But we did not go “to-morrow,” Polly, and I have not been really
hopeful of going until to-night. Agatha said quietly and impassively
that, better or not, nothing would induce her to leave Bertie, that she
would never sleep three yards away from him until he was quite well
again. That left me without a chaperon, for although Mrs. Van Worden
had written her a charming note too, she had not invited any one else
at the lake, and I believe she knows several of them. Whether this
omission rankled--she appears to be quite a personage--or whether they
are all determined I shall marry Mr. Rogers, I don’t know, but I was
invited to the Club House to luncheon next day and not less than four
women attempted to dissuade me from going. The road was “frightful,”
quite the worst in the Adirondacks. Life there was unbearably dull.
They were worked out society women who took a sort of rest cure in
the Adirondacks, eating and sleeping themselves into a condition of
recuperating stupidity. There were “no men,” as the fishing was not
good, and too many other drawbacks to mention. It was Mrs. Hammond
who was commissioned with the final dissuasions. She walked home with
me, and as we were crossing the pretty rustic bridge over the lake’s
outlet, she put her hand in my arm, and said with a slight blush:
“You must not mind what I am going to say to you, dear Lady Helen, I
take such an interest in you. Who could help it?--you are so beautiful
and a stranger here. And of course I am nearly ten years older than
yourself and a married woman. I _don’t_ want you to go to those people;
they are all rather fast. Mrs. Van Worden has had several stories in
circulation about her that have come very close to being scandals----.”
“What!” I cried, “am I really to meet an American woman who has
committed adultery? How much at home I shall feel! So many of my
friends have, you know.”
“Lady Helen!” Never shall I forget that gasping shriek nor that poor
scandalized little face. I almost relented.
“If she will only admit it,” I pursued gloomily, “but they scarcely
ever will. I do know one American woman who told me the second time
I met her that she had a lover, but she had lived in England fifteen
years and cut all her American acquaintances. I cannot understand your
reticence.”
“Lady Helen! Do you mean to insinuate that any of us----”
“Oh, dear me, no. You are all shockingly virtuous here.”
She stared at me for a moment longer, then curiosity got the better of
her horror. She did not replace her hand within my arm, but she resumed
her walk to my camp, evidently determined to understand me.
“Let us have this out, Lady Helen, I implore you?” she said. “Do I
understand that you countenance immorality?”
“I accept the inevitable. It does not appeal to me personally, but if
it does to other women and helps them to dissipate the ennui of life,
that is none of my affair.”
“Ah, that is the result of having every good thing in life flung at
your feet, of living an idle life of fashion that has no excitement
left in it but intrigue.”
“Our lowest class is much worse than our highest, and quite open and
unembarrassed about it.”
“I cannot account for it!” The poor little woman’s voice was tragic.
“Why try to account for everything? Facts are facts, that is enough.”
“I never have really believed one tenth of the scandals of fashionable
life I have heard--I have trained myself to wait for divorce-court
proof----”
“You have tried to dissuade me from visiting Mrs. Van Worden because
she is suspected of having loved more frequently than she has married.”
“Oh, but that does not mean that I _believe_ it. I simply do not want
you to be identified with a woman who has been talked about. She
certainly cannot contaminate you if you hold such extraordinary views.
But _do_ you, dear Lady Helen?”
“Yes,” I said impatiently. “Don’t you? Do you pretend to ignore the
fact that hundreds of thousands of women have lovers.”
“I _will_ not admit it.”
“But you know it if you know anything at all. Like your literature you
blink it, as you blink every other fact connected with real life.”
Again she stopped and stared at me. “You look the incarnation of maiden
purity,” she exclaimed, “a tall white royal English lily, as Mr. Rogers
calls you. It seems incredible that you can have such a perverted mind.
You remind me of that dreadful heroine of Mallock’s----”
“I have not a perverted mind,” I exclaimed angrily, for she really was
too silly, “and I have nothing in common with that filthy creature----”
“I beg your pardon,” she interrupted hurriedly, “no one on earth would
ever accuse _you_ of being less stainless--really--than you look--I
mean your mind--your knowledge----Oh,” she continued desperately, “I
can’t make you out. I have heard of the insolent frankness of the
English aristocracy--that you hold yourself above all laws--the Duke is
terrifyingly coarse at times--and I suppose if you had done anything
wrong you wouldn’t pay me the compliment to deny it--but--well--I give
it up.”
“My mind is not perverted,” I said, “because I see life as it is.
I have lived in the world now for eight years, and all my friends
happen to have married long since. I should have been a fool had I not
seen and heard what life meant to many people, even if I never had
had any confidences made me. But it has not stained my mind in the
least, because it is something I never think of when by myself--which
is the result of accepting life and human nature as they are not as
they ought to be. I will not pretend to say, however, that I do not
sympathize with women who are carried away by passion. I do not see how
a woman who has any passion----”
“Lady Helen! I cannot let you go any further. I am willing to admit
that there is sin in the world, but there are certain standards of
refinement in this country that I will not hear violated.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I mean that--well--that I cannot listen to a woman admit that she has
passions exactly like a man.”
