It was autumn, one of those balmy
Indian summer days which, if the eyes were closed,
would remind you of Andalusia when the orange trees
put forth their blossoms with the matured fruit still
clinging to their boughs, burying its golden ripeness
among cool, green leaves, and buds of fragrant snow.
Still, save in the delicious atmosphere that autumnal
sunset would not have reminded you of any land but
our own. For what other climate ever gave the
white wings of the frost the power to scatter that
rich combination of red, green, gold and dusky purple
upon a thousand forests in a single night? What
other land ever saw the sun go down upon a world of
green foliage, and rise to find the same foliage bathed
in a sea of brilliant tints, till the east was paled
by its gorgeousness?
Indeed, there was nothing in this
calm, Indian-summer twilight to remind you of any
other land, save its stillness and the balm of dying
flowers giving up their lives to the frost. But
the links of association are rapid and mysterious,
and the scenes that awaken a reminiscence are sometimes
entirely opposite to the memory awakened.
Be this as it may, there was something
in the landscape suddenly clad in its gorgeous fall
tints in the river so coldly transparent
twelve hours before, now rolling on through the glowing
shadows as if the sands and pebbles in its bed had
been turned to jewels, which reminded at least one
person in that old mansion house, of scenes long ago
witnessed in the south of Spain.
The old mansion house which we speak
of, stood some miles above that gorge in the Harlem
River which is now spanned by the High Bridge.
This region of Manhattan Island is even yet more than
half buried in its primeval forest trees. Hills
as abrupt, and moss as greenly fleecy as if found
on the crags of the Rocky Mountains, still exist among
the wild nooks and wilder peaks which strike the eye
more picturesquely from their vicinity to the great
metropolis.
At the particular spot I wish to describe,
the hills fall back from the Hudson, north and south,
far enough to leave a charming little valley of some
two or three hundred acres cradled in their wildness
and opening greenly to the river, which is sure to
catch a sheaf of sunbeams in its bosom when the day
fires its last golden salute from behind the Palisades.
Sheltered by hills, some broken into cliffs, some rolling
smoothly back, clothed in variously tinted undergrowth
and fine old trees, the valley itself received a double
charm from the contrast of cultivation. It was
entirely cleared of trees and undergrowth, save where
a clump of cool hemlocks, a grove of sugar maples,
or a drooping elm gave it those features we so much
admire in the country homes of old England.
In the centre of the valley was a
swell of land sloping down to the river in full, grassy
waves, which ended at the brink in a tiny cove overhung
by a clump of golden willows.
Crowning the swell of this elevation
stood the old mansion commanding a fine view of the
river, with a glimpse of the opposite shore, where
the Weehawken hills begin to consolidate into the
Palisades. A score of picturesque and pleasant
little nooks were visible from the numerous windows,
for it was an irregular old place, varying as much
as an American house can vary in its style of architecture.
The original idea had undoubtedly sprung from our
Knickerbocker ancestors, for the gables were not only
pointed, but notched down the steep edges after a
semi-battlemented fashion, while stacks of quaint chimneys
and heavy oaken doors bespoke a foundation far antecedent
to the revolution.
But in addition to these proofs of
antiquity, were balconies of carved stone, curving
over modern bay windows, which broke up the stiff
uniformity of the original design; and along one tall
gable that fronted on the river, French windows, glittering
with plate glass, opened to a verandah of stone-work,
surrounded by a low railing also of stone; and if
these windows were not one blaze of gold at sunset,
you might be certain that a storm was lowering over
the Palisades, and that the next day would be a cloudy
one.
Another gable facing the south was
lighted by a broad arched window crowded full of diamond-shaped
glass, tinted through and through by the bloom and
glow of a conservatory within. In short the mansion
was a picturesque incongruity utterly indescribable,
and yet one of the most interesting old houses in
the world.
Whatever might be said of its architecture,
it certainly had a most aristocratic appearance, and
bore proofs in every line and curve of its stone traceries,
both of fine taste and great wealth, inherited from
generation to generation. Time itself would have
failed to sweep these traces of family pride from
the old house, for each century had carved it deeper
and deeper into the massive stone, and it was as much
a portion of the scenery, as the stately old forest
trees that sheltered it.
