CHAPTER XTHE SWEET-PEA LADIES
Nathalie, with girlish eagerness, hurried into the house, and was soon telling her mother about her “adventure day,” as she called it, dwelling at length upon her experiences at the Sweet Pea Tea-House, and, with some show of resentment, on her encounter with their neighbor in the little red house.
Mrs. Page became intensely interested in the Sweet-Pea ladies, as her daughter designated them, but cautioned her against cherishing any resentment at the rudeness of the little old lady in black, as, naturally, she was offended that her overtures of friendliness had been slighted by the city folks. She and Nathalie would go very shortly and call upon her; she did not doubt but that her apologies would be accepted, and that the unpleasant incident would be forgotten.
The next morning, while Nathalie was gathering some lettuce in the garden near the barn, she met Sam, the tow-headed young farm-hand, who looked after the place, and who, with his buxom young wife, lived in a small white house a short distance down the road.He was a thick-set, sturdy, young fellow, with a broad, good-natured face, from which white-lashed, piglike blue eyes peered bashfully out above his shiny red cheeks. When he met any of the city folks, as he called the inhabitants of Seven Pillars, he would grin bashfully, and slowly drag off his old straw hat in a greeting, growing very red from embarrassed shyness if called upon to engage in conversation with any of them.
But Nathalie, who had had to depend upon Sam for a certain amount of necessary knowledge in relation to the house and garden, had not only grown to depend upon him in many ways, but had become quite friendly with him. She had learned that he was a level-headed, well-meaning young man and that his eyes could twinkle responsively, even if he was somewhat slow of tongue.
As he began to show Nathalie how to select the heads with the soundest hearts, she told him how she had been caught in the thunderstorm the afternoon before and the kindness of the inmates of the Sweet Pea Tea-House.
“Sure, Miss, they be nice ladies,” assented Sam. “I’ve knowed them this long time. They were born in that old house, but when the old man Whipple growed rich—some relative or t’other left him a pile o’ money—they went skylarking down to Boston—thought we country folks weren’t smart enough furthem, I reckon. But when the old man’s luck went agin him and he died, them gals come home to roost. I feel right sorry for them, for the Lord knows they don’t have no stuffin’s to their turkey these days. Too bad about the tea-house er goin’ to shucks, for sure it use ter bring in er penny er two in the sellin’ o’ them posies.
“I see ole Jakes, with his old flivver a wheezin’ and blowin’ up these ere hills, er takin’ them to the hotels er pile er times. By Gosh, that Jakes sure is ole, fer he’s been er luggin’ round these parts with one foot half-buried fer the last ten years. When he goes off the handle what’ll become of the poor ole ladies—the folks hereabouts are er guessin’. That deaf-and-dumb one—she makes me feel sort er lonesome.” Sam suddenly confided, “with no gift of gab to er, and t’other one with the rheumatics, sure they do be afflicted.”
Nathalie also told Sam about meeting their neighbor in the little red house. But when she questioned him as to who she was, and if she lived there all alone, his face became impassive and he grew evasive in his answers. Surmising that he might possibly be a relative of hers—as she had seen him working about the place, she said no more, but hurried into the house, her mind intent on the Sweet-Pea ladies and their pathetic little story, as told by Sam.
“What a misfortune,” she mused, “to be poor, aninvalid, and with only a deaf-and-dumb sister to depend upon. O dear! what terrible things people have to suffer when they grow old. Well, I shall have to go this afternoon and return that umbrella, and—yes, I just wish I could do something to help them in some way, for Miss Whipple is a dear!”
But, as she hastened to her room to make her customary entry in her diary, the two ladies were forgotten. This daily duty the girl found quite irksome, especially when she had forgotten, and had to make her entry at night when she was tired and wanted to tumble right into bed; and then, too, she did not see how the everyday doings ofherlife could interest any one. And as for searching for the most valuable thing in the house, this she had never found time to do. Possibly she had not tried very hard to find time, as deep within her heart she considered the whole thing sheer nonsense. And how was she going to judge the value of the things in the house, anyway, she questioned rebelliously, for was it not just an old curio shop filled with strange, odd junk, that her aunt had brought from the other side?
But when she hinted this to her mother, she had been duly rebuked, although Mrs. Page agreed with her daughter that it would be a difficult task to determine the value of anything she might select. She said, however, that she considered that Nathalie, as a courtesy to her aunt, who was giving them such a delightfulsummer up in those beautiful mountains, should do all that she could to comply with her request, even if she thought it absurd.
