The Story of a Summer | Page 6

taken before a Magistrate--He is
lodged in the County Jail.
June 5.
As unexpected visit yesterday from Mr. O'Dwyer, a member of _The
Tribune_ staff, and for several years dear uncle's private secretary.
Mamma had invited Mr. O'Dwyer to come out and pass a quiet day
with us, and had appointed Wednesday for the visit. Desirous of a little
excitement, and already somewhat weary of our nun-like simplicity of
toilette, we decided to do honor to our guest by dressing our hair quite
elaborately, and attiring ourselves, despite the heat, in our best
bombazines with their weight of crape. We were assembled in the
dining-room after our early dinner, discussing, in our plain print
wrappers and Marguerite braids, our plans for the morrow, when Minna
announced:
"A visit, Madame; a gentleman."
"Probably a neighbor upon business," said mamma to us; "show him in

here, Minna."
The door opened, and enter the guest for whom, in imagination, we
were making such extensive preparations.
A very expressive glance was telegraphed around our circle. I was
engaged in the domestic occupation of hemming one of papa's
handkerchiefs, and although Hawthorne draws so pretty a picture of the
beautiful Miriam while engaged in "the feminine task of mending a pair
of gloves," with all deference to the poet's taste, I consider the
beguiling little scraps of canvas or kid which I produce when company
is present, much more attractive than plain sewing.
In a moment the surprise was explained. Mr. O'Dwyer had received
orders to represent The Tribune somewhere, the following day, just in
time to catch the Pleasantville express, and run out to tell us that he
could not come at the time appointed.
"The circumstances were trying," we said to each other, after his
departure; but imagine, girls, how much worse they would have been,
had the visitor been a lady! As long as a wrapper is black, I very much
doubt if a gentleman would know it from an afternoon dress.
June 8.
The usual routine of our morning occupations has been somewhat
broken of late, for these June days are too perfect to be spent within
doors, even with such grand companions as Plato or Beethoven. We
plan charming hours to be spent in the pine grove, where Marguerite
will read to us a chapter or two of Kohlrausch's "Germany," and Ida
will give us a few pages of Taine's brilliant "Angleterre;" but as we are
starting with camp chairs, books, and work, Bernard approaches:
"Any orders, Miss?"
Frail mortals are too weak to resist, and in a few moments we are
seated in Ida's stylish new phaeton; and Gabrielle's irrepressible ponies,
under the guidance of Tourbillon herself, are dashing away at a pace

that terrifies our sober Quaker neighbors beyond expression. Mamma
has been solemnly warned against allowing Gabrielle to drive "those
fearful horses;" but we all share our pretty Tourbillon's fondness for a
tourbillon pace, and know well the strength she possesses in her little
wrists, and the coolness she could exercise were there any danger.
While returning from a charming drive upon the Sing Sing road, a day
or two since, the horses, whose spirits were unusually high, shied
suddenly at something dark by the roadside. By a dexterous
management of the reins, Gabrielle quickly subdued them, and we all
looked to see what had startled them. An object was crouching in the
grass, evidently human, but of what sex or nationality it was impossible
in one swift glance to determine; and it was quite amusing to hear our
different opinions as we drove on.
"I think," said mamma, "that it was an enormous woman, with a baby
in her arms, but I really cannot be sure, for I only looked at the
face--such a hideous, repulsive face. I shall dream of it to-night, I am
convinced."
"A woman!" said Marguerite. "My impression was of a very
murderous-looking man--an Indian, I thought, he was so very dark."
Gabrielle's view of the case differed from the others. The creature had,
she said, a heavy black beard, which, was un-Indian-like, and was
garbed in a dark calico gown with open sleeves, through which she
plainly perceived a pair of unmistakably muscular, masculine arms. In
the words of Macbeth--
"You should be woman, And yet your beard forbids me to interpret
That you are so."
Neither Marguerite nor Gabrielle had seen the baby, and Gabrielle's
conclusion that this frightful being was a convict who had escaped
from Sing Sing disguised as a woman, was quite logical.
"Chappaqua is certainly in unpleasant proximity to Sing Sing," I said
with a shudder, for I have not many elements of a heroine about me.

"Yes," was mamma's cheerful rejoinder, "and you know we were told
yesterday that one or two of the most dangerous convicts had