FAIRY FERN COTTAGE.
One week has passed since the events narrated in the previous chapter.
At Cornwall on the Hudson, on a West Shore train speeding north, we find
Fillmore Flagg; his mission at Washington successfully accomplished, the
letter of introduction from Bitterwood & Barnard secured. In another
short hour he will be at Newburgh. Will the lovely face of Fern Fenwick
be the first to greet him? As the moments fly by, his heart beats
faster. He feels the surging tide of his all-absorbing love for this
beautiful woman, thrilling and permeating his entire being. He tries to
be calm, to think what he ought to say that would be fitting and
appropriate; he knows his eyes are blazing and his cheeks glowing with
an unwonted fire, still his thoughts refuse to flow into the satisfying
forms of speech he most desires to use at the coming meeting, which
seems to him to be the marking of a great crisis in his life. Ah! There
is the whistle sounding! The speed of the train is checked as it
approaches the station. He steps on to the platform while the train is
still moving. He beholds many upturned faces in the surging crowd
between him and the doorway of the ladies' waiting room, but Miss
Fenwick he cannot see. Will he ever reach that room? Has anything
happened to her? A great fear contracts his heart, he fancies he fairly
staggers as he enters the door. In an instant he is suffused with a
great joy. By the window, awaiting his approach, stands Fern Fenwick,
the perfect picture of cool, contented loveliness. She extends her hand
and greets him with a firm clasp of hearty welcome, and a second edition
of that dazzling smile, so becoming to her, so bewitching to him.
"How do you do, Mr. Flagg? I believe your train must be late. How well
you are looking, in spite of the heat and the dust! We will have your
baggage secured as soon as possible and placed in the carriage, then we
will drive to the cottage in time for lunch."
"Thank you Miss Fenwick, I am delighted to see you looking so well. My
journey from Washington has been a very pleasant one; I have enjoyed it
and have not suffered from the heat."
The carriage now came up, they stepped in and commenced the beautiful
drive of one and one-half miles to "Fairy Fern Cottage," which was
charmingly located on the summit of these famously terraced hills. Hills
that have been historic since the revolutionary days of General
Washington, when their slopes were white with the tents of his soldiers.
As they approached the cottage, the artistic eye of Fillmore Flagg noted
with pleasure the broad expanse of spacious lawn, gently sloping down to
the road. Half-moon-shaped, it presented for his admiration five acres
of smoothly shaven, velvety green. For one-eighth of a mile, the entire
width of the lawn and cottage grounds, a low wall of ornamental cut
stone separated the lawn from the road and formed the straight line of
the half-moon. From the gates at either end of the wall a broad,
beautifully kept driveway swept around the semicircle of the lawn,
passing just in front of the cottage at the center of the deep bay of
the half-moon. On each side of the driveway the greensward was
beautified by alternating star and diamond-shaped plots of geraniums,
roses, gladioluses, canna and nasturtions. Sitting close to the outer
edge of the drive, about ten feet apart, commencing at the corners of
the porch on either side, were rows of potted palms extending around the
curve, one hundred and fifty feet each way--the palms gradually growing
smaller as the distance from the cottage became greater. The effect was
beautifully unique and suggestively semi-tropical. The cottage and lawn
was embayed by a crowning crescent of choice foliage and shade trees;
the thin horns of the crescent terminated at the gateways in low gray
stone towers. From these points the horns gradually grew broader and the
shrubbery rose higher. First the rhododendrons mixed with clumps of
hollyhocks, next flowering almonds, roses, spireas and syringas; then
came the drooping long leaf sugar pines, with an artistic mingling of
slender limbed graceful silver birches: farther back were the taller
firs and spruces, interspersed with thick clumps of small copper
beeches, extending to and joining at the back of the cottage, the dense
forest of tall, straight bodied elms, oaks and maples which partly hid
and shaded the stables and the kitchen portion of the cottage.
The cottage itself was built of gray stone; with thick walls and large,
low, deep seated windows. It was two stories in height, with three
square towers rising twenty feet higher. The central tower was larger,
and gave space within its walls for one grand room of magnificent
proportions, thirty feet square and with a fifteen foot ceiling. The
general effect of the cottage, lawn, and crescent background of foliage
and forest, was as novel as it was beautiful. As the carriage entered
the farther gateway, Fillmore Flagg was surprised and delighted:
"How perfectly exquisite!" he exclaimed: "A real gem! A romantic scene
from fairyland! Rightly named 'Fairy Fern Cottage!' It is a fitting home
for Fern Fenwick."
