From the LadyHelen Poleto the Countess ofEdgeandRoss.
From the LadyHelen Poleto the Countess ofEdgeandRoss.
Chipmunk Lake,August 19th
Dearest Polly:
IT is eleven o’clockP. M., and I have been in bed and asleep since half-after seven. I foresee myself wide-awake for two hours and giving you an account of the last two days. How flat that sounds—but wait! And otherwise you might never hear of them, for I return to Boulder Lake to-morrow, and in this country events are so quickly crowded into the past.
I wrote you—did I not?—that the subject of a camping expedition had been mooted more than once, but put off from time to time on account of threatening weather and various other causes. I longed to go; “camping out” in the “Adirondack wilderness” being pitched upon a most adventurous and romantic note; and finally I begged Mr. Nugent to arrange it. He went “straight at it” in the energetic American way, and in two hours it was all arranged: Opp drove out in the buckboard for another guide, and Mrs. Opp wasmaking so many good things at once that all the other cooks had to come over to help her. Then Mr. Nugent and Mr. Van Worden packed the big pack-baskets, and everybody was ready to start at nine o’clock the day before yesterday.
The original plan was that all of us should go, but the actual party were Mr. and Mrs. Meredith Jones, Miss Page, Myself, Mr. Nugent, Mr. Latimer, and Mr. Van Worden. The others “backed out” on one excuse or another, and happy it was for them and us that they did.
This colony is only two years old, and, as it happened, none of the men ever had camped out in this part of the Adirondacks before, and as they found their lake and surroundings quite sufficient there was not a tent on the place. However—and the expedition was avowedly got up for my benefit—I insisted that I wanted a genuine rough camping experience, and we all took Opp’s word for it that he knew the very spot—where there was fishing, a clearing, and an “open camp,” erected by other wood-loving spirits. It is true he grinned as he assured me that I would geta good taste of the “genuine article,” but I suspected nothing. What imagination, indeed, would be equal to it!
Mrs. Coward kissed me good-bye quite affectionately, for she expected to “go out” before I returned, and even Mrs. Earle stood on the shore in the little spruce grove and waved her handkerchief with the others as we rowed down the lake.
It was one of those crystal mornings when life seems the divine thing of those imaginings of ours when we have lost for a little the links that hold them to facts. I never felt happier, I was almost excited. It seemed such a delightful thing to float off into the unknown like that, to go in search of adventures, with the certainty that six strong men, one of them your devoted slave, would take the best of care of you. It was all so undiscovered—that rough mountain world beyond the lake—so unimaginable—well, I know all about it now.
We were a very picturesque party, my dear. The men wore white sweaters, corduroy breeches,and top boots. I wore hunter’s green, a short skirt of covert cloth just above my boot tops, a linen blouse the same shade and a little bolero to protect my back and arms from the mosquitoes. Miss Page, who is very dark, wore a bright red skirt and cap and a red and white striped “shirt waist” with a red tie. Mr. Nugent said she looked exactly like a “stick of peppermint candy,” and I am sure I shall recognise that indigestible the first time I enter a “candy store.” Mrs. Meredith Jones, who has golden hair and blue eyes, wore a dark blue skirt and cap and the inevitable “shirt waist”; but hers was striped with blue; and the jauntiest little cape hung from her shoulders. Of course we all wore canvas leggins as a further protection from the mosquitoes, which are the least of Adirondack charms.
Well, the moment we stepped on shore our troubles began. We were landed on to a big slippery stone, then handed across several others and a few rotten logs into a swamp. Before us was an impenetrable thicket as high as our heads and wet with dew. We stood staring at it until the guideshad shouldered their packs and picked their way over rocks and logs to take the lead.
“That’s all right,” said Opp, “there ain’t bin any one in here for two years and the road’s growed over, but it’ll be all right in about a mile. Good trail then. We’ll go first and break the road. Wimmin folks’d better bring up in the rear.”