“I doubt if the finding of this very mysterious valuable thing would bring either money or property to any one,” continued the lady, “as I understand that Aunt Mary left the bulk of her estate to some charitable institution as long as no near relative or heir appeared. But she was, as I have told you before, very queer in some ways, and probably took this method of giving away some of her personal effects. It is not at all likely, Nathalie, that you will be the lucky finder,”—there was a smile in Mrs. Page’s eyes,—“but still you should make it a point to search for it, no matter how you feel.”
“Oh I intended to hunt for the old thing, anyway,” returned Nathalie excusingly, “but I have been a little slow, perhaps, because Cynthia has been so obsessed with the idea, that I hate to be as silly. Jan says she spends most of the day hunting in the attic and through the house when we are down-stairs. She is wild to get into that mystery room, for she thinks it is hidden there.
“But you should have seen her last night, mother,” giggled Nathalie. “I was coming through the hall and suddenly saw a flash of light on the stairs. And there was Cynthia, down on her knees, peering under the stair-carpet and poking about with her flash-light.She seemed quite annoyed when she saw that she was discovered, and, jumping up quickly, scurried down the hall. Dear me! she is the queerest thing.”
“Well, let her look,” replied Mrs. Page kindly. “Perhaps her efforts will be rewarded, for, as I understand, she is engaged to a Mr. Buddie, and he is very poor, Janet says. I presume it would make them both very happy if Cynthia came into a little money, or found something of value, for perhaps they could be married.”
“But, mother, Janet hasn’t looked once. She hates this mystery prowl, as she calls it, as much as I do,” emphasized Nathalie, “and I have hard work making her write in her diary. She is busy writing a speech on suffrage, which she expects to deliver this fall. Just imagine, mother, Janet making a speech,” and Nathalie smiled at the thought.
Later in the day, dust-begrimed and with her hair all of a frowse, Nathalie came trudging wearily up the staircase. She had been searching for two hours in the library, a great dark room, lined with bookcases, and whose wainscoted walls were hung with family portraits,—Nathalie called them the Renwicks’ Honor Roll,—interspersed with medallions of great authors and musicians, and valuable etchings.
The girl had laughed at Cynthia for prowling about, but as she threw herself on her bed, tired and aching from stretching her arms and climbing step-ladders,in order to peer behind the pictures and cornices, she felt that she would never laugh at her again. For the more she had searched, the more her interest had increased, and with it the conclusion that her aunt, for contrariness, hadreally hiddensomething of great value, in order to try the patience of the searchers, in some eerie corner or nook.
But was Mrs. Renwick really dead? This was a question that assailed the girl whenever she passed the mystery room, whose door loomed big and dark, with its heavy crimson curtain, in the long hall. Somehow, she had confessed to Janet, whenever she hurried by that door she had a strange feeling, a feeling of nearness to some one,—the way one would feel, she imagined, if they looked up suddenly and found some one watching them with a strange, fixed stare.
Could it be that some one was hidden in that room? But she always dismissed the thought with a half-laugh, as being very silly. Nevertheless she always raced by that door, especially at night, when the hall was wrapped in an uncanny gloominess from the dark shadows that came from the big grandfather’s clock, the heavy, black-looking wardrobe at one end, and other ponderous and carved pieces of mahogany resting against the wall.
The following afternoon Nathalie set forth to return the umbrella to its owners, laden with a basket of fruit, in appreciation of their kindness to her. As shewalked cheerily along, a sudden thought loomed big in her mind; she had been thinking how she was going to live up to her watchword, “Liberty and humanity—our best,” when it had occurred to her that one way would be to offer to read to Miss Whipple every day. The girl’s eyes glowed, and then she wavered. “Oh, no, I don’t see how I can dothat, for I have so much to do at home, and I do not want to miss my walks.” Her face clouded as she silently struggled with herself, divided with the desire to cheer her new friend, and yet not to have to forego her walks.
She found the invalid lying back in her chair, looking pale and wan, but when Nathalie inquired if she was suffering, she hastily answered, “Oh, no, I am just pure tired, for I have been trying to read my new war-book, and it has made me ache all over.”
“Oh, Miss Whipple,” broke from the girl impulsively,—somehow she could not be selfish,—“wouldn’t you like to have me come and read to you for a little while each day?”
“Oh, you dear child, that is most kind of you,” the lady’s eyes brightened. “Indeed, I should be delighted, but it would be selfish to keep you indoors on these beautiful mountain days.” A little sigh ended the sentence.
