CHAPTER V.
I was riding in my carriage with my
mother towards New-York.
“You are indeed very beautiful, Frank,”
said she, once more regarding me attentively.
“Your form is that of a mature
woman, and your carriage (I remarked
it as you passed up the garden walk) excellent.
But this country dress will not
do. We will do better than all that
when we get to town.”
It was night when the carriage left the
avenue and rolled into Broadway. The
noise, the glare, the people hurrying by,
all frightened me. At the same time,
Broadway brought back a dim memory
of my early childhood in Paris. Turning
from Broadway, the carriage at length
stopped before a lofty mansion, the windows
of which were closed from the side
walk to the roof.
“This is your home,” said my mother,
as she led me from the carriage up the
marble steps into the hall, where, in the
light of a globular lamp, a group of servants
in livery awaited us.
“Jenkins!”—my mother spoke to an
elderly servant in dark livery, turned up
with red—“let dinner be served in half
an hour.”
Then turning to another servant, not
quite so old, but wearing the same livery,
she said:
“Jones! Miss Van Huyden wishes to
take a look at her house before we go to
dinner. Take the light and go before
us.”
The servant, holding a wax candle,
placed in a huge silver candlestick, went
before us and showed us the house, from
the first to the fourth floor. Never before
had I beheld such magnificence, even
in my dreams. I could not restram ejaculations
of pleasure and surprise at every
step—my mother keenly regarding me,
sometimes with a faint smile, and sometimes
with the wrinkle growing deeper
between her brows. A range of parlors
on the lower floor were furnished with
everything that the most extravagant
fancy could desire, or exhaustless wealth
procure. Carpets that gave no echo to
the step, sofas and chairs cushioned with
velvet, and (so it seemed to me) framed
in gold, mirrors extending from the ceiling
to the floor, pictures, statues, and
tables with tops either of marble or
ebony, the walls lofty, and the ceiling
glowing with a painting which represented
Aurora and the Hours winging
their way through a summer sky.
“Whose picture, mother?” I asked,
pointing to a picture of a singularly handsome
man, with dark hair and beard, and
eyes remarkable at once for their brightness
and expression.
“Your father, dear,” answered my
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mother, and again the mark between her
brows became ominously perceptible.
“There is your piano, Frank—you'll find
it something better than the one which
you had at the good parson's.”
The servant led the way up the wide
stairway, thickly carpeted, to the upper
rooms. Here the magnificence of the
first floor was repeated on a grander and
more luxurious scale. We passed through
room after room, my eyes dazzled by
new signs of wealth and luxury at every
step. At last we paused on the thick
carpet of a spacious bed chamber, whose
appointments combined the richest elegance
with the richest taste. It was
hung with curtains of light azure. An
exquisite and touching picture of the
Virgin Mary confronted the toilette table
and mirror. A bed, with coverlet
white as snow, satin-covered pillows and
canopy of lace, stood in one corner. And
wherever I turned, there were signs of
neatness, taste and elegance. I could
not too much admire the apartment.
“It is your bed-room, my dear,” said
my mother, silently enjoying my delight.
“Why,” said I laughingly, “It's grand
enough for a queen.”
“And are you not a queen?” answered
my mother; “and a very beautiful one?”
Turning to the servant, who stood
staring at me with eyes big as saucers,
she said—
“Tell Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper,
to come here.” Jones left the chamber,
and presently returned with Mrs. Jenkins,
a portly lady, with a round, good-humored
face.
“Frank, this is your housekeeper.”
Mrs. Jenkins simpered and courtesied,
shaking at the same time the bundle of
keys at her waist. “Mrs. Jenkins, this
is your young mistress, Miss Van Huyden.
Give me the keys.”
She took the keys from the housekeeper,
and placed them in my hands.
“My dear, this house, and all that it
contains, are yours. I surrender it to
your charge.”
Scarcely knowing what to do with
myself, I took the keys—which were
heavy enough—and handing them back
to Mrs. Jenkins, hoped that she would
continue to superintend the affairs of
my mansion, as heretofore. All of
which pleased my mother, and made
her smile.
“We will go to dinner without dressing,”
and my mother led the way down
stairs to the dining-room. It was a
large apartment, in the centre of which
stood a luxuriously furnished table, glittering
with gold plate. Servants in livery
stood like statues behind my chair
and my mother's. How different from
the plain fare and simple style of the good
clergyman's home! Nay, how widely
contrasted with the rude dinner in a log
cabin, to which Ernest and myself sat
down a few hours ago!
In vain I tried to partake of the rich
dishes set out before me. I was too
much excited to eat. Dinner over, coffee
was served, and the servants retired.
Mother and I were left alone.
“Frank, do you blame me,” she said,
looking at me carefully, “for having you
reared so quietly, far away in the country,
in order that at the proper age, strong
in health, and rich in accomplishment
and beauty, you might be prepared to
enter upon the engagements and duties
suitable to your station?”
How could I blame her?
I spoke gratefully, again and again,
of the wealth and comfort which surrounded
me, and then, forgetting it all,
broke forth into impassioned praise of
my cottage home, of the good clergyman,
of old Alice, and—Ernest.
