Chapter XVIII

Visitors--A Sunday Drive--Croton lake by Daylight--A Sail--A Sudden Squall--Anxiety about our Fate--Miraculous Escape from Drowning--Arrival of a Pretty Cousin--A Child Poetess.

_August 4_.

A gap in my journal of several days, during which time I have found it impossible to write. I have now several events to record.

Papa came out Saturday afternoon to make us his weekly visit, accompanied by Mr. Reid.

Papa's "young chief" looked as well as though he had not the weight of the new nine-story Tribune building upon his shoulders this hot weather, and was exceedingly agreeable. Those who have only known Mr. Reid in New York _salons_ and in editorial rooms can have no idea what a different man he is when enjoying the relaxation of the country. Never could I have imagined that the haughty young proprietor of _The Tribune_ would condescend to participate in "ring toss," croquet, and similar frivolities; but I have found this summer that, besides being an adept in the masculine accomplishments of driving and riding, he is an enthusiastic champion of croquet, taking apparently the same pleasure in sending an adversary's ball to the extreme limits of the croquet-ground that he would in refuting a _Times_ editorial.

The evening was devoted to cards and ballad-singing, for, although so prominent a member of New York literary society, Mr. Reid does not, I am glad to say, think it necessary to dislike music.

For the next day an expedition to Croton Lake had been planned. When alone, we never drive on Sunday, except to church, lest our sober Puritan neighbors should be shocked; but as we had a guest for that day, we made an exception to our usual severe rules; for a Sunday in Chappaqua is somewhat gloomy to a visitor. Immediately after breakfast, therefore, the carriage came, and Ida and I, with papa and Mr. Reid, started on this pleasant little excursion, papa mischievously suggesting that we should _look_ pious, and the neighbors would never know that we were _not_ going to church.

One little _contretemps_ marked our departure. The Duchess had been lame for a day or two, and another horse had been hired for the day to replace her. The strange horse was evidently the property of a Quaker, and more accustomed to going to meeting than on frivolous pleasure parties, for she was a very staid and subdued animal, and strongly _dis_inclined to keep up with the lively pace adopted by spirited little Lady Alice. The drive, therefore, was decidedly an interesting one. Papa held the reins, and Mr. Reid devoted himself to whipping up the laggard beast. In this style we proceeded over the country at a moderate pace, and finally reached the beautiful lake and the hotel upon its banks. The shade of the broad piazza formed a very pleasant relief from the heat overhead, and we were glad to rest a little while. We had not been there many minutes before some one recognized Mr. Reid, and informed the portly landlord, who immediately hastened upon the scene, and welcomed him to Croton Lake with enthusiasm.

In the parlor the piano was open, and half a dozen children were drumming upon it; therefore, seeing that "music" on Sundays was not prohibited by the rules of the house, I went to the piano when the children wearied of it, and sung, at Ida's request, an Ave Maria, and grandpapa's favorite "Rock of Ages." We had some little amusement over the necessity of going four miles from home in order to enjoy music on Sundays.

The water looked very inviting, rippling up to the beach, and a row to Croton Dam was proposed. After some little delay, a boat and a very good-natured negro boatman were procured, and we departed.

The sun, I must own, was rather hot at that hour of the day, and struck with peculiar force upon our hot bombazine dresses, and heavy crape veils. Ida and I looked with a sigh at Mr. Reid's cool white flannel suit. Sam, the boatman, ceased to row, and let the boat drift, being overcome by the heat, while papa sat in the bow, and looked disconsolate that he had not the morning news to read.

We were now at quite a distance from the shore, and as there was no one present but the boatman to be shocked by hearing secular music, I ventured to sing a few simple ballads, for music and water I think blend most harmoniously.

Soon light, fleecy clouds commenced to shield us from the sun's scorching rays; we closed our parasols, and played with the deliciously cool water, wondering meantime like Miss Helen, in that exquisite "Atlantic" story, if we could call up a mermaid front below. But while we were drifting along so charmingly, the clouds had become heavier and blacker, and seizing the oars, Sam commenced to row with desperate haste. We were, however, beaten in our race with the storm, and reached Croton Dam in a perfect tempest of thunder, and lightning, and dashing rain. Unfortunately Ida and I had worn slippers, not having expected to walk, and there was only one umbrella in the party--our little parasols with their crape borders and bows being more suitable for ornament than service; however, we scrambled up the steep bank as best we could, and ran to the protecting doorway of the water-house (the house itself was locked as it was Sunday). Here we stowed ourselves away like so many sardines, and waited patiently under the umbrella for an hour. Finally the sun broke out, and we made our way over deep ponds of water back to our boat. Sam looked up with a dejected expression as we approached, and feared the boat wasn't fit for the ladies to go home in; he was bailing it out as fast as he could, but it was very wet.