So we started; crashing through the wet bushes over the wetter ground until we came to a narrow rocky trail sidling along the inlet. This is a gentle stream in a wild setting. Its rocks are so many and so big that the wonder is the water can crawl over them, and the mountain beside the path is as precipitous as a cliff. None of us paid much attention to the beauties of Nature; we did not dare take our eyes off the path, which had given way in places and was swampy in others. Where it was safe it was rocky. Nor could the men help us much; the trail was too narrow. Single file was a necessity, but Mr. Nugent was just behind me and gave me occasional directions, besides surrounding me, as usual, with an atmosphere of protection. So, slipping, and bending and clutching at trees, wepicked our way along until at last the trail turned up hill, and if no less rough was free of the worst element of danger. In another half hour we had passed a lumber camp and were on a level trail along the crest of the mountain. The forest was more open here, so much “lumbering” had been done, but only the spruce were gone—not all of those—and high on one side and down in a valley on the other was the beautiful leafy forest, full of the resinous odor of spruce gum, the spaces rather a welcome change after the forest densities of the last two months. And our procession was very picturesque. The guides with their big pack-baskets strapped to their shoulders were in the lead, almost trotting, that they might outdistance us and have an occasional rest. All our men carried small packs and strode along looking very supple and free, with the exception of poor Mr. Van Worden who is rather stout and must have felt the irksomeness of his pack. But he was enjoying himself, no doubt of that; and indeed, so were we all. Mr. Latimer, who had looked a little conscience-stricken as he said good-bye toMrs. Van Worden, whistled as gaily as a school-boy on a runaway lark. And it was so cool and fresh in the woods, who wouldn’t be happy? Not that there was one minute of easy walking—nor an opportunity for sentiment. When we followed the narrow trail through the brush we had to stoop and overlook every inch before we put a foot down. When we were on the long stretches of corduroy, built by the lumbermen to haul their logs over, Mr. Nugent held my hand, but he might have been his ghost for all the impression he made on me, so many were the holes and so rotten some of the logs. Conversation was impossible. We exchanged an occasional remark, but we were all too intent on avoiding sprained ankles and broken tendons—you cannot imagine the painfulness of walking too long on log roads—to be interested in any one but ourselves.
There were four hours of this, and good a walker as I am I was beginning to feel tired, when Opp, who had gone for ahead, came in sight again, looking sheepish, rather.
“Be gosh!” he remarked to Mr. Van Wordenas we met, “here’s a fine lay out. One of the camps is burned. Them last campers done it, I reckon. I seen ’em go round by way of Spruce Lake.”
I heard Mr. Van Worden swear softly under his breath, and saw an expression of blank dismay on Mr. Nugent’s face. Mr. Latimer burst into a peal of boyish laughter. But Mr. Meredith Jones said sharply,
“Well let’s go on and cook dinner. That is all that concerns us now. We can decide what to do later.”
“Are we there?” I asked, hopefully, for I longed to give my poor bruised feet a rest.
“Yes’m,” said Opp, “we’re there, all right.”
And in a moment, Polly, we “were there.”
Have you wasted any time, my dear, imagining what an “open camp” is like? I hope not, for it were a waste of good mental energy. The briefest description will fit it. Three sides and a sloping roof, all of bark. The front “open” in the exactest interpretation of the word. Inside—nothing. Twelve feet long and not quite the depth of Mr. Meredith Jones, who is six feet two.
This mansion stood on the edge of a clearing, across which lay a big felled tree. Against this we immediately all sat down in a row. Beyond was a charred ruin and near the log a rude table. Does that sound romantic? I wish you could have seen it. But we all laughed and were happy, and we women, even then, did not realise the true inwardness of the situation. The forest, the beautiful forest, rose on three sides of us; beyond a stream, concealed by alders, was a high sharp ridge of mountains; and we were hungry.
The guides immediately set about making a fire. There seemed to be plenty of logs and they soon had a roaring blaze. Opp found a limb with a forked top, which he drove into the ground just beyond the fire and in the fork transfixed a long curving branch which held a pail of water above the flames. Mr. Nugent and Mr. Van Worden unpacked the baskets, Mr. Meredith Jones set the table, and Mr. Latimer fought off the hornets which swarmed at the first breath of jam and ginger-nuts. When we finally sat about that board, on logs or “any old thing,” we eat thatexcellent luncheon of fried ham and hard boiled eggs, mutton cutlets and fried potatoes, hot chocolate and cake, with a grateful appetite, I can assure you. Mr. Van Worden fried the ham and potatoes and made the chocolate, and we all coddled his culinary pride. All my fatigue vanished, and Mrs. Meredith Jones looked equally fresh and seemed prepared to take whatever might come, with the philosophy of the other sex. But poor Miss Page looked rather knocked up. She has never gone in for walking and her very cap had a dejected air; her fine colour was almost gone, but she looked very pretty and pathetic and all the men attempted to console her.
“I wouldn’t mind it,” she said with a sigh, “if we didn’t have to go back.” Then, as if fearing to dampen our spirits with the prospect of carrying her out, she added hopefully, “But it’ll be two days hence. I reckon I’ll be all right by that time. I’ll just lie about and rest.”