“But you would not be keeping me in,” insisted her companion, “for I should just love to read to you, and I know I shall find plenty of time to walk somewhereevery day.” And then, as an added plea to her request, she told of her mornings with Nita Van Vorst, and how their taking turns at reading to one another had been a source of great instruction to them both.
In a short time Nathalie was happily reading to her friend, who listened with keen enjoyment. After a time, fearing the girl would tire, they stopped for a little chat, and it was during one of these chats that Nathalie told of meeting their queer neighbor who lived in the red house, and how rudely she had been repulsed by the old lady, when she had tried to atone for her reception of the day before.
“A little old woman in a black bonnet, with a basket?” repeated Miss Whipple in a puzzled tone. “Why, that is strange, for I didn’t know that any one lived in that little red house. Some years past Mrs. Renwick allowed a poor old woman to live there rent free, but she died a few years ago. I shall have to ask Jakes about it, for he knows every man, woman, or child who lives on these mountains.”
During one of these pauses Mona came in, and her sister, noting the wistful look in the patient brown eyes, surmised that she, too, would like to enjoy Nathalie’s youth and charm. And so, in a few moments, the girl was out in the sweet-pea garden, delighting Mona with her enthusiastic interest in the delicately tinted flowers that grew in tall, long lines on each side of the house.
Here, too, she met Jakes, an old white-haired man, bent almost double with age. He made up for her companion’s enforced silence, by showing the many different varieties of these exquisite flowers, which, on their rough stems, with their tendril-bearing leaves, peeped coyly at her, in almost every tint of their varying colors.
But the girl glanced up with quick surprise, when she heard the old man, in his quavering, broken voice, softly repeat:
“Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight;With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,And taper fingers catching at all things,To bind them all about with tiny rings.”
“Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight;With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,And taper fingers catching at all things,To bind them all about with tiny rings.”
“Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight;With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white,And taper fingers catching at all things,To bind them all about with tiny rings.”
As the old man saw Nathalie glance up at him in ill-concealed astonishment at his aptness in repeating the poetic quotation, he smiled and said, “Ah, Miss, I have planted, transplanted, trained, tended, and watched these sweet posies for many a long year as carefully as a mother-hen tends her tiny chicks. But it was my dear lady, herself, who taught me that verse, and sure I have never forgotten it, although I do not know the name of the poet-man who wrote it.”
Nathalie, with her hand in Mona’s, who seemed to love to hold it, was now led by her into the little shed, where she was soon busily employed in helping her tie the sweet peas into bunches, to be delivered the next morning to the hotels by Jakes.
From the making of bouquets she wandered into the tea-room, where Mona had hurried, on seeing a couple of young ladies come in, who wanted to buy some post-cards. While they were selecting them the deaf-and-dumb woman hastened into the kitchen for her tea-tray. Nathalie, meanwhile, waited by the little glass case in one corner of the room, carelessly studying the mountain-views that lined it, and where boxes of maple sugar, pine pillows, and various knick-knacks that Miss Whipple said she had made before her hands had become so helpless, lay scattered about for sale.
As she turned restlessly away from the case, her glance fell on the two girls, who stood examining the cards on the wall near, and she half smiled at their grotesqueness, as she called their modish style of apparel. For the girls, fair samples of the average fashionable summer girls, wore their hair plastered down on the sides of their faces in deep scallops, while their cheeks were carmine-tinted, and their noses whitewashed with powder. With their long, thin necks rising in kangaroo fashion from their turn-over, low-necked collars, and with their short-waisted belts and narrow skirts, high above their high-heeled, white boots, they reminded Nathalie of some funny French dolls that she had seen once in a museum in New York.
She was wondering why so many girls of the present day thought it improved them to make themselves soungainly and painted-looking, when one of the girls suddenly turned her face to her. A sudden exclamation, and she had stepped towards Nathalie, who was now staring at her in puzzled recognition.
“I declare, if it isn’t Nathalie Page. Why, don’t you remember me?” she shrilled excitedly. “I’m Nelda Sackett. You remember we used to be deskmates at Madame Chemidlin’s?”
“Why, Nelda, how do you do? Yes, I remember you now,” smiled Nathalie cordially. “How stupid of me not to have recognized you before. But dear me, you have changed!” And then, fearing that the girl might detect her lack of admiration for her modish appearance, she hastily added, “Oh, you have grown to be quite a young lady.”
