From the LadyHelen Poleto the Countess ofEdgeandRoss.
From the LadyHelen Poleto the Countess ofEdgeandRoss.
Boulder Lake,July 10th
DO not imagine, Polly, that I have given up my solitary ramblings in the forest. I enjoy them more than ever; and theirsoundlessnessafter the eternal babble which pervades the lake—I am afraid I am not grateful for all the kind attentions I receive—is simply delicious. Leaves, green leaves everywhere, rioting to my knees and hanging in the air. You never notice the slender branches, only the delicate fairy curtain they hang between the dark stems of the trees. And the ferns, and the ground pine, and the green stars of that moss that covers ground and rock, and the rich velvet moss, shading from a dark green to one that is almost white, that covers the fallen trees, and the incomparable solitude. Best of all I have discovered a gorge, sloping gently on one side, the other a huge boulder covered with moss; in the bottom of the gorge a brook pushing its tortuous way over rocks; and alders and ferns close to the banks. Overhead there is a rift of sky, and the sunlight flickers aboutgenerously, and the woods I have come through look so dark and impenetrable. There is a fine dry rock with the alders meeting like an arbour above it, and I sit there by the hour and wonder why the forest ever made me feel over-civilised. Beside these people I feel a pure child of Nature. They have reached a pitch of correctness I never can hope to attain. They never use slang, they punctuate their sentences so beautifully, they would not drop a final g in our careless fashion for worlds; they pronounce all their syllables so distinctly! Oh, this is “culture,” Polly mine. If poor dear Matthew Arnold could only come back and live among them! Perhaps he does in spirit and that is his idea of Heaven. (It would be mine of Hell). And we have so misjudged the Americans, believing them to be crass and exaggerated. I assure you there is nothing exaggerated about the true aristocrats except their virtues; those are superlative, but in all other things they aim at simple perfection only, and from their enunciation to their boots—they have the dearest little feet—I can tell you, Polly, they have attained it. I feel so crude—andso happy. I come out here to my brook—I am writing to you with its baby roar and lap in my ears—and I say all sorts of dreadful things quite loud. I forget that I ever have sizzled in London drawing-rooms, proud and happy in my court and interested in nothing in life but gowns and conquests. I forget the whole atmosphere of flirtation and intrigue and gay recklessness and heartbreak. I can tell you, Polly, that when you have stood as close to death as I have done during the last two years, with your heart-strings on the rack and the tears never far from your eyes, you are well prepared to retreat into the arms of Nature and cower there. I have no desire left to return to the world, and if Bertie can live comfortably here I should be glad and happy to remain for an indefinite number of years. My prince can find me here as well as anywhere. He is not Mr. Rogers, charming as he is. He never could stir up my great emotions—and I have them! I wonder if these people ever have suffered as I have, or if they ever have loved passionately? I cannot imagine it. They are too well-regulated, and thatdiscontent which gently agitates them is merely the result of living in a country where nothing is unattainable, and, consequently, where ambition never sleeps, even when it takes no form.
I have met most of the men now and like some of them rather well. At least they talk less than the women and do not seem to fancy themselves so much. They are quite content to be just men and do the sensible things every-day men usually do without bothering about it. They say much prettier things to one than our men do, and I like it, but how much they mean I am not prepared to say. They are not in the least exaggerated or silly in their admiration, like a Frenchman or a Spaniard—will you ever forget that experience in Madrid?—for their common sense and their sense of humour never fail them. And they are all clever—no doubt of that!—but somehow their cleverness does not annoy one as the women’s does. Perhaps it is because they have not had time for the excessive “culture” of the women. Mr. Hammond, for instance, has not attempted to read everything in every language ever written, but he can talk sensiblyabout most things, particularly the affairs of the world. Mr. Chenoweth leaves Mrs. Chenoweth to blow his horn, and never mentions “shop;” but he does look so dyspeptic, poor man, and he has not Mr. Hammond’s pleasant air of repose. He likes to play with his children, however, and I love him for that.
Then there is an “author” who writes the poorest short stories I ever read—I have only a magazine knowledge of his work—but he belongs to the “set.” Mr. Chenoweth is his intimate friend and his wealth enables him to give his chosen circle such entertainment as quite reconciles them to the poverty of his literary dower. Still, I cannot quite see why the public should be inflicted with him. He is quite bright to talk to, a very agreeable dinner companion, I fancy. I should like him rather if he were more honest with himself—and did not make epigrams.
Take them all in all they are as distinguished-looking—or should I have said “refined?”—as they feel it their duty to be, and quite as agreeable as I would have them—which is more to the point.