When luncheon was over Mr. Latimer made her a comfortable couch of shawls, with a small pack-basket for pillow, and she soon fell asleep.The guides washed the dishes, then immediately felled two young spruce-trees, and, with the help of Latimer and Mr. Meredith Jones, shaved off the branches and covered the floor of the cabin. This was our bed, my dear, and it was about a foot deep. When it was finished they covered it with carriage robes, and all preparations for nightly comforts were complete. By this time it had dawned on Mrs. Meredith Jones and myself that we wereallgoing to sleep under that roof. Opp had examined the sky and predicted rain before morning, and Miss Page was not equal to a return journey—“doubling the road,” as they say here—even if any of us had contemplated such a thing.
“Tom and I will sleep in the middle,” said Mrs. Meredith Jones reassuringly to me, after an earnest conversation apart with her husband, but I was immensely amused at the whole situation. We were as helpless against certain circumstances as if we did not possess sixpence between us; for it would have taken nearly a day to build another camp and the guides weretoo tired to think of such a thing. We were all stranded out in space, and there was nothing to do but make the best of it.
About two hours after luncheon I felt as if I had had no exercise that day and Opp suggested that I go up the mountain to see a gorge locally famous. So, accompanied by Mr. N. and Latimer, I followed him up the steepest and roughest mountain of my experience. There was no trail. He trampled ahead through the brush and we followed. Mr. Nugent preceded and literally pulled me up more than one perpendicular place, but Opp insisted upon taking charge of me through the slippery intricacies of a rocky stream. But we were rewarded by the most beautiful spot I have yet seen. Imagine a forest glade with five or sixislandsof rock—boulders so huge that no other word will describe them. These islands were covered on all sides with the richest moss and the most delicate ferns, and on the top of each grew great trees, their long roots gripping the sides of the rock like petrified pythons. Then a water-course choked with smaller boulders, and risingout of it, straight up for five hundred feet, a solid wall of rock crowned with a pine forest. The wall was a half-mile long and so smooth that one could well imagine some terrible convulsion of these Adirondacks during which a mountain had been split in twain, one side grinding itself into these boulder-islands of the forest. On high the tree-tops were so matted that the glade was filled with a twilight almost green. One had the impression of walking under the sea. Each of us selected a dry rock, and we sat there for an hour telling mountain experiences. I had had one or two in the Alps, extremely modest ones, but all the men looked at me with intense admiration as I related them. American men seem to have an almost passionate admiration for women of great physical endurance and courage. Our men take it as a matter of course. Mr. Nugent thought it the most charming thing in the world that I should want “more exercise” after the heavy tramp of the morning. He said one rather clever thing, by the way. The others, after a time, wandered down to the foot of the palisade in search of the ice caves,and as I rather feared that Mr. N., under the influence of the wild beauty about us, might lose a self-control which is plainly manufactured and maintained through a fear of losing everything, (I dread and almost long for the time when it will give way altogether) I turned the conversation to politics and asked him if he looked forward to the possible Bryan administration with the great apprehension that other Republicans seemed to feel.
“No; I can’t say I do,” he said. “Nothing is ever as bad in politics as the anticipations; anticipations are the exaggerations of much talk. Besides—it is quite on the cards that Bryan will be an arrant snob before he has been a month in the White House. Likely as not, his first taste of Society will induce conservatism. When he has sat at table a few times with titled Ambassadors he will hasten to forget the ridiculous little farm he bought to have his pictures taken in. Then, the only thing left for us to do is to marry his daughter to a gentleman and persuade him to send his son to Harvard. His reform will be accomplished in less than a year. There is no snob so completeas a democrat reformed by the right sort of visiting cards. Of course a small nucleus, the old set of Washington, will not go near the White House, and as soon as the Bryans discover that diplomats, senators, cabinet officers and army people are not all the cream of high society they will become downright aristocrats; and when the shirt-sleeved voter from Lincoln, Nebraska, calls, will conceal their ennui and irritation indifferently well. That means alienation of the sons of the soil, and no second term for Bryan. If Washington is wise it will do its best to make a fool of him.”
“You haven’t much faith in Mr. Bryan’s much vaunted sincerity,” I said with a laugh.
“I haven’t a particle,” he said contemptuously. “He has his picture taken too often.”
The others returned at this juncture and we set out upon the difficulties of our homeward journey. But never mind, it was all very delightful and I never shall forget the beauty of that rocky glade.
