Holidays at the Grange or A Week's Delight.

by Emily Mayer Higgins.

CHAPTER I.

THE GATHERING.--CHRISTMAS EVE.--CONSEQUENCES.--HOW DO YOU LIKE IT?

Not many miles from Philadelphia, in a beautifully wooded and hilly country, may be seen a large rambling mansion, whose substantial walls show that it was built at a time when more attention was paid to the durability of dwellings than at present. It is, indeed, quite an ancient house for this part of the world, having been erected by a certain John Wyndham, a hundred years ago; and it has remained in the family ever since, the owner of it generally inheriting the name of John, a taste for rural life, and the old homestead together. It was constructed in good taste, and with great regard for comfort; the broad hall, the favorite resort in summer, was ornamented with family portraits of many ages back, and a complete suit of armor, visor and all, struck awe into the hearts of young visitors, who almost expected its former occupant to resume possession, with his gauntleted hand to draw the sword from its scabbard, and, seizing the flag over his head, to drive the modern usurpers from the house. Large antlers, bows and arrows, and rusty fowling-pieces against the wall, intimated that the descendants of the grim warrior had exercised their valor in the chase; while a guitar with blue ribbon, in the corner, told that gentler days had come, and spoke of peace, domestic joys, and woman's influence.

Many were the bright sunshiny chambers in that cheerful home; but I will describe one apartment only, the sitting-room, with which we are chiefly concerned. The furniture is quaint and ma.s.sive; but it is the rich mellow light streaming through the room that princ.i.p.ally attracts the eye. Is it the western sun, tinted by the colored gla.s.s of the bay-window, or is it the ruddy hickory fire? What a remarkable chimney-place! few such can be seen now-a-days; they had gone out of date a hundred years ago; but it was ancient John Wyndham's fancy, as far as possible, to possess a fac-simile of the family mansion in England, in which his childish days had been spent. What elaborate carving upon the huge mantel-piece!--hunters with their guns and dogs; shepherds and shepherdesses, with crooks and sheep; scriptural scenes and rural incidents, afford endless amus.e.m.e.nt to the groups gathered before the fire. Before, did I say? around, is the right expression; for so large is the chimney, that while crackling up-piled logs blaze upon the hearth, a number might be accommodated on the benches at the side, as well as in front. It is the most sociable gathering-place in the world, and the stiffest and most formal person would soon relax there; while fingers are thawed, hearts are melted by that fire--warm and kind affections are drawn out--sparkles of wit fly about the room, as if in emulation of the good hickory: it is a chimney corner most provocative of ancient legends, of frightful ghost-stories, of tales of knight-errantry and romantic love, of dangers and of hair-breadth escapes; in short, of all that can draw both old and young away from their every-day cares, into the brighter world of fiction and poesy. In the recess on one side is a small library, comfortable enough to entice the student from the merry group so near him; on the other, is a room looked upon with great affection by the juvenile members of the family, for here does Aunt Lucy manufacture and keep for distribution those delicious cakes, never to be refused at lunch time; and those pies, jellies, whips, and creams, which promise to carry down her name to posterity as the very nonpareil of housekeepers.

Three persons are sitting in the room, whom in common politeness I should introduce to the reader: very pleasant people are they to know and to visit. Uncle John and Aunt Lucy Wyndham, the master and mistress of the house, are remarkable for kindness, and make their nephews and nieces, and whole troops of friends, feel perfectly at home at once; they are Uncle John and Aunt Lucy to all their young acquaintances, and delight in the t.i.tle. Perhaps they would not have been generally called so, had they any children of their own; but they have none, and the only young person in the house at present is Mary Dalton--Cousin Mary--an orphan niece of Mrs. Wyndham, whom they have brought up from a child.

She looks like her aunt, plump, rosy, good natured and sensible; she is just seventeen, and very popular with the whole cousinhood. She has many accomplishments: she does not talk French, Spanish, or Italian, but she knows how to play every game that ever was invented, can tell stories to suit every age, can soothe a screaming child sooner than any one else, can rattle off cotillions on the piano-forte of a winter's evening without thinking it hard that she cannot join in the dance; and lastly, can lay down an interesting book or piece of crochet work to run on an errand for Aunt, or untangle the bob-tails of a kite, without showing any signs of crossness. Self is a very subordinate person with her, and indeed she seems hardly to realize her separate individuality; she is everybody's Cousin Mary, and frowns vanish, and smiles brighten up the countenance, wherever she appears. A very happy looking group they are, but restless, this afternoon of the 24th of December; Uncle John frequently goes to the hall door; Aunt Lucy lays down her knitting to listen; and Cousin Mary does not pretend to read the book she holds, but gazes out of the window, down the long avenue of elms, as if she expected an arrival. Old Caesar, "the last of the servants," as Mr.

Wyndham styles him, a white-haired negro who was born in the house, and is devoted to the family, always speaking of _our_ house, _our_ carriage, and _our_ children, as if he were chief owner, vibrates constantly between the kitchen and the porter's lodge, feeling it to be his especial duty and prerogative to give the first welcome to the guests.