“Young lady! Well, I should say that I was,” flashed the girl in a slightly aggrieved tone. “Why, I’m eighteen, and Justine,—you remember Justine Guertin,—she is nineteen.”
By this time Justine had joined them, and after greeting Nathalie with condescending graciousness, the three girls were soon chatting about their school-days and former friends. The girls were both very curious as to their old schoolmate’s life in her new home. Nathalie determined to hold her own and not be cowed by their ultra-fashionableness, and, despite the jarring realization of the fact that they knew of her changed circumstances since her father’s death, bravely toldabout her new life in their little home on Main Street, in the old-fashioned Long Island town. She not only dwelt with persistent minuteness on the many details of her more humble life, but told of her connection with the Girl Pioneers, the pleasure it had brought her, the fineness of its aims and purposes, and the wholesomeness of a life lived in the open, with its knowledge of bird and tree lore, and the many new avenues of knowledge it opened to a girl.
This sort of thing, however, did not seem to appeal to these New York girls, and they stared somewhat coldly, although a bit curiously, at Nathalie during her recital, and then abruptly changed the subject by telling of their own gay life in the city. Oh, and what a time they were having at the Sunset Hill House, playing golf and tennis, and dancing in the evening with gay college boys and other young men.
By this time Mona had returned, and, as Nathalie saw her trying to wheel a small tea-table into the room with both hands full, she hastily flew to her aid. And later, when she returned for some needed articles in the kitchen, the young girl arranged the teacups and saucers on the tray before the girls, as they had asked that they might be served with a cup of tea à la Russe.
The girls continued to chatter in a desultory fashion for awhile, although Nathalie, whose intuitions were keen, sensed that they had grown a little less cordial in their manner towards her. Presently, finishingtheir tea and paying for it, they nodded Nathalie a careless good-by and hurried out, somewhat to the girl’s surprise, who had naturally supposed that they would invite her to come and see them at the hotel, or express a desire to visit her at her home.
With reddened cheeks and a disappointed expression in her eyes Nathalie watched them as they crossed the road to the flagged walk opposite. It was true, she was lonely up there in her new surroundings, with no special friend to run in and chat with, as she had been accustomed to do with her friend Helen. She wanted young company, and the meeting with her former schoolmates had revived old memories and worn-out longings.
Although she did not approve of their style of dress, or their airy manners, still they were something that belonged to her former life in New York, and she would have enjoyed having a chat with them once in a while for the sake of “Auld Lang Syne.”
With the quick thought that they were not worth a pang of regret, for they had shown that they had become very snobbish, she turned away, and aimlessly wandered over to an old piano that stood on one side of the room. As if to ease the hurt feeling that still jarred her sensitiveness, she sat down and carelessly ran her fingers over the old yellow keys. A sudden call from the invalid in the adjoining room,—the doorstood open,—for Nathalie to play something, brought the girl to herself with a sudden start.
“Oh, I do not know anything to play,” she weakly pleaded, “for I am no musician.” Nathalie spoke the truth, for she not only had no special talent for music, but the little accomplishment that she had acquired in that line had been sadly neglected since she had taken up housework.
But as the invalid’s plea was insistent, and the girl did not want to be disagreeable, she again swept her hands over the keyboard, this time unconsciously falling into one of Chopin’s waltzes, something that she supposed she had forgotten. From this she wandered into a few rag-time airs, and then came snatches of old-time melodies, until finally she was playing a well-known reverie by a noted composer.
But suddenly realizing that she had heard nothing from the next room, and fearing that she had wearied Miss Whipple, she hastily arose and hurried to her side, to find her lying back in her chair with a strange restful expression on her face, but with closed eye lids, through which tears were slowly trickling.
“Oh, Miss Whipple, I should not have played so long,” exclaimed the girl remorsefully. “Perhaps I have made you feel sad.”
“No, no, my child! Your playing has brightened me up.” The invalid sat up quickly, as she shamefacedlywiped away the stray tears. “Indeed, my dear, I pay you a compliment when I cry, for if the music did not go right to my heart the tears would not have come. No, I would never regret being an old shut-in if I could hear music once in a while. But that was a lovely little thing you played last; it is one of my favorites.”
“Oh, I must try to get Janet to come down and play for you,” cried Nathalie with a relieved sigh, “for she is arealmusician, and plays for us every evening as we sit on the veranda in the moonlight. But it is getting late and I must go, for I have supper to get. When my boys come, perhaps I shall have more time, for, you know, I am going to put them through their paces and teach them to be helpful.”