When we returned to the camp, we found Mrs. Meredith Jones asleep and Miss Page keepingwatch. The men had all gone fishing and Mr. Nugent and Mr. Latimer hastened to join them. Miss Page looked refreshed but turned to me a perturbed face.
“I cannot believe it is possible that we are all going to sleep in there,” she said. “Why, it is shocking! I begged Mr. Van Worden to put up a partition, but he says it is quite impossible, that there won’t be room to turn over, as it is. I wish I hadn’t come. Suppose it should get out? Why, people would be horrified.”
“Really,” I said, “I think you take an exaggerated view. We are all going to bed with our clothes on, the camp is open, there are nine of us, and our chaperons will sleep in the middle. We may not be comfortable but I think the proprieties will take care of themselves.”
“I think it is shocking,” she said, “perfectly shocking. It seems so coarse and horrid. I’ll remember it as long as I live.”
I felt like shaking her, but she looked so distressed that I said soothingly: “Please don’t worry. I will sleep next to Mrs. Meredith Jonesand you can tuck away in the corner where no one can see you and you will be quite forgotten.”
“Yes,” she replied quickly, “I insist upon having the corner—particularly as you don’t mind,” she added apologetically. “You are quite different from my idea of English girls. I should have thought that you would be simply horrified.”
“Perhaps we are more matter-of-fact than you are,” I said drily. “Where a thing can’t be helped it can’t, and we are sensible about it. Now, I am surprised at you. I had always supposed that American girls——”
“Oh, don’t!” she exclaimed. “You are going to judge us all by those horrid things you meet in Europe and in novels. I can assure you that Southern girls—gentlewomen—are as particular as English girls—more so, I reckon. Do you realise that we are going to sleep in the same room with six men?”
“I don’t look at it in that way at all,” I said tartly. “And for heaven’s sake make up your mind to the inevitable and think no more about it.”
The men returned soon after with a basket fullof trout and Mr. Van Worden fried them for supper. I don’t think I ever eat anything quite so good as those trout.
“He beats the cars, cookin’,” observed our chief guide, and Mr. Van Worden looked as pleased as if he had made a million in Wall Street.
After supper the guides built a high fire of great logs, and we all sat about and the men “spun yarns” of the days when the panther and the bear roamed the woods, and finished with stories of the beautiful red deer that alone claims the forest to-day. Of course the men smoked, and we were all very happy and comfortable until we went to bed. Mr. N. sat as close to me as he decently could, and—I will confess to you, Polly—under the encouragement of the shadows which covered a part of me and all of him he held my hand. I could not struggle—well——
About ten the men all marched up the hill in single file, singing, and we had the camp to ourselves for a half hour. We took off our boots, corsets and blouses, put on dressing sacks, tiedour heads up in silk handkerchiefs, and our night toilet was complete. Miss Page had evidently made up her mind to accept the situation, but she was so manifestly uncomfortable that I tied nearly all of her face up in her handkerchief and tucked her away in the corner with the blanket up to her nose. She turned her back upon us and regarded the chinks of the bark wall in silent misery. Mr. Van Worden had brought three extra pairs of socks and these he had directed us to pull over our stockings as the night would grow very cold.
We had been in bed nearly twenty minutes and had already learned something of its hardness when the men returned.
“Now,” said Opp, “you must all lie on the same side and when one of you wants to turn over be sure to sing out and then we’ll all turn over together.”
His was the only remark. The other men pulled off their boots and crawled into bed without a word, looking rather sheepish, and ostentatiously refraining from glancing in our direction. Men arecertainly more modest than women in certain conditions, and Mrs. Meredith Jones and I almost laughed out loud, especially as the other guide went to bed with his hat on!
For about a half hour we were as quiet as the sardines we must have looked. Then my side—the one I was lying on—began to ache from my neck to my heel, and from the numerous sighs and restless jerks I inferred that we all were affected in the same way. At all events Opp “sang out,” “Heave over, hey?” and we all turned like a well-regulated machine. I whispered to Miss Page but she would not answer me.
It was just after that we became conscious that the temperature was about ninety. The fire was not three feet in front of us and blazing more violently every moment. I had been endeavouring to forget my discomfort in watching the black masses of the tree-tops thrown by the blaze into extraordinary relief against the dulled sky and tarnished stars, when I heard Mr. Van Worden whisper fiercely,
“What in heaven’s name did you build thatred hot fire for? It’s hot enough for three camps and we won’t sleep a wink.”
Opp replied apologetically: “I thought it was goin’ to rain and it was best to have things well het up, but I guess it haint. It’s hot and no mistake.”