And soon the sound of wheels is heard, and merry voices resound through the hall, and cheeks rosy with the cold are made yet rosier by hearty kisses; it is the young Wyndhams, come to spend their Christmas holidays at the Grange with Uncle John. There is Cornelia, a bright, intelligent girl of sixteen, full of fun, with sparkling black eyes. John, a boy of fourteen, matter-of fact and practical, a comical miniature of Uncle John, whom he regards with veneration, as the greatest, wisest, and best of living men, and only slightly inferior to General Washington himself; and George, his twin brother and very devoted friend, a good boy in the main, but so very full of mischief! he would get into a thousand sc.r.a.pes, if his more sober companion did not restrain him. We must not overlook little Amy, the sweet child of twelve, with flowing golden hair and languishing eyes, the gentle, unspoiled pet and playmate of all.

Her cheek is pale, for she has ever been the delicate flower of the family, and the winter winds must not visit her too roughly: she is one to be carefully nurtured. And the more so, as her mind is highly imaginative and much in advance of her age; already does the light of genius shine forth in her eye. Scarcely are these visitors well ensconced in the chimney corner, after their fur wrappings are removed, before the sound of wheels is again heard, and shouts of joy announce the arrival of the Greens. That tall, slender, intellectual girl, with pale oval face and expressive eyes, is Ellen. Her cousins are very proud of her, for she has just returned from boarding-school with a high character for scholarship, and has carried away the prize medal for poetry from all compet.i.tors; the children think that she can speak every language, and she is really a refined and accomplished girl. She has not seen Mary or Cornelia for a couple of years, and great are the rejoicings at their meeting; they are warm friends already. Her manly brother Tom, although younger, looks older than she does: a fine, handsome fellow he is. The younger Greens are almost too numerous to particularize; Harry and Louis, Anna and Gertrude--merry children all, noisy and frolicsome, but well-inclined and tolerably submissive to authority; they ranged from nine years old, upward. Just as the sun was setting, and Aunt Lucy had almost given them up, the third family of cousins arrived, the Boltons. Charlie Bolton is the elder of the two--he will be called Charlie to the end of his days, if he live to be a white-haired grandfather, he is so pleasant and full of fun, so ready with his joke and merry laugh; he is Cornelia's great friend and ally, and the two together would keep any house wide awake. His sister Alice is rather sentimental, for which she is heartily laughed at by her harum-skarum brother; but she is at an age when girls are apt to take this turn--fourteen; she will leave it all behind her when she is older.

Sentimentality may be considered the last disease of childhood; measles, hooping-cough, and scarlatina having been successfully overcome, if the girl pa.s.ses through this peril unscathed, and no weakness is left in her mental const.i.tution, she will probably be a woman of sane body and mind.

Alice is much given to day-dreams, and to reading novels by stealth; she is very romantic, and would dearly love to be a heroine, if she could.

The only objection to the scheme, in her mind, is that her eyes have a very slight cast, and that her nose is _un pet.i.t nez retrousse_--in other words, something of a pug; and Alice has always been under the impression that a heroine must have straight vision, and a Grecian nose.

Hers is a face that will look very arch and _piquante_, when she acquires more sense, and lays aside her lack-a-daisical airs; but, at present, the expression and the features are very incongruous. It is excessively mortifying! but it cannot be helped; many times a day does she cast her eyes on the gla.s.s, but the obstinate pug remains a pug, and Alice is forced to conclude that she is not intended for a heroine. Yet she always holds herself ready for any marvellous adventure that may turn up, and she is perfectly convinced that there must be concealed doors, long winding pa.s.sages in the walls, and perhaps a charmingly horrible dungeon, at The Grange. Why not? Such things are of constant occurrence in story books, and that house is the oldest one she knows.

She is determined on this visit to explore it thoroughly, and perhaps she may become the happy discoverer of a casket of jewels, or a skeleton, or some other treasure.

Thirteen young people there are in all, with pleasant faces and joyful hearts; and none of them, I am happy to say were of the perfect sort you read of in books. Had they been, their Aunt Lucy, who was used to real children, would have entertained serious fears for their longevity.

They all required a caution or a reprimand now and then, and none were so wise as not to make an occasional silly speech, or to do a heedless action. But they were good-tempered and obliging, as healthy children should always be, and were seldom cross unless they felt a twinge of toothache. How fast did their tongues run, that first hour! How much had all to tell, and how much to hear! And how happy did Uncle John appear, as he sat in the centre of the group, with little Amy on his lap, leaning her languid head against his broad and manly chest, while a cl.u.s.ter of the younger ones contended together for possession of the unoccupied knee.

