AN ARRIVAL.
IT was one of the changing days of our Oldport midsummer. In the morning
it had rained in rather a dismal way, and Aunt Jane had said she should
put it in her diary. It was a very serious thing for the elements when
they got into Aunt Jane’s diary. By noon the sun came out as clear and
sultry as if there had never been a cloud, the northeast wind died away,
the bay was motionless, the first locust of the summer shrilled from the
elms, and the robins seemed to be serving up butterflies hot for their
insatiable second brood, while nothing seemed desirable for a human
luncheon except ice-cream and fans. In the afternoon the southwest wind
came up the bay, with its line of dark-blue ripple and its delicious
coolness; while the hue of the water grew more and more intense, till we
seemed to be living in the heart of a sapphire.
The household sat beneath the large western doorway of the old Maxwell
House,--he rear door, which looks on the water. The house had just been
reoccupied by my Aunt Jane, whose great-grandfather had built it, though
it had for several generations been out of the family. I know no finer
specimen of those large colonial dwellings in which the genius of Sir
Christopher Wren bequeathed traditions of stateliness to our democratic
days. Its central hall has a carved archway; most of the rooms have
painted tiles and are wainscoted to the ceiling; the sashes are
red-cedar, the great staircase mahogany; there are pilasters with
delicate Corinthian capitals; there are cherubs’ heads and wings that go
astray and lose themselves in closets and behind glass doors; there are
curling acanthus-leaves that cluster over shelves and ledges, and there
are those graceful shell-patterns which one often sees on old furniture,
but rarely in houses. The high front door still retains its Ionic
cornice; and the western entrance, looking on the bay, is surmounted
by carved fruit and flowers, and is crowned, as is the roof, with
that pineapple in whose symbolic wealth the rich merchants of the last
century delighted.
Like most of the statelier houses in that region of Oldport, this abode
had its rumors of a ghost and of secret chambers. The ghost had
never been properly lionized nor laid, for Aunt Jane, the neatest
of housekeepers, had discouraged all silly explorations, had at once
required all barred windows to be opened, all superfluous partitions to
be taken down, and several highly eligible dark-closets to be nailed up.
If there was anything she hated, it was nooks and odd corners. Yet there
had been times that year, when the household would have been glad to
find a few more such hiding-places; for during the first few weeks the
house had been crammed with guests so closely that the very mice had
been ill-accommodated and obliged to sit up all night, which had caused
them much discomfort and many audible disagreements.
But this first tumult had passed away; and now there remained only the
various nephews and nieces of the house, including a due proportion of
small children. Two final guests were to arrive that day, bringing
the latest breath of Europe on their wings,--Philip Malbone, Hope’s
betrothed; and little Emilia, Hope’s half-sister.
None of the family had seen Emilia since her wandering mother had taken
her abroad, a fascinating spoiled child of four, and they were all eager
to see in how many ways the succeeding twelve years had completed or
corrected the spoiling. As for Philip, he had been spoiled, as Aunt Jane
declared, from the day of his birth, by the joint effort of all friends
and neighbors. Everybody had conspired to carry on the process except
Aunt Jane herself, who directed toward him one of her honest, steady,
immovable dislikes, which may be said to have dated back to the time
when his father and mother were married, some years before he personally
entered on the scene.
The New York steamer, detained by the heavy fog of the night before, now
came in unwonted daylight up the bay. At the first glimpse, Harry and
the boys pushed off in the row-boat; for, as one of the children said,
anybody who had been to Venice would naturally wish to come to the very
house in a gondola. In another half-hour there was a great entanglement
of embraces at the water-side, for the guests had landed.
Malbone’s self-poised easy grace was the same as ever; his
chestnut-brown eyes were as winning, his features as handsome; his
complexion, too clearly pink for a man, had a sea bronze upon it: he
was the same Philip who had left home, though with some added lines of care.