I saw Mr. Latimer fighting to get out of an extra sweater without attracting attention, and I, by the same herculean efforts, managed to reach down and get off my stockings and those socks. But still the heat was insupportable and the bed grew harder every moment. Our pillows, too, were logs under the spruce, and I am used to a baby pillow that I double under my neck and face. How I longed for it!
Finally Latimer slipped out of bed and went over to the edge of the clearing and lit his pipe. The guides followed immediately, then Mr. Meredith Jones, and they sat along the log in dejected silence. Mrs. Meredith Jones heaved a deep sigh. “I really can’t stand it, girls,” she whispered; and followed her husband. Of course we went too, and Mr. Van Worden was left alone.
For a half hour we sat about in an almost complete silence, waiting for that wretched fire to burn down. Opp separated the logs, and finally, as we were all too sleepy to hold our heads up, we crawled back to bed, one by one, all except Mr. Latimer, who stretched out on the table, and Mr. Nugent who made a bed for himself on the ground. That gave us a trifle more room in the camp, and we could turn without “singing out.” In a few minutes, hot as it still was, I fell asleep.
I suppose it was two hours later that I awoke. The fire had taken a fresh start and was blazing more merrily than ever. I felt as if I were in a Turkish bath, and as Miss Page was no longer in front of me I inferred that she had been driven forth again. Then it occurred to me that she would not have budged without Mrs. Meredith Jones, and I turned about quite suddenly. Mrs. M. J. was not there! Nor Mr. M. J. Nor the guides. Oh, Agatha! Agatha! I was alone in bed with Mr. Van Worden.
The situation was humorous, but somewhatembarrassing. I hardly knew whether to pretend sleep or not, for I did not feel like going out and sitting on that log again. I could see the dark figures in various dejected attitudes. Mrs. M. J. and Miss Page were sitting back to back with their heads hanging, while Mr. M. J. stood with his hands in his pockets glowering at the fire. Latimer was sitting on the table smoking his pipe, and Mr. N. was digging his heels viciously into the earth. As for the guides they lay flat in the distance, tired out, poor things. Only Mr. Van Worden looked serene. He, too, lay on his back, his hands clasped over the greater part of him. I supposed he was asleep, but he remarked genially:
“Hot, isn’t it, Lady Helen? I’m afraid one camping experience will do you for the rest of your natural life.”
I assured him that I never had been so much entertained, and we conversed as naturally as if it had been noon-day until I was reminded of the irregularities of the situation by a gasp from Miss Page. She nudged Mrs. M. J., whispered hurriedly,and in another moment I was chaperoned on either side.
It was at least another hour before the fire burned down and the temperature cooled. Then the men crawled back to bed, one by one, and in a few moments they were all sleeping—and as quietly as kittens. It really was quite remarkable.
But one could not sleep long at a time on that bed, and once I was glad to be awake. High up on the highest tree of the mountain a hoot owl broke the petrified stillness of that lonely forest.
“Too wit, too wit, too wooo!” he called loudly, and then he added with impatient emphasis, “Too wit, too wit,too woo,” as if to say, “Do you understand that?” He was a bit of a scold, but he had all the grey dome and all the forest depths to talk into. No comrade answered him, and nothing ever gave me such an impression of the solitude of a mountain forest.
By six o’clock we had endured all that the human frame is capable of in the way of sleeping on hard and prickly spruce, and the men rose as by one impulse and went down to the spring towash. We dressed as hurriedly as possible, and, I must say, looked surprisingly fresh. And the morning was so deliciously cool, and Mr. Van Worden’s coffee so fragrant and bracing, his trout so crisp and Mrs. Opp’s “johnnie cake,” so excellent that we sat about Mr. Latimer’s bed in the highest spirits and congratulated each other that we were “camping out.” Even Miss Page, having weathered the worst of it, announced herself ready to stay another night, and talked continually in her pretty Southern brogue. She was looking like a beautiful gypsy, too, and I think our one small mirror had consoled her for many things. She flashed her eyes about with the impartiality of the kind-hearted coquette, and was quite the life of the uncomfortable group about the table.
After breakfast Mrs. M. J., Latimer, Mr. Nugent and myself, led by Opp, with an axe over his shoulder, started off to see some famous falls. The rest went fishing. As the trail along the “still-water” had been choked by lumbermen, Opp had to rely on his general knowledge of the land, and every few minutes he “blazed” a tree,i.e., hackedoff a piece of the bark with his axe, that there should be no danger of going astray when we returned. The ground was less broken up than usual and we strode along in single file looking for all the world like a party of pioneers penetrating the wilderness. It was a jolly experience and I would not have missed it for anything.