After a hasty good-by, Nathalie was hurrying across the road, while waving her hand to the sweet, patient face smiling at her from the window. Some twenty minutes later she arrived at Seven Pillars, her eyes happily aglow, as she told her mother of the readings to be, to help lighten the burdens of her new friend, the shut-in.
Several days later Nathalie, with her mother, walked slowly down the garden-path, with its border of oldtime hollyhocks and peonies and white stones, to the gate-posts. A step or two, and they stood before the door of the little red house, as the girl, with pleased eyes, cried, “Well, mother, she’s in, for I saw hersitting at the window as we came up the path, so we can get this ordeal over.”
But unfortunately she reckoned without her host, for although they knocked and knocked, Nathalie even pounding on the door with her parasol-handle, for she had planned to take a walk after the call, no one came to the door. After a time she peered at the window, but some one had drawn the shades down so that nothing was to be seen.
“Mother, she isso angryshe just won’t let us in,” cried the young caller with flushed cheeks. “Oh, I think she must be a very disagreeable old lady, and I do not think there is any use in trying to be nice to her.”
Mrs. Page had evidently come to the same conclusion, so they slowly turned and retraced their steps back to the house, and in a short space she was seated on the veranda with her darning, as Nathalie started for a walk. As she passed the red house, and caught sight of the silver-haired old lady knitting at the window she quickly turned her head away, determined to ignore her in the future. “And so this is the end of our acquaintance with our next-door neighbor,” she mused ruefully, as she passed on down the road. “Well, it certainly did not prove very progressive. Of course I don’t really care,—she’s just an old lady,—but still I do wish Cynthia Loretto had stayed up in her old studio, and not made trouble for us by her unkind ways.”
CHAPTER XITHE RIDE THROUGH THE NOTCH
Notwithstanding that the inmates of Seven Pillars were neighbored by a disagreeable old lady, as Nathalie had mentally dubbed the occupant of the red house, the time passed pleasantly to the girl, although she had days when she longed to see Helen, to open her heart to her in confidential mood. But the lonesomeness gradually lessened, occupied as she was with her manifold household cares, her exploring trips, her visits to the Sweet-Pea ladies, and the sometime prowl for the mysteriousIt. To her satisfaction she soon found that by hurrying a little over her morning tasks, she not only had time to read to her friend, and to help Mona at her work, but that she did not have to miss her walks.
She finally succeeded in getting Janet to go with her to the tea-house, and that volatile young woman was so won by the charming personality of the invalid, and the sweet patience of Mona, that she not only played during her call, but made arrangements to come down twice a week and give them a musical afternoon, to the great joy of the invalid.
On one of these days a party of ladies from the Hotel Look-off, out for an afternoon constitutional, dropped in for a rest and a cup of tea. They were so pleased that they told others about these musical afternoons, so it soon became quite the fashionable thing to drop in at the Sweet-Pea Tea-House, especially on Wednesdays and Saturdays. On these days a score of ladies, old and young, could frequently be seen having a social chat over the teacups, while listening to some popular ragtime air, or a classic from one of the old composers, while knitting for the soldiers.
There had been one unpleasant occurrence that had jarred Nathalie extremely, and that was that Cynthia Loretto, when she learned of the Sweet-Pea ladies and the musical afternoons, was quite insistent that Blue Robin take some of her paintings and etchings down, and hang them up so that they could be seen, in the hope of making a sale.
Nathalie, at first, had refused to accede to this request, and then she began to argue with her conscience, giving for her refusal many reasons that only existed in her imagination. Finally, Mrs. Page, with her motherly intuition, perceiving that her daughter was at war with her better self, one day led the conversation to the subject, by saying that she thought it was almost pathetic the way Cynthia yearned to make money so she could marry Mr. Buddie.
“You must remember, daughter,” she persuaded,after listening to the girl’s objections in regard to the paintings, “that even if you are not attracted to Cynthia, she has feelings, hopes, and disappointments as well as you. Some day, perhaps, you may be old and alone in the world with your living to earn, and will be almost willing to make a bore of yourself if you can only earn a little money so as to give yourself some pleasure.” Nathalie made no reply, but somehow she began to question if she were really trying to live up to her motto to be helpful and kind, or was it just amake-believething with her, as she called it. The next day she reluctantly broached the subject to Miss Whipple, and, to her surprise, found that she would be very pleased to have the paintings and etchings on the wall. “The room really needs papering,” the lady explained, “and they will help to hide such disfigurements as stains and tack-holes on the faded paper.” This conclusion settled the matter very satisfactorily to Cynthia, and made Nathalie rejoice that she had, after all, come out conqueror in her fight with self.