“Do you mean that you never heard that before?” I asked curiously.
“Never! There are certain obligations--but--Oh, don’t let us talk of
it. There is one thing further I feel I must say--and I am hoping you
will pardon me, for we are all hoping and longing to keep you among
us--you and dear Lady Agatha, although of course we know that we must
lose the clever Duke when he is well enough to go home----”
She paused, and I gave her my most encouraging smile. We were on the
veranda now and she sat opposite me, leaning forward alertly.
“It is this,” she said with her anxious smile. “We all do so want
you to marry our dear brilliant accomplished Mr. Rogers, and not Mr.
Nugent. _He_ is not really one of us, and, I am afraid he is not too
high-principled and has not led an immaculate life--like Mr. Rogers.”
“How can you tell?”
“By their faces. Look at Mr. Rogers’. It is refinement itself, almost
ascetic. Mr. Nugent looks--well--of course he is a gentleman and
irreproachable in society, but I _know_ he has not led a regular life.”
“I am sure he has not, and it is really none of our business.”
“I believe that men should be as pure as women,” she said setting her
lips.
“Perhaps they should, but they are not; you see there are so many
women who make a business of tempting them from the time they begin to
take notice that it is quite unreasonable to expect them to attain the
feminine standard.”
“I am not talking of bad women.”
“Oh, but they count so, you know. They count because they are the
positive force. Virtue is too negative to influence any one but those
who are virtuous by nature or circumstance. But as I said before, dear
Mrs. Hammond, facts are facts. Why not accept them, and without so much
mental wear and tear? Every man has the privilege of leading his own
life, so long as he keeps within the law. And if he does not think he
is doing wrong, if he does not violate his conscience, then he does
himself no moral harm so long as he sins like a gentleman. Of course no
one wants the coarse sensualist near one; he is repulsive and should
herd with his own kind.”
“And you mean to say you extenuate--you would marry a man who had--who
had--made love to many women? I am interested in your views, but I must
reiterate that I think if social exigencies compel us to meet such men
we should at least discourage their kind by refusing to marry them.”
She looked pale and nervous but her eyes were bright with curiosity.
“I will tell you my theory,” I said, “and I can assure you that I did
not jump at it. As I told you, I have seen a good deal of the world,
the best of it as well as some of its worst. This is my idea--But
first: If God is incarnate in good men and the devil in bad why are bad
men invariably more fascinating to women--even to pure women--than good
men? I am talking of course of the devil which dwells in masculine and
able men, not in the silly and ingenuous sensualist. Now the men who
are wholly irresistible are those who combine both God and devil, who
stimulate and intensify the soul and the imagination as well as the
passions. This confounds orthodoxy, but does not to my mind deepen the
mystery. Is not this combination, perhaps, the perfect man? And as man
is--we believe--made in the divine image--may not God and the devil
be one rounded being? Why does the ‘perfect’ man and woman invariably
irritate and antagonize, even have a bad influence,--arousing the devil
of perversity--when the perfection is in the least self-conscious?
Is it not because we instinctively feel their failure to achieve the
standard we have accepted as divine, and resent the imposition? And can
such a one-sided being give happiness? Not any more than the lowest
brute. Therefore, I maintain that a man to reach full stature must have
room in his soul for God and the devil to jog along peacefully side by
side.”
She rose, white and aghast. “I never, never heard anything to
approximate that for audacity--and--and--terrible profanity. But I am
too nervous to argue with you. I see Mrs. Laurence coming. Please tell
her--_she_ is so brilliant, so gifted. I know she could refute----”
“Please tell her that I have not had a walk to-day! that I shall have a
violent headache if I miss it! _Please_ be an angel and don’t tell her
I saw her coming--” and I almost ran to the back veranda and plunged
into the woods. I had screwed up my courage to the highest pitch and I
knew I couldn’t do it a second time. I felt nervous, almost excited,
and I wanted a walk and the solitude of the woods.
I walked rapidly down the trail for ten or fifteen minutes, then felt
a sudden desire to see that precipitous magnificent avenue made by the
roadway. I entered it presently and walked down the logs as rapidly
as I could, for the exercise; pausing whenever I reached a ledge--in
these woods you cannot walk and admire at the same time unless you care
to run the risk of a broken ankle--to drink in that wild yet awesome
perspective of the forest. The trees are so high, and often their
branches leap across and clasp hands!--and crowding upon the heels
of the advance guard is the green, fragrant, ancient army, a million
strong. And every now and again the distant mountain beyond the high
wild valley.
I suddenly became possessed with a desire to get closer to that
mountain, to get away from my own for a little while. I knew that it
could not be more than four miles off, and I could easily make the
distance and return before dark. I almost felt as if I were running
away, and hurried on eagerly.
I passed Mr. Rolfs sitting cross-legged on a damp boulder,
communing--presumably--with God. There was a note-book beside him. He
looked like an omniscient owl. As I passed he bowed gravely but did not
speak. I am positive he cannot endure me.