There is a Mr. Nugent, a guest, at the Club House, of Mr. Rogers, who rather interests me the most. I think on the whole I must tell you a little experience. He is about forty and a “brilliantly successful” lawyer. He has argued famous cases before the Supreme Court, amassed a fortune, and his admirers—not this set—want him to go into politics. He is very striking in appearance, tall, thin, nervous, with a lean, clever, hard, mobile face, an eye that burns and penetrates, a mouth that looks as if it had conquered everything but his passions, and a quick nervous grip of the hand which suggests that what he does he does quickly and wastes no time arguing about. Next to Mr. Rogers Bertie likes him better than any one up here, and I must confess he rather fascinates me. I am wicked enough to want to see a man like that go off his head about me. But I fancy I’d have my hands full if he ever did let go. Mr. Rogers—he is getting rather devoted, my dear—I always could manage, because he would be so afraid of making himself ridiculous that he hardly would allow his voice to tremble unless I almost proposedto him. He burst out one day: “You white English rose!” I fear I used my eyelashes rather wickedly, and my upper lip, for he drew a step nearer and the colour came into his grey face. Then I felt my eyes twinkle and he recovered himself in a manner that would have done credit to a woman of the world in her fourteenth flirtation; men are usually so clumsy about these things; he smiled quickly and added in the light tone of any man complimenting any woman: “You are really unique here, you know, Lady Helen. Perhaps lily is rather your prototype in the floral world than rose. You make my countrywomen seem like hot-house flowers—if there were a floral heaven they would all be beautiful orchids in the next world.”
But to return to Mr. Nugent. One warm evening when he was calling on us and we were sitting on the piazza I asked him if he intended to go into politics. It is very difficult to make him talk of anything consecutively, by the way, and that makes him resemble us in one particular, at least. There are no semi-colons inhisconversation, mostly dashes.
“I have not made up my mind, Lady Helen. It is an alluring prospect in one way, but I should be obliged to give up—those are wonderful clouds.”
They were, Polly. Above the mountain behind the Club House were two enormous masses of cloud that looked like colossal blue dishes piled to the heavens with whipped cream. They were almost alike and you cannot imagine anything more perfect than that cream whipped into form by a giant hand. I thought out loud and Mr. Nugent said hastily:
“Oh, call it sea foam, not cream.”
“But sea foam looks like yeast,” I objected. “I don’t think you are a bit more poetical than I am.”
He laughed heartily (these Americans can flatter so with their laugh). “I am quite discomfited,” he said, “and I can only add that I have far more reason to be poetical than yourself.”
“Very neat,” said Bertie. I can imagine my beloved brother thinking it worth while to say the charming things these men do.
“Now tell me some more of your politics,” I persisted. “Mr. Rogers thinks politics are not respectable, but if the stables can be cleaned in one country they can in another.”
“Exactly, but if I went in for cleaning, in other words for reform—I should sacrifice a great deal. I am lawyer for one of the greatest Trusts in the United States, and as I could not consistently as a reformer—in the present exaggerated state of public opinion—remain in such a position,—that would mean the sacrifice of a large slice of my income.”
“I must say I admire your frankness, buthowcan you be counsel for a Trust?”
“Why not?—so long as I have not taken a stand.”
“How can an honest lawyer work for dishonest men?”
“The word dishonest, dear Lady Helen, is usually applied to Trusts by men who are not in them. Trusts are an evolution, nothing more, a combination effected that some may live rather than that all shall die. I am not going into sordiddetails, but I will add that the question never arose that did not have two sides, and that one side is as entitled to able legal counsel as the other. There is no reason in the world why this particular Trust, which is open and above board, should not have the best it can pay for, and as it has done me the honour to select me, I in return have given it the very best of my ability—which should salve any conscience. I feel the same way when defending a man against the combined prejudices of the community. He is entitled to the best defence he can command, and being a human being, is as worthy of it as his more approved opponent.”
This was the longest speech I had ever heard him make, and I understood it as a defence of himself out of deference to me. So, I smiled at him in appreciation of the compliment, but replied:
“Still, I don’t see why you value the money more than the public honour you might win.”
“Money is a very good thing, Lady Helen, to a man with expensive tastes and a passion for travelling. If I went into politics I should not touch its money bags, for political money is invariablydirty; moreover, I should be obliged to sacrifice more or less of my general practice—and the result would be that I should be a comparatively poor man once more.”
“Are you self-made?” I asked eagerly.
Once more he laughed heartily, and his remarkable eyes expressed that I might say anything I chose.
“In a way, yes, in another, no. My father was a prominent lawyer, but given to speculation in Wall Street.—He left little or nothing—I went into his office as soon as I left college—and although I was helped in the beginning I have made my own way—Ah! we are going to have a thunder-storm. Not in our whipped cream. That has been eaten by the gods. This cloud is full of energy and would interfere with the most immortal digestion. May I sit it out, or must I run?”
“Stay,” said Bertie quickly, “I can’t sleep in that infernal racket. Have some Scotch whiskey? Do you take it neat, or with soda? Nell, ring the bell, that’s a good girl.”