Something which came over my mother's
face at the mention of Ernest's
name, warned me that it was not yet
time to speak of my engagement to her.
That night I bathed my limbs in a
perfumed bath, laid my head on a silken
pillow, and slept beneath a canopy of
lace, as soft, and light, and transparent,
as the summer mist through which you
can see the blue sky and the distant
mountain. And resting on the silken
pillow, I dreamed—not of the splendor
with which I was surrounded, nor of the
golden prospects of my future—but of
my childhood's home, and the quiet
scenes of other days. In my sleep, my
heart turned back to them. Once more
I heard the voice of the good old man.
I heard the shrill tones of Alice, as the
sun shone on my frosted window-pane
on a clear cold winter morn. Then the
voice of Ernest, calling me “wife,” and
pressing me to his bosom in the forest
nook. I awoke with his name on my
lips, and—
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My mother stood by the bedside gazing
upon me attentively, a smile on her
lips, but the wrinkle darkly defined
between her brows. The sun shone
brightly through the window curtains.
“Get up! my dear;” she kissed me,—
“You have a busy day before you.”
And it was a busy day! I was handed
over to the milliners and dressmakers,
and whirled in my carriage from
one jeweller's shop to another. It was
not until the third day that my dresses
were completed,—according to my mother's
taste,—and not until the fourth
that the jewels which were to adorn my
forehead, my neck, my arms and bosom,
had been properly selected. Wardrobe
and diamonds worthy of a queen!—and
was I happy? No. I began to grow
homesick for my dear quiet home, on the
hill-side above the Neprehaun.
It was on the fourth day, in the afternoon,
that my mother desired my presence
in the parlor, where she wished to
present me to a much esteemed friend,
Mr. Wareham,—Mr. Wallace Wareham.
“An excellent man,” whispered my
mother, as we went down stairs together,
“and immensely rich.”
I was richly dressed in black, my
neck, my arms and shoulders bare. My
dark hair, gathered plainly aside from
my face, was adorned by a single snow-white
flower. As I passed by the mirror
in the parlor, I could not help feeling
a sort of womanly pride, or—vanity;
and my mother whispered, “Frank, you
excel yourself to-day.”
Mr. Wareham sat on the sofa, in the
front parlor, in the mild light of the curtained
window. He was an elderly gentleman,
somewhat bald, and slightly
inclined to corpulence. He was sleekly
clad in black, and there was a gold chain
across his satin vest, and a brilliant
diamond upon his ruffled bosom. He
sat in an easy, composed attitude, resting
both hands on his gold-headed cane.
At first sight he impressed me, as an
elderly gentleman, exceedingly nice in
his personal appearance, and that was
all. But there was something peculiar
and remarkable about his face and look,
which did not appear at first sight.
I was presented to him; he rose and
bowed; and took me kindly by the
hand.
Then conversing in a calm, even tone,
which soon set me at ease, he led me
to talk of my childhood,—of my home
on the Neprehaun,—of the life which I
had passed with the good clergyman. I
soon forgot myself in my subject, and
grew impassioned—perchance, eloquent.
I felt my cheeks glow and my eyes
sparkle. But all at once I was brought
to a dead pause, by remarking the singular
expression of Mr. Wareham's face.
I stopped abruptly, blushed, and at a
glance surveyed him closely.
His forehead was high and bald, and
encircled by slight curls of black hair,
streaked with gray, its expression eminently
intellectual. But the lower part
of his face was heavy, almost animal.
There was a deep wrinkle on either side
of his mouth; and as for the mouth
itself, its upper lip was thin, almost
imperceptible, while the lower one was
large, projecting, and of a deep red, approaching
purple; thus presenting a singular
contrast to the corpse-like pallor
of his cheeks. His eyes, half hidden under
the bulging lids, when I began my
description of my childhood's home, all
at once expanded, and I saw their real
expression and color. They were large,
the eyeballs exceedingly white, and the
pupils clear gray, and their expression
reminding you of nothing that you had
ever seen or heard of, but simply made
you afraid. And as the eyes expanded,
a slight smile would agitate his upper
lip, while the lower one protruded,
disclosing a set of artificial teeth, white
as milk. It was the sudden expansion
of the eyes, the smile on the upper lip
and the protrusion of the lower one,
that made up the peculiar expression
of Mr. Wareham's face—an expression
which made you feel as though you
had just awoke from a grotesque yet
frightful dream.
“Why do you pause, daughter?” said
my mother, observing my confusion.
“Proceed, my child,” said Mr. Wareham,
devouring me from head to foot,
with his great eyes, at the same time
rubbing his lower lip against the upper,
as though he was tasting something
good to eat. “I enjoy these delightful
reminiscences of childhood. I doat on
such things.”
But I could not proceed—I blushed
again, and the tears came into my eyes.
“You have been fatigued by the
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bustle of the last three days,” said my mother,
kindly. “Mr. Wareham will excuse
you,” and she made me a sign to
leave the room.
Never was a sign more willingly
obeyed. I hurried from the room, and
as I closed the door, I heard Mr. Wareham
say in a low voice—
“She'll do. When will you tell her?”
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1853], The midnight queen, or, Leaves from New York life. (Garrett & Co., 18 Ann street, New York) [word count] [eaf630T].
