CHAPTER XXIII.

Marriage of a Cousin--A Pretty Bride--Letters--Home Circle Complete--A Letter of Adventures--Wedding Cards--A Musical Marriage--Housekeeping under Difficulties--Telegraphic Blunders--A Bust of Mr. Greeley--More Visitors.

_September 10_.

A letter yesterday from our cousin Estelle Greeley, signed, however, by a new name, for she was married last week. Estelle is Aunt Arminda's youngest daughter, and although not yet eighteen, was before the death of Theresa's children a great-aunt. She sent us her picture, taken with her husband. She is a very pretty girl, with large, dreamy, blue eyes, and lashes so long and dark as to cast deep shadows--a languishing effect often produced on city belles by artificial means.

Her hair is of that sunny brown shade peculiar to so many of our cousins, and she has. .h.i.therto worn it floating over her shoulders _a la belle sauvage_; but now I suppose she thinks so _negligee_ and girlish a coiffure incompatible with her new dignity as a married woman, for I observed in her picture that it was wreathed into an imposing diadem braid.

Although Estelle is rather young to have married, the match has received the cordial approbation of tho entire family. She was married at home, but has now gone to live at Columbus, Pennsylvania, where her father-in-law is a prominent merchant. Her letter was full of enthusiasm over her happiness, but I was glad to learn that she did not intend, like so many young brides, to give up her music in the excitement of her new married life.

Our mail was not large this morning, for our friends are now returning to the city, and are busy with the demands of upholsterers and dress-makers in antic.i.p.ation of the gayeties of the coming season; some few, however, are still enjoying this delicious September weather by the seaside or inland.

Our friend, Mrs. Cutler, the pretty Virginia novelist and society star, is now in Westchester County, and promises us a visit very soon. She speaks with deep feeling of the pleasure it will afford her to visit dear uncle's loved home, and in conclusion sends many kind messages to mamma's "bouquet of girls."

One of my most intimate friends, Marguerite Aymar, after having visited several watering-places, and contributed sparkling letters to different New York journals this summer, has now come to Westchester County to pa.s.s away quietly the remainder of the season, and gather up strength for her literary labors during the coming winter. I learn by a letter received from her yesterday, that she is boarding within driving distance of Chappaqua--a very agreeable prospect for me, for Marguerite and I are much given to long talks together, and are very fond of an exchange of ideas over our many literary plans.

Miss Aymar is a clever young writer, by no means confining herself to the graceful poems, stories, and sketches that she dashes off with such ease, but evincing talent and tact in her more thoughtful magazine articles. She is now, she tells me, at work upon a novel.

_September 13_.

Our home circle is once more complete, for Mrs. Lamson, who left us some weeks ago to visit friends in Connecticut, has now returned to remain with us until we go down to the city.

Mrs. Lamson was one of dear uncle's earliest friends, their acquaintance dating back indeed to the days of Poultney--and we are all deeply attached to her.

_September 15_.

Arthur's name, I believe, has not yet been mentioned in my journal since he left us early in August. He is a very tormenting correspondent, for he never writes with the prompt.i.tude that would be agreeable, but his letters when they do come are always entertaining, and one that arrived this morning, detailing his adventures since his departure from Chappaqua, we found especially so. Before making some extracts from it, I must explain that he left us to join a number of young men from Chappaqua, headed by our neighbor, Mr. Carpenter, who were to camp out at Rye Beach, and indulge in unlimited fishing parties. This out-of-doors life delighted Arthur, accustomed as he had been to foot journeys in Europe, and when the party broke up he bought a waterproof suit, hired a boat and a tent, and rowed up the Sound to Boston, where he lives, sleeping meantime on land or in his boat, as best suited his caprice. I will now give his exploits in his own words.

"I remained on the beach some time after Mr. Carpenter and the others left, caught and made food of many fishes, and came near making myself food for them, for in hauling up anchor in a rough sea I tipped out of the boat, but luckily saved myself by clutching its side, and lifting myself in at imminent risk of turning the whole concern bottom upwards.

"Being wrapped in slumber on the rocks one night with a big fire burning beside me, my bed of dry seaweed caught fire, and woke me by its fierce breath; but escaping an evil fate for the present, I came safely home to Boston, which I felt keen joy to see once more.

"I have gone into the office of a lawyer here, and am engaged in the delightful occupation of 'sooing folks' (as the old fellow p.r.o.nounces it). You may imagine me seated on the extreme top of a high stool, forging like a young Cyclops with malignant pleasure, the writs and summonses which are presently to be flourished by the Sheriff in the face of the astonished Defendant."

Among our other letters this morning was a package from London containing the dainty wedding-cards of a beautiful young American pianist (Teresa Carreno) and her handsome violinist husband, accompanied by a long letter from the bride. The letter was overflowing with happiness, and the navete with which she described all the little annoyances of her new married life, and especially the trials of a young housekeeper, was quite delicious. Her furniture had not yet come from Paris, and there were but two chairs in the parlor; consequently, when a visitor came, her husband was obliged to stand, she said, with the greatest ceremony. She sat by the kitchen table to write to me, and the cook overturned her ink, making a blot upon the page: all of these little details made up a perfect picture of her life. Of course the letter was full of "my husband," and the signature was no longer the impulsive, girlish--"With a thousand kisses, my darling, ever your own Teresita," but a decorous and matronly ending: "Yours affectionately, Teresa Carreno Sauret."