Wet indeed! Why Sam had not drawn the boat up on the beach and turned it over during the rain, no one could imagine; but that brilliant idea had not occurred to him. Therefore we were obliged to row back with our feet reposing in little pools of water.

Before long, down came the rain again in torrents, but stimulated by the prospective fee, Sam rowed with giant strokes. About a mile from the hotel, we met the landlord rowing with desperate haste. It seems that the rain had been even more violent at _his_ end of the lake, having been magnified into a squall upon the water, and a tornado upon land, blowing down trees, and breaking away the lattice-work of the hotel piazza; consequently he supposed our boat must have been ingulfed, and had come to look for the corpses. His amazement at finding us alive, and, though very wet, in excellent spirits, was great.

An entrée into the hotel in our wet dresses was rather a formidable affair for Ida and myself, as all the boarders were assembled upon the piazza to see, I suppose, how we looked after our "miraculous escape from drowning." Hastening past them into a private room, we took off our dripping wraps, and supplied their places with brilliant plaid shawls lent us by the landlady, in which we drove back to Chappaqua--to the wonder, I doubt not, of all who recognized us on the way. The horses this time went more evenly, and the entire strain of propelling the carriage did not fall upon poor Lady Alice. But when we reached home, Mr. Reid's white suit, and our dresses, veils, and even faces, were a sight to behold from the liquid mud with which we were bespattered. We had to turn out of our way for a couple of miles, as a tree blown down by the storm lay across the main road, and this second detention did not increase the enthusiasm of our welcome from Lina, for dinner had been ordered at half-past three, and it was five when we reached the house. Her pet dessert, a lemon _soufflée_, intended to be eaten as soon as baked, was not, I must own, improved by standing so long; but otherwise no serious damage was done to the dinner, and we were thankful that our adventures when indulging in pleasure parties on Sunday were over.

The evening passed quietly, but very agreeably. Mr. Reid went down to the city in the six o'clock train, and papa read aloud to us Byron's splendid, stirring "Isles of Greece," and portions of "Childe Harold." Reading poetry is quite an accomplishment of papa's, and although he is very happy in sentimental and heroic verse, he has also a keen sense of humor, and his reading of comic and dialect poems, especially those of Hans Breitmann, have been much complimented; indeed, in "our circle" he is the reader par excellence of Bret Harte, John Hay, and Hans Breitmann.

_August 7_.

Marguerite and Ida went down yesterday to the city for a day's shopping, a relaxation of which we are all quite fond. I walked down to the station to meet them upon their return, and was not a little surprised to see a third black-robed figure emerge from the cars with them. Too _petite_ to be Gabrielle, who has been visiting a school-friend for the last week, it was not until the second glance that I recognized the abundant golden-brown hair and romantic eyes of our pretty cousin, Theresa Walling.

Theresa is Aunt Arminda's granddaughter, and although only eighteen, is entitled to pass through a door in advance of Marguerite, Ida and I, and to occupy the back seat in a carriage, for she is married, and has had two sweet little girls, one of whom died during that sad month of November, last year, and the oldest, her pretty Theresa Beatrice, only a week ago. Quite delicate from her childhood, the loss of her babies has been a great affliction to their poor little mother, and Ida brought her out to visit us, hoping that change of scene might bring back the former rose-flush to her pale cheeks.

Early marriages appear hereditary in that branch of the family, for Aunt Arminda was married at fifteen, and Theresa's mother at fourteen; consequently, Aunt Arminda found herself a great-grandmother when some years short of sixty.

I said that Theresa lost her youngest child within the thirty days that elapsed between uncle's and Aunt Mary's deaths; but those were not the only bereavements in our family that sad winter; before the spring came, Theresa's father and a little girl, our cousin Victoria's child, had also died.

Theresa's beauty is not the true Greeley type--blonde, with blue eyes. Her complexion is somewhat like her grandmother's--a delicate olive with an exquisite flush, when in health. The contour of her face is a perfect oval; her eyes are dark and pensive, and although her hair is almost golden in its brightness, both her eyebrows and lashes are of a dark chestnut brown. In figure she is, as I said, very _petite_; she and I are the two "little ones" of the family.

Theresa displays considerable taste for literature; and, notwithstanding the demand that her children made upon her time, has written some romantic stories that have been published in New York journals.

She has a bright little brother, and three sisters--Fannie, Jessie, and Lillian; all pretty and clever children. Fannie, who is now only fourteen, will, I hope, when older, become a graceful poetess; for the verses that she has already had published under her pretty signature, "Fannie Fawn," are very musical, and promise well for the future.