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Chapter 1 My Arrival

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“ ’T is a finely toned, picturesque, sunshiny place

Recalling a dozen old stories.”

I have a story to tell. The story of a strange, impenetrable, fascinating woman; a woman in whose mysterious destiny my own has become seriously involved.

I saw her first at Beech Grove, the country seat of Edward Livermore. I had gone there at the suggestion of Tom Gaylord, and under the influence of the following letter:

“If you want a model for the Antigone you are said to be working upon, take a trip into the wilds about Cooperstown, and spend two days with Ed. Livermore. I saw a girl in his drawing-room a week ago, whose face is a living exponent of human passion at its loftiest and most commanding heights. Perpetuated in marble, it would make the fame of such men as you and I.

“Do not delay, or I shall be tempted to steal it for my Clytemnestra.”

It was late in the afternoon when I arrived in O— after a long day’s journey on the cars, and a carriage ride of some two miles or so through the beautiful scenery of this highly cultivated and picturesque region.

When we reached the town, I found that it began and ended in one long street, running between wooded slopes; and when I stopped at my friend’s door I was surprised to discover that the low and lengthy front of his old-fashioned house stood almost on line with the sidewalk, thus losing, to all outward appearance, most of the attractions usually to be found in the country-seats of wealthy New Yorkers.

But the door once passed, and the hall entered, my artistic nature was at once satisfied, and my imagination roused by the agreeable nature of the background against which this old mansion had been reared.

Through the wide doors and broad, latticed windows that opened directly opposite the entrance, I saw huge boughs of interbranching pine and beech, crowding up so close to the house that the whole appearance was that of some marvellous landscape let into the wall for the delectation of the entering guest; and, upon stepping nearer, my ears were charmed with the music of a babbling brook which ran by the doorstep on its way to the lake below. A pretty rustic bridge connected the threshold with the woods beyond, marking the beginning of a path that was destined to be the scene of more than one surprising encounter in the troublous four days before me.

Interested as we all are in the unexpected, I stood contemplating the great forest that thus limited my outlook, when a gush of youthful voices drew my attention inwards. Hastily turning, I encountered a bevy of young women who had entered the hall from one of the many large apartments on either side. Instantly I remembered the letter in my pocket, and the errand on which I had come.

A tall and dignified blonde was first presented to my notice. She was Mr. Livermore’s niece, and her name was Dalrymple. I thought her beautiful, but I did not see in her fine but conventional countenance any of the passion or grief of the immortal Antigone.

Nor could I perceive in the laughing-eyed Miss Tewksbury, who accompanied her, anything beyond a merry every-day sort of girl, whose attractions might serve to while away a pleasant half hour, but which were scarcely of a nature to inspire an artist, or to awake the imagination of the most prosaic worker in clay and marble.

Dainty Miss Clayton presented a more suggestive figure, but she was far from being the grand and impressive woman described by the enthusiastic Gaylord; so that I was presently convinced that in none of the group thus prematurely brought to my notice had chance favored me with a view of the extraordinary person for whom my journey had been made.

But when summoned to dinner I found myself seated in full position for observing the faces of all the assembled guests, I naturally expected some special reward for my scrutiny. But I was again disappointed. Not a face suggested passion, not a form inspired enthusiasm; and yet there was more than one beautiful girl present; and had I been seeking a model for any lesser creation than the daughter of Oedipus, I might have detected in Miss Clayton’s merry glance and dimpled smile sweetness enough to have beguiled me into an interest which would not have ended in heart-break and confusion.

It was the custom in this hospitable mansion for the various guests to collect at evening in a certain long drawing-room, which, from its connection with a small music-parlor, allowed the piano to be played without directly interfering with conversation.

In this room I therefore presently found myself, and as I am no smoker I had my little hour with the ladies before the gentlemen came in.

But though I enjoyed the mingled sparkle and sarcasm of Miss Dalrymple’s society talk, and was not altogether insensible to the flashes of repartee which kept Miss Clayton’s dimples coming and going, I own that under my apparent interest there lurked an uneasy sense of expectancy which led my eyes to travel more often in the direction of the door than the claims of the ladies present seemed to warrant. Did I look for some new entrance, and was it possible that I still cherished hopes of encountering the anticipated face, even after I had seen that the table was full and that no absent guest was mentioned?

The entrance of the gentlemen at eight o’clock definitely ended any such expectation on my part; and dismissing Gaylord from my thoughts with one low exclamation against the trick he had undoubtedly played me, I allowed myself to forget the hopes he had called up, and gave myself quite unreservedly to the amusements of the evening.

Of these, I shall speak of but one.