The girl had begun to wonder why she did not hear from Mrs. Van Vorst as to when her boys were coming, when a letter arrived. To her great joy it announced that they would be due at the Sugar Hill station the following Saturday, as they would leave New York in the White Mountain express, probably reaching their destination about seven in the evening.
Nathalie was somewhat disappointed that the boys were not to go on to the Littleton station, where Mr. Banker had planned to meet them. But alas, she could not ask him to come all the way over to the Sugar Hill station, and then, too, she knew that he and his wife generally took little outings through the mountains every week-end.
Deeply perplexed, she pondered over the matter with no little anxiety, and then suddenly it came to her that she would see if Miss Whipple would not let her hire her machine, and then go for the boys herself. She had learned to know the mountain roads in riding with Jakes when he went to the different hotels to deliver the sweet peas. He had often let her drive, as she had previously learned to handle a car from her many rides with Grace, and had even secured a license through the insistence of her friend.
Hurrying through her work, she hastened down to the tea-house, where she found the two ladies in a state of unusual excitement, for Jakes, Miss Whipple explained, was quite ill, and they were at a loss as to how they were to get their flowers to the various hotels the following day. And the Profile House had sent in a special order, for there was to be some kind of a festivity there that evening, and they wanted the bunches of sweet peas for prizes.
“Oh, don’t worry over that,” cried the girl quickly, as she perceived their distress, “for I can deliver theflowers for you. I can drive and I know the roads, for I have been about so much with Jakes and Mr. Banker.”
After some little hesitation the two ladies consented that Nathalie should deliver the flowers, insisting, however, in return for her kindness to them, that she should have the car for her own use in the afternoon, to drive to the station for the boys.
To Nathalie it was quite a new experience, to get up in the cool gray of early dawn, dress hurriedly, swallow a hasty breakfast,—her mother was to act as housekeeper for the day,—and then hurry down to the tea-house. It did not take her long to load the car with its flowery burden, and then she was speeding through Sugar Hill village, and on to the Long Green Path, as she called the road through the woods that led to Seven Pillars and Franconia. The air was so cool from the moisture of the night dew that still lay in glistening gems and silvery cobwebs on the hilly greens, the leaves, ferns, and wild flowers, and bracing from the ozone of the mountain breezes that heralded the new-born day, that the girl’s pulses throbbed with buoyant exhilaration.
There was a moment’s stop at Seven Pillars for Janet, who had consented to accompany her, and then they were off, Nathalie happily waving her hand to Sam as he came through the pasture with the cows. A few moments later they were whirling past RoslinwoodFarm, with its big white barn, and then past a long, low, white-gabled, red-chimneyed building, with the old-time hostelry sign, “Peckett’s on Sugar Hill,” swinging from its porte-cochère, with its flower-garden, riotous with many-colored blooms, across the road, almost under the shadow of Garnet’s sloping meadow.
Now they were flying down the long sloping hill, around the tiny white schoolhouse at the cross-roads, and then they were passing Garnet’s grassy hillside, as it nodded a greeting to its taller fellows, the Franconia Range, that towered on the girls’ right. Its verdant meadows were squared with cobble-stone ledges, and awave with the glossy plumage of stately trees, as it rose upward from the road, until its slope was lost in a tangle of feathery treetops which crowned its summit like a cap of green.
“The Echoes,” a homey little hotel nestling at the base of the green hill, with its square white tower, peeped picturesquely from the protecting sweep of graceful willows and silvery poplars. Here they had a magnificent view of the mountains as they rose from their mists of gray, their rugged crests, spires, and domes sharply outlined against a glorious riot of sunrise color.
Lafayette, the king of the range, towered his grizzly head in blue-hazed grandeur far upward, standing like some giant up from the mists that covered thevalleys below like a silver lake, while Lincoln’s rounded summit, with its twin slides, was almost hidden by trailing wreaths of pearly gray. The gaps between the Sleeping Infant, sharp-peaked Garfield, the North and South Twins, and the Sleeping Giant, were so thickly silvered with mist that the peaks of these mountains looked like islets of green on a shimmering gray sea, with their tops scarfed with pink and violet streaks, that floated mistily against the golden splendor, reflected from the crimson-hued ball in the east.