But in the brilliant little fairy beside him all looked in vain for the
Emilia they remembered as a child. Her eyes were more beautiful than
ever,--the darkest violet eyes, that grew luminous with thought and
almost black with sorrow. Her gypsy taste, as everybody used to call it,
still showed itself in the scarlet and dark blue of her dress; but the
clouded gypsy tint had gone from her cheek, and in its
IT was one of the changing days of our Oldport midsummer. In the morning
it had rained in rather a dismal way, and Aunt Jane had said she should
put it in her diary. It was a very serious thing for the elements when
they got into Aunt Jane’s diary. By noon the sun came out as clear and
sultry as if there had never been a cloud, the northeast wind died away,
the bay was motionless, the first locust of the summer shrilled from the
elms, and the robins seemed to be serving up butterflies hot for their
insatiable second brood, while nothing seemed desirable for a human
luncheon except ice-cream and fans. In the afternoon the southwest wind
came up the bay, with its line of dark-blue ripple and its delicious
coolness; while the hue of the water grew more and more intense, till we
seemed to be living in the heart of a sapphire.
The household sat beneath the large western doorway of the old Maxwell
House,--he rear door, which looks on the water. The house had just been
reoccupied by my Aunt Jane, whose great-grandfather had built it, though
it had for several generations been out of the family. I know no finer
specimen of those large colonial dwellings in which the genius of Sir
Christopher Wren bequeathed traditions of stateliness to our democratic
days. Its central hall has a carved archway; most of the rooms have
painted tiles and are wainscoted to the ceiling; the sashes are
red-cedar, the great staircase mahogany; there are pilasters with
delicate Corinthian capitals; there are cherubs’ heads and wings that go
astray and lose themselves in closets and behind glass doors; there are
curling acanthus-leaves that cluster over shelves and ledges, and there
are those graceful shell-patterns which one often sees on old furniture,
but rarely in houses. The high front door still retains its Ionic
cornice; and the western entrance, looking on the bay, is surmounted
by carved fruit and flowers, and is crowned, as is the roof, with
that pineapple in whose symbolic wealth the rich merchants of the last
century delighted.
Like most of the statelier houses in that region of Oldport, this abode
had its rumors of a ghost and of secret chambers. The ghost had
never been properly lionized nor laid, for Aunt Jane, the neatest
of housekeepers, had discouraged all silly explorations, had at once
required all barred windows to be opened, all superfluous partitions to
be taken down, and several highly eligible dark-closets to be nailed up.
If there was anything she hated, it was nooks and odd corners. Yet there
had been times that year, when the household would have been glad to
find a few more such hiding-places; for during the first few weeks the
house had been crammed with guests so closely that the very mice had
been ill-accommodated and obliged to sit up all night, which had caused
them much discomfort and many audible disagreements.
But this first tumult had passed away; and now there remained only the
various nephews and nieces of the house, including a due proportion of
small children. Two final guests were to arrive that day, bringing
the latest breath of Europe on their wings,--Philip Malbone, Hope’s
betrothed; and little Emilia, Hope’s half-sister.
None of the family had seen Emilia since her wandering mother had taken
her abroad, a fascinating spoiled child of four, and they were all eager
to see in how many ways the succeeding twelve years had completed or
corrected the spoiling. As for Philip, he had been spoiled, as Aunt Jane
declared, from the day of his birth, by the joint effort of all friends
and neighbors. Everybody had conspired to carry on the process except
Aunt Jane herself, who directed toward him one of her honest, steady,
immovable dislikes, which may be said to have dated back to the time
when his father and mother were married, some years before he personally
entered on the scene.
The New York steamer, detained by the heavy fog of the night before, now
came in unwonted daylight up the bay. At the first glimpse, Harry and
the boys pushed off in the row-boat; for, as one of the children said,
anybody who had been to Venice would naturally wish to come to the very
house in a gondola. In another half-hour there was a great entanglement
of embraces at the water-side, for the guests had landed.
Malbone’s self-poised easy grace was the same as ever; his
chestnut-brown eyes were as winning, his features as handsome; his
complexion, too clearly pink for a man, had a sea bronze upon it: he
was the same Philip who had left home, though with some added lines of care.
But in the brilliant little fairy beside him all looked in vain for the
Emilia they remembered as a child. Her eyes were more beautiful than
ever,--the darkest violet eyes, that grew luminous with thought and
almost black with sorrow. Her gypsy taste, as everybody used to call it,
still showed itself in the scarlet and dark blue of her dress; but the
clouded gypsy tint had gone from her cheek, and in its