"Thank you, Mr. Flagg," said Fern Fenwick as they stepped from the
carriage to the porch: "I appreciate your praise of my cottage home. I
love it, I am proud of it, I give you a hearty welcome to its halls. May
your memories of it prove always pleasant. Let us enter. During your
stay you are to occupy the front room on the second floor, the one
under the right hand tower. I think you will find the view from the
windows very pleasing and attractive. The luncheon bell will sound in
just half an hour."
In the dining room Fillmore Flagg found Mrs. Bainbridge who greeted him
very cordially. She sat at the left of Fern Fenwick, who was at the head
of the table. The table itself was oval shaped, very large, seemingly of
rich, solid mahogany; the china and silver were elegant and artistic.
The center piece was a large silver tray filled with a wonderful
collection of rare ferns. Around it a ring of cut glass bouquet holders,
filled with spikes of flaming gladioluses, formed a most effective
border.
"You are to sit here at my right, Mr. Flagg," said Fern Fenwick.
As Fillmore Flagg took the proffered seat, he thought her a most
charming hostess, admirably fitted to preside over this exquisitely
decorated table. He looked in vain for her father; finally concluding
that Mr. Fenwick must be a confirmed invalid, confined to his room.
Luncheon over, Fern Fenwick invited Fillmore Flagg to her study to
consider the business of the work before them. Her study proved to be
the large square room in the central tower, which was so generously
lighted by its eight large windows. The furniture was of carved oak; the
carpet and hangings, rich and heavy, were of a pale lilac tint, which
gave an air of peaceful quiet and harmony to the room. From the front
window, looking eastward, a long stretch of the beautiful Hudson could
be seen at one sweeping glance. In the south east corner of the room
stood Fern Fenwick's desk, a large one with a roll top. At the right of
the desk, on an easel against the wall, was a very fine, life size
crayon portrait of a noble looking man of sixty winters or more. The
massive forehead was both broad and high and very smooth. The eyes were
wide apart, large and expressive, the full beard, thick and fine; the
hair, abundant and wavy. Both hair and beard were evenly tinged with
gray. The body was large, erect and well proportioned--it fittingly
matched the noble head. The portrait impressed one as being life-like
and full of character. Close beside the easel was a large arm chair,
upholstered with stuffed leather, a grayish brown. Lying across the arms
of the chair was a large, peculiarly shaped trumpet of aluminum,
ornamented with a heavy cord and tassel of gray silk.
"Mr. Flagg," said Fern Fenwick, "this is my private workroom; here I am
undisturbed and not at home to callers. This is my desk. Here you see my
father's portrait: this is his favorite chair. Will you be seated in the
smaller chair near it? I will sit in the chair at my desk."
"Pardon me, Miss Fenwick," said Fillmore Flagg, "Up to this time I had
thought of you as living here with your father: I now perceive, from the
way you speak of his portrait and of his favorite chair, that he must be
dead. Please correct me if I am wrong in my conclusions."
"I will explain the situation in a very few words," said Fern Fenwick.
"In the eyes of the world I am an orphan, my father and mother having
both passed from this to the land of spirit. The world, in its blind
ignorance, calls them dead. To me, thanks to my mediumship, and to the
mighty truth of spirit communion, they are still conscious, living,
loving parents. Every day, here in this room, they come to me and
through the trumpet there, speak to me as naturally, as fluently and as
lovingly as ever. I feel and realize their constant watchfulness and
loving care. In times of need their advice never fails, always proving
as wise as it is unerring. They never for a moment allow me to realize
that I am an orphan in any sense of the word. The word Death has no
terrors for me: I realize that for them it means simply a happy
transition to a higher life, filled with broader and brighter
possibilities; and, blessed truth! that they are permitted to come to me
when I need them. I sometimes shudder when I think what might have
happened to me if I had not been born and bred a spiritualist and a
medium. However, we will speak of these things more at length later on.
At this time, under my father's guidance and with your assistance, I am
to carry out and complete his plans for the improvement of farm life on
lines quite in harmony with your ideas. I know he approves of you and of
your work, and has confidence in your integrity and ability. At the
proper time he will speak to you personally through the trumpet. Let us
now consider another matter pertinent at this time.
"In order that you may thoroughly understand the situation that
surrounds and affects our work, it will be necessary for me to tell you
the story of my life, and with it the story of the life of my father."