But we have alluded to one who sat
in a room of this old mansion, looking thoughtfully
out upon the change that a single night had left upon
the landscape. Her seat, a crimson easy-chair,
stood near one of the broad bay windows we have mentioned.
The sashes were folded back, and she looked dreamily
out upon the river and the opposite shore. The
whole view was bathed in a subdued glow of crimson
and golden purple; for the sun was sinking behind
the Palisades, and shot sheaf after sheaf of flashing
arrows across the river, that melted into a soft glowing
haze before they reached the apartment which she occupied.
The room behind was full of shadows,
and nothing but the light of a hickory-wood fire revealed
the objects it contained. She was looking forth
upon the sunset, and yet thinking of other countries
and scenes long gone by. Her mind had seized
upon the salient points of a history full of experience,
and she was swept away into the past.
No, she was not young, nor beautiful
even. The flush of youth was gone for ever.
Her features were thoughtful, almost severe, her form
stately and mature.
No, she was not beautiful. At
her age that were impossible, and yet she was a woman
to fix the attention at a glance, and keep herself
in the memory for ever a grand, noble woman,
with honor and strength, and beautiful depths of character,
apparent even in her thoughtful repose.
But this woman shakes off the reverie
that has held her so long in thrall, and looks up
at the sound of a voice within the room, blushing
guiltily like a young girl aroused from her first love
thoughts. She casts aside the remembrance of
black fruited olive groves and orange trees sheeted
with snowy fragrance, and knows of a truth that she
is at home surrounded by the gorgeous woods of America,
in the clear chill air inhaled with the first breath
of her life.
“Did you speak, James?”
She turned quietly and looked within
the room. Near her, sitting with his elbows on
a small table and his broad forehead buried in the
palms of his hands, sat a man of an age and presence
that might have befitted the husband of a woman, at
once so gentle and so proud as the one who spoke to
him; for even in the light produced by the gleams of
a dull fire and the dusky sunset, as they floated
together around his easy-chair, you could see that
he was a man of thought and power.
The man looked up and, dropping his
hands to the table with a sort of weariness, answered,
as if to some person away off
“No, I did not speak I never did
speak!”
It was a strange answer, and the lady’s
face grew anxious as she looked upon him. Certainly
he had uttered some sound, or she would not have asked
the question. She arose and moving across the
room, leaned her elbow upon his chair, looking thoughtfully
down in his face.
He started, as if but that moment
conscious of her presence, and arose probably to avoid
the grave questioning of her look.
“Of what were you thinking,
James?” she said almost abruptly, for a superstitious
thought forced the question to her lips almost against
her will.
“I was thinking,” said
the man, resting his head against the oak carvings
of his chair, “I was thinking of a time when
we were all in the south of Spain.”
“Of your mother’s death?”
inquired the lady in a low voice. “It was
a mournful event to remember. What is there in
this soft twilight to remind us both of the same thing,
for I was thinking of that time also!”
“Of my mother’s death?”
inquired the gentleman, lifting his eyes to her face
suddenly, almost sternly. “I was not thinking
of that, but of my father’s marriage.”
The lady did not speak, but her face
grew pale, and over it swept a smile so vivid with
surprise, so eloquent of mournfulness, that she seemed
transfigured. Her hand dropped away from the chair,
and walking back to the window she sat down, uttering
a faint sigh, as if some slumbering pain had been
sharpened into anguish by the few words that had been
spoken. Twenty years had she lived in the house
with James Harrington, and never before had the subject
of her marriage with his father been mentioned between
them, save as it arose in the discussion of household
events.
Her marriage with his father, that
was the subject of his gloomy thoughts. Had she
then failed to render him content in his home?
Had she in anything fallen short of those gentle duties
he had received so gratefully from the mother that
was gone? Why was it that thoughts of Spain and
of events that had transpired there, should have seized
upon them both at the same time?
She arose again, pale and with a tremor
of the limbs. The balmy air grew sickening to
her his presence an oppression. For
the first time she began to doubt if she were not
an object of dislike to her husband’s guest.
He saw her pass from the room without turning a glance
that way, and followed her with a look of self-reproach.
He felt pained and humiliated. After a silence
of so many years, why had he dared to utter words
to that woman his best friend which
could never be explained? Had all manhood forsaken
him? Had he sunk to be a common-place carper in
the household which she had invested with so much beautiful
happiness? Stung with these thoughts he arose
and sought the open air also.