They refreshed themselves, and then we concludedto watch the storm till the rain came. The great cloud was a long time approaching and the thunder only a distant angry rumble. But the lightning? It never seemed to play on the surface, but leapt constantly from the deep caverns of the purple cloud, flashing into relief tortuous convolutions that looked heavy and flat when the fire played elsewhere. Sometimes it was only that volcanic flame, at other times the cloud seemed torn asunder, and down the rift ran the zig-zag thunder bolt. Now and again the forked lightning assumed strange shapes, like the fiery skeleton of a man’s hand or of a gigantic leaf. Sometimes it leaped from peak to peak of that moving mountain, then suddenly darted hissing down a gorge as if in search of prey. What nervous impatient terrible energy, and what a tyrannical perversion of beauty!
I suddenly became aware that Mr. Nugent was watching me instead of the storm, and as I felt embarrassed I told him hurriedly what I had been thinking. Bertie had gone inside, as the lightning hurt his eyes.
“In a way that thunder cloud reminds me of you,” I added, rather naughtily. “I don’t mean that you are beautiful, but you seem full of that same nervous energy and you suggest that you might direct it rather cruelly.”
“I don’t think I should strike at random,” he replied, still with his eyes on my face. “And at present I am in far more danger of being hit first.”
It seemed to me that I felt something vibrate. Perhaps it was only the electricity in the air. At all events, I replied as placidly as if my breath had not shortened. “One of the rules of prize-fighting is to strike first, and the weaker should always keep that in mind, don’t you think so?”
“Will you kindly tell me whom you consider the weaker?”
“Well—the woman—naturally.”
“I should sleep much easier if I thought you did not know your power.”
“Oh, sometimes my sex——”
“I am not talking of your sex but yourself.”
The lightning flashed just then and I sawmore than his eyes. His whole face was eager and set. I could not help going a little further.
“I used to fancy I had some power over men—at least a good many seemed to love me—but during the last two years I have got out of practice rather. Positively I have not had the tiniest flirtation.”
“No wonder you are so distractingly complete—I am afraid your life has been a sad one these two years,” he added hurriedly, and, actually, his nervous peremptory voice softened. “Tell me something of it—But—pardon me—let me lift your shawl. The wind is coming and it will be very strong.” He folded the shawl about me, and at the same time I heard Agatha reading to Bertie so I felt off duty for the present. And, Polly, I actually talked to him as I never talked to any but the oldest and dearest friend before. But he drew it out of me. I could no more resist that determined concentrated force beside me in the dark than I could push the electric carnival over the mountain. The man seemed magnetism incarnate, and every time the lightning flashedacross his face I could see that sympathy which comes not from a soft heart but an intense personal interest. But perhaps that interest is the most highly prized of all by women, and whatever the mainspring, it was sweet to me, after all these months of terrible anxiety and suffering. I never talk things over with Agatha; I have avoided exchanging a glance of alarm with her; that would be too dreadful; and until now I never have felt sufficiently free from care to become interested enough in any one for confidences. But—and I am not the least bit in love with him, Polly—I felt that I could talk to this man all night. The thunder cloud moved down the lake, carrying its rain with it, and I sat there for an hour and talked to him, while Bertie slept on a sofa just beyond the open window and Agatha read on.
“I don’t think you like listening,” I said breaking off abruptly. “I don’t believe you ever listened so long to any one before.”
“That is quite true. I am not a patient man and I am usually thinking about several things atonce—But—I am not going to pay you any idle compliments. I will only say that I have great powers of realisation and that I have absolutely understood all you have felt and suffered during the last two years. I have felt it all so keenly that I wish I could do something to help you. Iamgoing to be your friend,” he added in his quick peremptory tones. “I will be your best friend in this country which must be so strange to you. I don’t care a hang about Rogers’ rights of priority. He isn’t capable of understanding you as I do.”
He took my hand suddenly in his warm magnetic clasp, and I had an odd feeling that he never intended to let it go. “This is only by way of pledging friendship,” he said. “I am not going to disturb you by making love to you—not yet. I make no promises for the future. You have roused and bewildered and enthralled me. Whether it is love or not I don’t know. Nor do I know what I can rouse in you. There is heaven and madness for some man. I am sure of that—but I—well, let all that go for the present. In the meantime I am your friend, remember that, and Rogers is to take a back seat.”
I will admit, Polly, that I lay awake a long time that night thinking of him and reliving that peculiar sense of being encircled with warm magnetism. After all, I suppose that what we women want more than anything else is sympathy and a feeling of belonging to some one exclusively. And when a man has the passion to stir and warm and blind us how easily we can persuade ourselves that we are in love. But thegrande passion—that is another thing. Of course you are in the throes of that and I rather envy you. Good night.
Helen.