Directly before them rose the undulating slope of Breakneck Hill, bowing in gentle humility to the more rugged beauty of the lofty range opposite, while between the widening gap, far in the distance, loomed the Presidential Range, their tops white-wreathed with cloud. Mount Washington, with majestic stateliness, soared far above his comrades, while the smaller mountains below and on the left, scattered here and there through the cleft between the two ranges, gleamed gray, purple, and pink, as they peered at them from their hoods of gray.
It was a swift whirl down the half-mile hill, and then they were passing through the little mountain village of Franconia, with its white cottages, its stone sidewalks, its beautiful Gale River, with its bush-fringed banks and little stone tower, surrounded by level stretches of green pasture-land, merging into the low foothills that skirted the higher range. It was awonderful ride through that five-mile Notch, in the glint of the rose-tipped sunlight, with the ever-changing flash from one mountain-picture to another, each one gripping you with the witchery of the illusive charm of Nature in her varying moods, now frolicsome, gay, or blithe, or strangely stilled in the grandeur of a sunrise calm.
As the girl came down the steps of the Profile House, her first stopping-place, she paused a moment and peered up at Eagle Cliff, a precipitous wall of rock opposite, rising to the height of fifteen hundred feet above the road. It was thickly set with evergreens, climbing birches, maples, and spruces, and intermingled with patches of a softer green, from where purple-tinted bits of rock, like giant’s eyes, looked down upon the wayfarers that traversed the road beneath.
Nathalie had heard that the cliff had received its name from the “Arabs of the air,” which at one time had lodged in its airy heights. But evidently they had long since departed, and after a disappointed glance, as her eyes swept the tall steeps, she rejoined Janet in the car, and was soon guiding it through the green-wooded road to her next halting-place, some few miles beyond.
This was the Flume House, a long, low, yellow building, grouped about with mountain crags,—the gateway to the Flume, a remarkable fissure in Liberty Mountain, over fifty feet deep, and several hundredlong, where an ice-cold cascade dashed with snowy spray, to flow in more quiet mood over ledges of granite rocks between perpendicular walls.
After leaving their flowers at the office the girls started on their homeward way. The distance was soon traversed as they chattered of the scene before them, sometimes hushed into stillness by the sudden surprise of some wonderful trick of Nature as they flew swiftly past.
As they reached the little schoolhouse at the crossroads Janet descended from the car to walk up the hill to the house, while Nathalie continued on her way. She had soon passed the artist’s bungalow, with its studio, on her left, and Hildreth’s maple-sugar farm, with its big barn, coming out shortly at the little red Episcopal church, with the deserted, falling-to-pieces hotel, the Marimonte, just beyond on a knoll.
It did not take her long to ascend the long hilly slope to the Hotel Look-off, where a basket of sweet peas were left, and then she had swung her car around and was speeding down the declivity to the Sunset Hill House, where she again brought her car to a halt.
As she neared the big entrance-door, heavily burdened with her flowers, she came face to face with her two New York friends, who were sauntering carelessly from the office, evidently having lingered over a late breakfast. As the girl sighted the familiar faces she forgot their apparent slight of a few days beforeand nodded pleasantly, her cheeks dimpling with pleasure. But, to her surprise, a rigid stare was their only response to her greeting, and, with a sudden start of shocked dismay, the girl hastened past them into the office, where she was relieved of her flowers by one of the bell-boys.
Smarting from the rankle of the insult, but still dazed at the suddenness of it, she walked slowly down to the car and mechanically stepped into it. As she glided down the road she sat stiff and erect, her mind apparently on the steering-wheel, although in reality her senses were in a maze of dumb bewilderment.
A half-hour later, after running the car into the stable, for she was to use it again later, she made her way into the house, up to her room, and to her closet. Here, with her face buried in the blackness of hanging skirts and coats, she stood silently for a few moments, trying to argue herself out of the hurt feeling that would not be downed.
“Oh, what a little ninny I am,” she exclaimed at last. “What do I careif they did give me the ‘go by,’ as Dick says.” She gave a half laugh, that quickly merged into a long sigh as the thought came, that, after all, the girls had not really hurt her as much as they had hurt themselves. “No, I will not allow myself,” she closed her mouth determinedly, “to be so small as to let it hurt me any more.”
She had a very restful afternoon, with a good longnap, and a nice time reading out in the hammock, and then, a little before six, she set out on her ride to the station in a tense state of expectancy, for she was anxious to see her Liberty boys, as she had elected to call them.