Two more letters by the evening mail; one having the features of the "Re Galantuomo" upon the postage stamps, is from a young American music student in Florence, a pupil of Hans Von Bulow, who will, upon her return to her own country, be known as one of our finest amateur pianists.

There is also a letter from our estimable friend, Miss Booth, the accomplished Editress of Harper's Bazar. She will spend next Sat.u.r.day with us, accompanied by her friend, Mrs. Wright.

_September 20_.

Ida went down to the city yesterday, to see both her lawyer and dress-maker, saying that she would return by the half past six o'clock train. We went down accordingly to meet the cars, but she did not arrive upon them; a telegram, however, was shortly sent up to the house, announcing that she would come on the eight o'clock train, accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Wiss.

"Mrs. Wiss!" exclaimed mamma, upon reading the telegram, "who can she be? I do not know any such person."

Gabrielle could not remember any one by the name of Wiss among Ida's friends, and suggested that the ladies might be old friends of her father's, whom Ida had never before seen; so remarking that the eight o'clock train was a late one for ladies to travel upon alone, mamma rang for Minna, and told her to delay our tea an hour and a half longer.

When we heard the footsteps of the travellers upon the piazza, we all went out with some curiosity to meet our unknown visitors. For a moment we were speechless, as we recognized in the matron of the party, Ida's charming Southern friend, Mrs. Ives, and in the tall young man (her son) who accompanied her, the supposed Miss Wiss. How the telegraph operator could have so confused the names, no one could imagine.

Mrs. Ives is a brilliant talker, and a woman of great polish and high family connections. She has lived North for several years, but will return to Baltimore this winter to our great regret, for her picturesque home near the Manhattanville Convent was a most delightful place to spend an hour, while listening to the entertaining conversation of the hostess, and the exquisite harp-playing of her sister.

_September 25_.

A letter this morning from the little sculptress, Vinnie Ream. She is at Washington, and writes me that she has sold her bust of dear uncle to the Cornell University. I have not seen the bust since it was put into marble, but when I saw it in clay at her New York studio two years ago, I considered it a spirited and excellent likeness. Vinnie is full of the high courage that never deserts her through all of her trials from public and private criticism, and she has my best wishes for a bright and successful future.

_September 28_.

Two arrivals by the morning train: Mrs. Gibbons, a friend of many years of dear uncle, Aunt Mary, and mamma, and a lady at whose hospitable residence uncle often found a pleasant home, when his family were absent, and Lucy White, an intimate friend of Ida and myself.

Miss White has just returned from a three months' visit to Europe, and she gave us a very lively account of her gay season in London, and her visit to Paris. I was glad to learn from her that my favorite Italian and Spanish pictures again occupied their accustomed places in the _Salon Carre_ at the Louvre, and that the diadem mode of dressing the hair, so becoming to my tiny figure, was by no means out of style in Paris, but was, on the contrary, more fashionable than ever.

_September 30_.

A letter this morning from Katie Sinclair. I rejoice to learn that her health is improving, for, when we visited her some weeks ago, her cheeks were almost as white as the pillows upon which they rested.

We were disappointed that we could not hear Katie sing that day, for we had antic.i.p.ated quite a little musical matinee; but her sister Mary, who is an enthusiastic pianoforte student, made amends by playing with much taste and expression, a dreamy "Melody," by Rubenstein.

CHAPTER XXIV.

"All that's Bright must Fade"--Departures--Preparing the House for the Winter--Page's Portrait of Pickie--Packing up--Studious Habits of the Domestics--The Cook and her Admirers--Adieu to Chappaqua.

_October 1_.

"All that's bright must fade."

This long, delightful summer is now over, and the time approaches for us to return to the din and whirl of city life.

Miss Worthington left us this morning to return to her beautiful Southern home, and Gabrielle, too, has gone back to the quiet of her convent school, guided by the Protestant Sisters of St. Mary.

Ida is busily counting, and packing away the dainty china and silver, suggestive of so many pleasant gatherings of friends that we have had this summer, and Minna has brought down from the store-room large chests to contain the heavy linen sheets with Aunt Mary's initials beautifully embroidered in scarlet.

The guest-room and the parlors commence to wear a dismantled look, for one by one the pretty trifles that ornamented them are being removed, and although many of the pictures still hang upon the walls, dear little Pickie's portrait stands in an unoccupied bedroom swathed in linen, and ready to journey to the city when we do, for Ida prizes it so highly that she will not box it up and send it by express, but intends to have one of the servants carry it under her supervision, lest some harm may befall it. I do not wonder that it is priceless to her; I also think it of inestimable value, for not only is it a portrait of the beautiful little cousin whom I never saw, but even one uninterested in Pickie would, I am sure, be attracted by it as a rare work of art. It is a full-length picture: the child holds in his hands a cl.u.s.ter of lilies--a fit emblem of his spotless purity, and his undraped limbs are perfectly moulded as those of an infant St. John.

His hair, of the line that t.i.tian and Tintoretto loved to paint, falls upon his shoulders like a shower of ruddy gold, and for depth of tone and richness of color the picture more resembles the work of one of the old Venetian Masters than a painting by modern hands.

Whilst in town the other day, I called in the Tenth Street Studio Buildings to ask Mr. Page when he could give a few days of his time to restoring Pickie's portrait, as it has been somewhat affected by the dampness during the years that it has stood in the house in the woods.