After the hearty, cheerful country supper, the whole party of visitors was escorted into a dark room adjoining the hall, while Aunt Lucy and Cousin Mary were engaged in certain preparations, well understood by the older guests, who were too discreet to allay the curiosity of the younger ones, who for the first time were allowed to share the hospitality of the Grange at Christmas. At last the folding-doors were thrown open, and the hall appeared to be in a blaze of light; colored lamps were suspended in festoons from the ceiling, showing how prettily the old portraits were adorned with evergreens. Even the man in armor looked less grim, as if his temper was mollified by the ivy wreath wound around his helmet. But the chief object of interest was a stately tree at the end of the hall, from whose trunk proceeded thirteen branches, brilliantly illuminated with wax lights and pendant lamps of various hues; while gilded fruit, and baskets of flowers and confectionary, looked to the uninitiated as if the fairies themselves had been at work.

Many were the exclamations of delight, and intense the excitement; the old hall echoed with the shouts of the boys. Uncle John, ever happy in the enjoyment of others, declared that he believed himself to be the youngest child there, and that he enjoyed the revels of Christmas Eve more than any of them.

When the noise and rapture had somewhat subsided, Cousin Mary proposed that they should try some games, by way of variety. Chess, checkers, backgammon, Chinese puzzles, dominoes, jack-straws, etc., were mentioned, and each one of them was declared by different members of the group to be exceedingly entertaining; but Charlie Bolton said that "although he was neither Grand Turk nor perpetual Dictator, he must put his veto upon all such games as being of an unsocial nature. It was all very well, when only two persons were together, to amuse themselves with such things; but for his part, he did hate to see people ride in sulkies, and play _solitaire_, when they could have such agreeable society as was there gathered together;" making, as he spoke, a dashing bow to the girls. "Has not any one wit enough to think of a game at which we can all a.s.sist?"

"Do you know how to play 'Consequences?'" said Mary.

"I never heard of it," replied Cornelia; "how do you play it?"

"With paper and pencils. Here is my writing-desk full of paper, and my drawing-box with pencils ready sharpened, and you have nothing to do but all to write according to my directions, and doubling down the paper, to hand it to a neighbor, so that each time you have a different slip. When it is finished, I will read them aloud, supplying some words which will make sense--or, what is much better, arrant nonsense--of the whole. So begin by writing a term descriptive of a gentleman."

"Now write a gentleman's name--some one you know, or some distinguished person."

"Next, an adjective descriptive of a lady."

"And now, a lady's name."

"Mention a place, and describe it."

"Now write down some date, or period of time when a thing might happen."

"Put a speech into the gentleman's mouth."

"Make the lady reply."

"Tell what the consequences were."

"And what the world said of it."

"And now allow me to enlighten the company. Here is one specimen:

"The gallant and accomplished Nero met the beautiful, but rather coquettish Mrs. Wyndham at Gretna Green, that place once so famous for runaway couples and matrimonial blacksmiths, upon the 4th of July, 1900 A.D. He said, 'Dearest madam, my tender heart will break if you refuse my hand;' but she replied, 'La, sir, don't talk such nonsense!' The consequences were, that their names were embalmed together in history; and the world said, 'It is exactly what I expected.'"

"Are you sure, Mary," said Mrs. Wyndham, laughing, "that you are not taking any liberties with my name?"

"Here it is ma'am, you can see it yourself; but I think you escaped very well. Here's another: "The refined and dandified Jack the Giant-Killer met the modest, retiring Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, at the Pyramids, (ah! some one peeped!) those wonderful monuments of ages long since pa.s.sed away, on Christmas Day, in the year One. He said, 'I never entertained a very lofty opinion of your ladyship;' she replied, 'I perfectly agree with the n.o.ble sentiments you have just uttered: our hearts shall henceforward be united in the strictest friendship.' The consequences were that they parted, to meet no more; and the partial world remarked, 'What a pair of fools!'"

"Here is another: "The brave, daring, thoughtless King Solomon met the elegant, fashionable Queen Semiramis upon the top of Mont Blanc, that lofty mountain, crowned with perpetual snow, on the 30th of February. He remarked, 'Do you like the last style of bonnets, Madam?' She answered, 'Sir, do not press the matter. I am but young; you can speak to my papa.' The consequences were, that they took an ice-cream, and went up to the clouds in an air-balloon; and the amiable world said, 'Who would have believed it?'"

After reading all the papers, which caused much diversion, one of the party proposed playing "How do you like it." While Tom Green was waiting in another room, the remainder of the company fixed upon a word of double or treble meaning, which it was his duty to discover by the answers given to three questions he was to ask of all in succession. If unable to guess the word at the end of the third round, he would be crowned with the dunce-cap, and must recommence his questions: if, on the contrary, he hit upon the right word, the person whose answer led him to conjecture it must take his place.

"Anna," said Tom, "how do you like it? Now, don't tell me you like it very well, or not at all; give me something descriptive."

"I like it with a large capital."

"You do? Then it may either be a word, a state, a pillar, or a man of business. Cousin Alice, how do you like it?"

"I like it shady and covered with moss."

"And you, Sister Ellen?"

"With vaults secure and well filled."

"What do you say, Gertrude?"

"I like it covered with violets."

"How do you prefer it, Charlie?"

"With a good board of directors."

"And you, Amy?"

"Covered with strong and skilful rowers."

"What is your preference, George?"

"I like it high and picturesque."

"How do you like it, John?"