The drive was a delightful one after the burden and heat of the day, and she bowled swiftly along, slackening her speed every now and then to admire an unusually fine landscape view, or the golden, violet-tinted clouds that drifted up from the west. She had just turned into her last lap, as she called it, for she knew that she must be very near the station, when, with a sudden skidding motion, her car came to a standstill. She got out and cranked it, but although there was plenty of gasoline still on hand, it refused to go. She poked about, here and there, to see what had caused the stoppage, but although she cleaned out her carburetor and saw that her spark-plugs were all right, she failed to discover what was wrong. Her heart began to beat feverishly, for she was well aware that, although she could drive a car, in reality she knew little about its mechanism, and therefore could not remedy any very serious trouble. She got down and crawled under the car, to examine first one part and then another, but alas! it was exasperatingly useless, for she could see nothing wrong, and she finally crawled out again, covered with dust and grime. At this moment she heard the far-distant whistle of anoncoming locomotive, realizing with a pang of despair, that it was the White Mountain express, and that she would not be at the station to meet the boys.
Suddenly her face gleamed hopefully, for at that moment she heard the near hum of an automobile, and the next second saw it whirl around the curve in the road. “Oh, perhaps it will be a man who can help me,” quickly flashed through her mind, as she peered intently at the nearing car. And then she almost laughed aloud from sheer joy, for, yes, the car was driven by a man, who, with one quick glance at the girl’s flushed face, and the stranded vehicle, brought his car to a standstill and jumped quickly out.
As the man came towards the girl, who had begun to pleadingly explain her mishap, and the hurry she was in, Nathalie caught her breath with a startled gasp, as she suddenly was made aware that he was the bold-eyed man who had accosted her in the post-office a week or so before, and who had spoken to her near the cemetery. But she was so distressed and fearful that she would miss the boys—poor little things, what would they do if there was no one there to meet them!—that this fact was submerged in the greatness of her need.
In a moment or so she had regained her customary poise, as the young man, after a cursory glance over the machine, discovered what was wrong. Ah, it was a short-circuit. With a wrench he took from hispocket, he soon adjusted the difficulty, and then turned smilingly towards the girl, and with another of his bold stares assured her that her car was all right.
Nathalie involuntarily stepped back, and then, half ashamed of her timidity when the man had been so kind, cried hastily: “Oh, I am so much obliged to you! I do not know what I should have done, if you had not come along. Thank you, very much,” she ended abruptly, then, pleading that she must hurry, she cranked her car, and, with a little stiff bow, stepped into it, and a moment later was whirling down the road.
But she had not gotten rid of her helper as quickly as she thought, for it was only a second, as it seemed to her, when, on turning her head as she heard the throb of a machine in her rear, she saw, with a sudden qualm of fear, that the man was following her. “Oh why does he do that?” she thought in nervous apprehension. “Yes, he must be following me,” she mentally decided, “for he was going in the opposite direction when I hailed him.”
But sensibly determining to pay no attention to him, she kept on her way, although an aggravating dread assailed her that she could not account for, that the man might waylay, and try to rob her, the bold glance of his eyes having filled her with a feeling of distrust.
Ah, she was at the station. As she glided up to thelittle wooden platform she peered anxiously around, but no one was in sight. Bringing her car to a halt, she jumped hastily out and scurried around to the other side of the platform, only to see the ticket-agent locking up the waiting-room, as he prepared to depart on his nightly journey home, as the station was only open for certain trains.
“Did you see any little boys get off the White Mountain express?” inquired the girl breathlessly.
“Why, yes,” replied the man, as he slipped the door-key into his pocket, “I saw three,—no, four boys. They waited around here for some time, and then they went away. They looked like foreigners; one little chap must have been an Italian, for he carried a violin under his arm, and wore a queer embroidered vest.”
“Did you notice in what direction they went?” cried the girl, while a chilled feeling swept over her as to the fate of the boys. Oh, suppose they should get lost in those mountain woods!
No, the man had not noticed, and Nathalie with a dejected attitude, turned away, nervously wondering what to do, and where to look. Well, she must do something, for those boys must have been the ones Mrs. Van Vorst had sent to her. Once more she was in her car, and then, in sudden desperation, she determined to try every road in succession,—for there were several leading from the station,—until she foundthem, for surely they could not have gone very far, as they were walking. Buoyed with this thought, she plunged into the graying shadows of the road nearest to her, dimly conscious that the bold-eyed man in the automobile, who had been circling around the little square of green in front of the station, was close behind her.