The falls were about two miles from the camp and we were an hour reaching them, for Opp got off the track several times. I can imagine that they look very fine indeed when there is anything falling. But all we saw was a sloping wall of solid rock, about four hundred and fifty feet high and a fifth of a mile wide, crowned with spruce. There is a deep wide pool below, and a mass of rocks on which we sat and tried to picture the mighty cascade of other seasons. On one end—the perpendicular end—of the wall there were soil and trees, and Opp asked me if I would like to “climb the falls and see the sights.” I was half way across the rocks in a moment with Mr. N. and Latimer after me, while Opp remained with Mrs. M. J.
It was a straight climb, my dear, of fourhundred and fifty feet. It hardly sloped once and there was just one ledge of about six steps. We had to pull ourselves up by trees and bushes, and more that once Mr. N. dragged me up, while Mr. L. pushed me. But altogether I did rather well, and was quite rewarded by their enthusiastic approval. But there was a better reward than that. From an elevation above the falls we saw five mountain ranges. They seemed to fill all space, and the blue dome to press down its rim about them, holding such a flood of crystal and gold! There were many beautiful pines about us, sage green with a delicate fairy-like quality in spite of their greatness, and once more the undesecrated forest, so dense that Mr. N. had noted every inch of ground we traversed.
Of course it was worse going down than ascending and I was glad to have two men to take care of me.
Well, we spent all of that day very pleasantly, and the night promised to be rather more comfortable, for Mr. Nugent, Mr. Latimer, and the guides all made beds for themselves under thestars and the fire was left to go out after supper. But, alas! about midnight it began to rain, they all came crawling under shelter, and there was little more sleep that night.
The rain stopped long enough for us to breakfast comfortably, and then we held a consultation. The plan had been to “stay out” three nights, but we were all a little tired of it, and the skies looked very forbidding.
“If you want my opinion,” remarked Opp, “I say go, and be quick about it. It’s set in for all day, and if we git back to the Lake without a soakin’ we’ll be luckier’n I think we will.”
That settled it. We had no desire to sit on our bed all day and then sleep on it another night. The guides began to pack at once, and within an hour we were on our way.
We had hardly started when it began to pour, and it has not stopped yet. What a walk it was! However we reached home without pneumonia and broken ankles heaven only knows, but not one of us has a cold; and although my feet feel as if they had been pounded with a hammer theyare quite whole. When we were not picking our way over the narrow trail through the brush—dripping and as high as our heads—we were on those horrible corduroy roads, made so slippery by the rain that every step was a danger. Once I fell, and I twisted my foot three times and wrenched myself up to my waist. My feet were swimming in my boots and it was an effort to lift them. I felt sorry for Miss Page, who is a pampered creature, but she never uttered a complaint, although she told me afterward that every time we came to one of those interminable stretches of corduroy she wanted to sit down and cry. She certainly is a fine creature, with all her little foibles.
When we got to the lumber camp we all sat down in the rain and rested before climbing the corduroy hill beyond. Mr. N. explained to me the use of the curious objects piled under a shed. They were huge boxes on runners with four round holes in each end. When the snow is on the ground, covering corduroy and rocks, these boxes are filled with water and dragged by horses overthe road to be used for drawing the lumber to the streams. From the front holes the water spouts continuously, and as it strikes the ground it freezes, making a solid smooth surface over which the log sledges can travel with ease. But what a life! No wonder these mountaineers look old; but Mr. N. told me that lumbermen become so fascinated with the life that they cannot be tempted into the valleys.
You can imagine the difficulties of that narrow sidling swampy trail by the inlet. It was just twice as bad as in dry weather, and I almost was discouraged once or twice. Perhaps I should have been, had it not been for a very reassuring and helpful presence; but it was bad enough.
Latimer had hastened on to the lake to fire his revolver, the signal that we were coming. When the rest of us arrived the boats were almost there, but as we were all hot and wet, and a cold wind played upon us as we stood on the stones again, it is a wonder we are not all wrecks. As soon as I reached home Mrs. Van Worden made me drink hot whiskey, while Mrs. Opp and Henriette undressedand rubbed me down. I am none the worse for wear, but felt quite done up by half-after seven and went to bed. Hence this great letter. Good night. I return to Boulder Lake to-morrow.
Helen.
Boulder LakeAugust 20th10P. M.
I forgot to give this letter to the postman to-night so I will tell you of two or three surprises which have made me wide-awake, rather.
