the
lady and abruptly departed.
“Your father does not like to part with you,” said Mrs. Bruce.
“No, madam; and this is the first time I have ever left home,”
respectfully replied Em.
“Why does he consent for you to leave home when he is so reluctant to
lose sight of you?”
“He yields to my wish and to what he considers my mother’s better
judgment in all matters that relate to her daughters.”
“Ah, then _you_ wished to come to me.”
“Yes, indeed, madam,” said Em. with an ardor that almost touched
familiarity.
But the lady took no offence. She seemed rather pleased than otherwise
as she added:
“And so your mother sided with yourself?”
“Yes, madam.”
“I hope that neither of you will regret your choice. Your duties here
will not be heavy. We breakfast at eight. After breakfast you will sew
until luncheon time—one o’clock—then take an hour for rest or recreation
and then sew until the dinner—six o’clock—after which you have the
remainder of the day and the night to yourself. When we have no company
besides the friends staying in the house, you will take your meals with
us. And now I will ring for a servant to show you your room,” said the
lady, suiting the action to the word.
A good-looking young colored girl answered the call.
“Liza, show Miss Palmer here to the southwest room in the attic, and
have her trunk carried up there, and wait until she is ready to come
down and then bring her to my room. Do you understand?” inquired Mrs.
Bruce.
“Oh, yes’m,” replied the servant.
“I will see you soon then,” said the lady, as she passed out of the
parlor.
“Come long o’ me, miss, and I’ll take you to Cuba,” said the colored
girl, showing all her teeth at she smiled.
“Cuba?” echoed Em. in bewilderment.
“Yes, miss, which I means de sou’wes’ room in de attic, as de madam tell
me to take—which de ole marse he do call Cuba ’cause de sun do shine
dere mos’ all day an’ make it warm,” the girl explained as she left the
parlor.
“That is quite fanciful,” observed Em., as she followed her guide.
“Yes, miss, I s’pose it mus’ be somefin like dat—which de ole marster do
call ebery room in de house after some furrin country as he had to sail
to when he used to go down to de high seas in de big ships,” continued
Liza, as they went on.
They climbed two flights of stairs and reached the attic floor, which,
like all the lower ones, had a broad hall running through it from front
to back, with two large rooms on each side.
“Are all these rooms named after foreign countries?” inquired Em., as
she stood in the spacious hall, which was lighted by a large window at
each end.
“Yes, miss; and this here sow’wes’ one, which is to be yourn, is Cuba,
’cause it’s de warmest.”
“And the one back of mine—the southeast room—what is that called?”
“Oh! Loosy anny, ’cause it’s warm an’ damp. An’ de rooms on de norf side
ob de hall is—well, less se—de sow-ees’ room is called Greenlan’, and de
now’wes’ is ’Laska.”
“I declare that is quite interesting, Liza. When we have time I will get
you to tell me the names of all the rooms in the house, but now
introduce me into Cuba and then please have my trunk sent up right
away.”
“Yes, miss, I will. Here is your room,” answered the little maid,
opening the door of the southwest room.
Em. entered it and made a little exclamation of surprise and pleasure.
It was a very attractive bower, if it _was_ in the attic—a spacious
chamber, with whitewashed walls, a sloping roof, a clean, bare floor,
with rugs lying here and there; a broad fireplace, with a good fire of
logs; four deep dormer windows, two looking to the west out upon the
cedar-wooded ascent of the mountain, and two looking south, down the
river, with a view of the opposite wooded, hilly shore, and a distant
sight of the beautiful island.
The old-fashioned four-post bedstead, the tall chest of drawers, the
“press” and the three-cornered washstand, the tables and the chairs were
all of maple. The window curtains and the chair-covers were of yellow,
flowered calico.
Altogether, the attic room had a spacious, cheerful, homely look that
perfectly contented its new occupant.
She took off her shawl, folded it and put it away in one of the press
shelves and placed her bonnet beside it.
And by the time Em. had bathed her face and hands and brushed her hair
the colored girl reappeared, accompanied by a strong man bringing the
trunk.
Em. only detained Liza long enough to open her trunk and take from it a
clean, white linen collar and pair of cuffs, which she added to her
simple dress of brown merino.
Then she followed the colored girl downstairs to a spacious, handsomely
furnished chamber on the second floor, where she found Mrs. Bruce alone
and busily engaged in cutting out work for her new seamstress.
She spoke very kindly to Em., told her where she could sit down, and
then she filled her hands with needlework and placed a pile on a
standing workbasket at her side and said:
“I am now going downstairs to my guests. It is ten o’clock. The lunch
bell will ring at one. You can then come down and join us. You can
easily find your way to the dining-room—it is the back room on the north
side of the house.
“Thank you, madam. Yes, I can easily find it,” said Em.
Mrs. Bruce went down to the drawing-room and Em. stitched for three
hours, her fingers busy with her needlework, her thoughts with Ronald
Bruce. She felt sure that he had instigated his mother to engage her
only for the sake of having her near him, and she rejoiced in the
thought.
She never seriously reflected now how this love might end. It was
happiness enough for the present to know that she was under the same
roof with her lover, and that she would be sure to see him several times
a day for weeks to come.
So she sat and stitched diligently, smiling dreamily over her work until
the luncheon bell rang.
Then she sprang up, smoothed her dress and her hair and tripped
downstairs to the dining-room where the luncheon-table was spread.