Of course Mr. Nugent returned with me, (and as there is always a room at the Club House at his disposal I suppose he will remain through the deer and grouse seasons—unless—but I vow I don’t know!) I was glad to see that beautiful avenue dividing the dark forest, once more, and we walked slowly, the buckboard following. I can’t say the familiar corduroy filled me with sentimental emotions and my insteps ached at the first glimpse of it; but I have that buoyancy within that carries my feet over many a wearymile, and my companion, as ever, was very interesting. I forget just what we talked about.
We were half way up the last hard bit of corduroy and my eyes as usual were intent upon the logs when Mr. N. said abruptly:
“Look!”
I stopped at once and followed the direction of his glance. Before I had time to wonder if he had seen a bear I saw, standing on the ledge above, Mr. Rogers—and Bertie! The light was full upon them and I saw in a flash that Bertie was stouter and had lost his terrible pallor. He was not ruddy, but he was brown, and there was colour in his cheeks.
Polly, did you ever have a wild whirl of emotions inside of you while you forced your exterior to be as impassive as a shell? I wanted to give one of the war-whoops with which they call to one another up here, and I felt so much like bursting into a storm of tears that I dared not even speak.
When Bertie and I met we merely shook hands, and he remarked that he was glad to see me back,but I knew he wanted to hug me. Then I gave my hand to Mr. Rogers—and was just in time to see the look with which my two knights were measuring each other.
I walked ahead with Bertie and he said that between the air and the milk he certainly was getting well, and I found my voice and told him that I never had felt so happy in my life. But my absorption in Bertie was divided for the moment by a new surprise.
We had left the level stretch and were walking down the incline to the boat landing (I had been too interested to notice that we had not turned off into the path leading to our camp), when I stopped short with half a sentence forgotten. Waiting at the pier was a gondola—a gondola with silken curtains and cushions and an Italian gondolier.
Bertie laughed gaily at my startled face, for in truth I was afraid for the moment that something in my brain had gone wrong.
“Rogers sent for it—to Chicago, of all places!” he said. “It is a remnant of the World’s Fair.”
And then I remembered I once had said to Mr. Rogers that I could not understand why they did not have gondolas on these beautiful lakes instead of commonplace boats.
All my coquetry was enchanted and I turned to Mr. Rogers with such a radiant face that he must have felt a bit rewarded. While I was thanking him—glad of that much outlet for my excitement—and he was making one of his charming speeches and looking so dignified and not the least bit of an ass, I stole a glance at Mr. N. His face wore a cynical grin that was almost sardonic.
Well, I gondolaed home and fell into Agatha’s arms, then discovered Bertie’s welcome. He had—himself, mind you—tacked that most beautiful of shrubs, the ground pine, all over the walls of the living-room. They looked a mass of soft green and gold and the antlered heads of the deer seemed to be set in their native woods. On the table was a great bunch of crimson sweet peas—incomparably more fragrant than ours—sent by Jemima, and a bowl of water-lilies from Mrs. Laurence.
After I had answered all of Agatha’s questions and assured her that I was as well as ever—she thinks I am thin, but how I have tramped!—Bertie and I went out and gondolaed round the lake. It was just five o’clock. The men were going home from the tennis court, and waved their hats at me and gave the unearthly wood call.
Then, suddenly, all the doors opened, and the women in their bright muslin gowns flitted out and waved their handkerchiefs to me. It was a pretty sight and a graceful act. Of course, I landed and they said a great many of their charming things.
When I went home another surprise awaited me—in my room. On the table was a box of splendid roses and an elaborate basket of chocolates tied with yards of my favourite bright blue ribbon. Mr. Nugent’s card was attached. Of course he had sent to New York for them.
I don’t think I ever went to bed feeling so happy.
Helen.
21st
I suppose we have all taken note of that malignant influence in the unseen world which makes us unreasoningly and unguardedly happy just before our stiffest blows. One would think these bitter contrasts were purposely arranged to destroy our power of philosophy.
It was at breakfast that I was confounded, more nearly knocked over than I ever was in my life.
“By the way, Nell,” Bertie remarked casually, “what a ripping fine woman Mrs. Coward is.”
“Mrs. Coward?” I gasped.
“Yes. Don’t mean to say you didn’t know she was here?”
“I did not!” I could barely articulate. And a perturbed glance from Agatha increased my consternation. “When did she come?”
“Three or four days ago—Oh, yes, she said you had left the same morning for your camping tramp.”
“Whom is she visiting? I had no idea the aristocracies would mix.”
“Mrs. Laurence. Don’t you like Mrs. Coward?”
“I am glad she is visiting Mrs. Laurence. I should say they would scratch each other’s eyes out immediately.”
“I’m disappointed you don’t like her. I hoped you’d have her in the house a lot. She’s a long sight the most fascinating American I ever met—a regular ripper, by gad!”
I don’t know how I controlled myself, but I knew that if I said too much and suggested opposition Bertie would be on his hind legs at once.
This was what she had up her sleeve, Polly. What deceit, what treachery, what sneakingness. Only awidowwould be capable of such a thing. But I must say I respect her. She fooled me completely. I could not have been capable of so clever a revenge, and I detest her for it, because she has not the true sporting instinct, but she is to be reckoned with all the same. In spite of her platitudes and her ingenuous pride in the seven generations, she is both clever and deep—when her pride is in arms, and revenge and ambition both spur her on to capture a duke.
Butwillshe marry him?Oh!Many moths havefluttered about that flame. But she is so subtle. And in addition to her indisputable magnetism she has developed fascination into a fine art. Of course she has scented out all Bertie’s weak points and flattered them. I can hear her discoursing about the solemn responsibilities of the hereditary legislator, and that is what is haunting Bertie most at present. Of course she knows all about Dad, and her dulcet enthusiasms on that convenient weakness—Oh,dear! Agatha says they have been almost inseparable since the afternoon she arrived. She did not lose a minute!
He actually asked me if he could take her out inmy gondola. I felt like telling him to take her out and drown her, but I gave my consent as graciously as I could, and came into the house to think. I dare not go to the forest, for I know that Mr. N. is lying in wait for me and I feel certain that after this gondola declaration he will press his suit; and when hedoesplant himself on both feet in the middle of the trail and I on the wrong side—Oh, heaven!
I induced Agatha to go over to the tennis courtso that I could not receive Mr. Rogers if he called. But for some time I could not even write to you, I could only storm up and down the living-room and try to think of some way to foil that woman and deliver Bertie. Fancy having her for a sister-in-law! And she would radiate a subtle triumph till the day of her death. But the real—underlying—point is that she is not the wife for Bertie. He must marry an intelligent woman who will give herself to him and his career, and this one would be entirely wrapped in her own petty ambitions.
It suddenly occurred to me that Miss Page had promised to spend the first two weeks of September with me. She is still at Chipmunk Lake, for the other women do not leave for two days yet. The buckboard had not gone. I wrote her a note, imploring her to come at once as I was bored and lonely. Then I bribed the driver to take it to her to-day, and he said he would wait and bring her back. She is far more beautiful than Mrs. C., and younger. She may not be so subtle but she has all the fascination of a buoyant and unaffected coquette. And she is worth six of Mrs. C. as regardscharacter and sincerity. Not, alas! that that adds to one’s power over man. But I am hoping that Bertie will contrast her real brightness with Mrs. C.’s platitudes, and discover that the widow is boring, that he will succumb to Miss Page’s superior beauty, and that propinquity will do its work. If only it doesn’t all happen before she gets here! Mrs. C. has had him in her pocket for three hours—in my gondola. She has on a white frock and a scarlet shawl and a red poppy in her hair. There is no denying that she is hideously attractive. Oh, Polly, how I wish you were here!
To add to my burdens Bertie gave me, this morning—he mercifully forgot it last night—an impassioned epistle from Mr. Carlisle. His mother is better and he is returning to Chipmunk Lake for the hunting season. He says he shall devote three days a week to deer and the rest to me—that if they won’t invite him to the Club House he’ll camp on the next lake, which is only a mile away and on State lands. But of course they’ll invite him to the Club House. Oh, Polly! Do you think any woman ever was in such a tangle before!
On the whole I think I’ll go out into the forest and talk to Mr. N. about it. Imusttalk to somebody or I’ll have brain fever. And I’m used to diverting his mind—“standing him off,” as they say here. And I want sympathy.
This is really good-bye. I won’t write another line till I am in a more cheerful state of mind—induced by Miss Page’s triumph over the widow—for I do not want to add to your worries.
Helen.
P. S.—Roddy Spencer will arrive on one of the Saturday steamers.
Note.—The correspondence ends abruptly with the above letter; Lady Helen Pole, on the following day having received a cablegram announcing the sudden death of the Earl of Edge and Ross and the immediate departure of her friend for the United States.The Publisher.
Note.—The correspondence ends abruptly with the above letter; Lady Helen Pole, on the following day having received a cablegram announcing the sudden death of the Earl of Edge and Ross and the immediate departure of her friend for the United States.
The Publisher.