I went down the mountain as rapidly as I could, but that is saying
little. What between picking my way over logs that slipped and stones
that cut and feeling for dry land through the grass by the roadside
I was fully an hour reaching the valley. It was just a few moments
before making the last precipitous descent, when I paused for a moment
on a ledge and fanned myself that I became aware how hot and sultry it
was. Almost at the same moment I heard the loud familiar rumble of the
approaching storm.
It would take me longer to reach home than it had done to pick my way
down that beastly road. There was nothing to do but make for the valley
and the nearest house, and the sudden brief copper of the sky made me
hasten on with all speed. I do not experience any sinking physical fear
during a thunder-storm but I have a mental appreciation of the danger
and I prefer to be within four walls with the doors and windows closed.
The storm was still far off, for the intervals between the flash and
the clap were quite long, and its rain was deluging some other mountain
miles away.
At last I was free of the woods and stood in the great valley with
its irregular masses of mountains on every side, its rivers, its wide
peaceful clearings, and alas! its cows. There was no building within a
mile except a dilapidated Catholic church, the most mournful object I
ever saw in a landscape. Half of the roof was gone, a thousand rains
had washed its last coat of paint away, the fence was but a few broken
sticks, and the grass and weeds grew high over three or four poor
forgotten graves. There was a French colony about here, long since.
It was not an attractive refuge, but the great thunder cloud was
pushing its way across the Eastern mountain, forked and torn with fire,
and roaring as if it were Hell moving up to Summer quarters.
I was therefore about to make for the ruin when I heard the sound of a
sob and of running feet behind me. I turned quickly and saw, running
toward me and wringing her hands, a slight pretty girl, with a mass of
fluffy hair surmounted by an immense hat covered with blue feathers.
“Oh, please, wait for me,” she cried. “I’m so skaret, and I’ve been
runnin’ roun’ like I was crazy. Its a mile to the nearest farm and
I dassent go in that spooky church by myself. Oh, my Gawd, ain’t it
awful.”
“Why, there are thunder-storms nearly every day,” I said soothingly.
“There is really nothing to be afraid of. Let us go into the church, by
all means.”
I was glad of her company, to tell you the truth, and led the way
rapidly to the ruin. The door was locked! but we picked our way to the
back, past those desolate graves, and entered where a wall had fallen
in. It was not an easy task to scramble over the mouldering remains of
roof and wall, but we accomplished it and ensconced ourselves in a pew
in that end of the structure which was still whole enough to afford
shelter, although how much of safety was doubtful.
We were none too soon. Almost immediately the rain came down with that
furious energy characteristic of storms in these mountains, the thunder
was really appalling, and the lightning seemed to have got beyond
control of itself--the forks cut its steady blaze. My companion had
possessed herself of my hand and cowered against me. Her vernacular as
exhibited in a disconnected monologue quite distracted my mind from the
storm.
“Oh, my Gawd,” she would mutter; then with a violent start: “Gee whizz!
Wat for did I ever come up to these mountains and I alwus so afraid
of lightnin’? O-w-w! Oh, Lordy I’ll never do it agin, I vow I won’t.
Oh, Joc _why_ ain’t you here? I’m skaret plum to death. I know I’ll be
struck clean to kingdom come, and I ain’t so bad. I really ain’t. Oh,
Joc you ain’t treaten’ me right to be safe down there in Noo York and
me goin’ to be kilt for ever up on these wicked mountins.”
Fortunately, the electricity had other havoc to accomplish before its
force was spent, and passed quickly, leaving only the rain behind it.
She recovered herself almost as quickly and sat up and smoothed her
hair, then took off her hat and regarded the feathers.
“They ain’t wet, thank heavings,” she said, then readjusted it
carefully; after which she turned and regarded me with suspicion. She
was a pretty dainty creature, not as common as you would expect, for
the national delicacy of feature and sensitiveness of expression seem
quite as impartial as democracy could demand.
“Who are you?” she asked. “I ain’t seen you before in these parts.”
“I am on the mountain, at Boulder Lake.”
A light flashed into her damp eyes. “Aw, now, you ain’t that there Lady
Helen somethin’, a dook’s sister, what everybody is talkin’ about?”
I bowed in as graceful acknowledgment as I could muster and she pursued
delightedly:
“You look like it and I’ve seen a lord as didn’t, but you look just
like you might be the hero_ine_ of a story in the ‘Family Herald’.”
“I have not the pleasure of the ‘Family Herald’s’ acquaintance,” I
said, smiling genially, for she interested me as another variety of
the genus American, “but tell me something of yourself. You are not a
mountain girl, I infer.”
“Cheese it!” she exclaimed scornfully. “Do I look like these here lumps
that is as broad as they is long and wear their hair as slick as a
rat’s tail? Naw, I’m a Noo Yorker born and bred, and I’m a sales-lady
in ----[A] See?”
“You mean--a--shop girl?”
“Naw. We don’t use that there kind of language in this country. This is
the United States of Ameriky and we’re all free and equal.”
“Ah,” I exclaimed eagerly. “Do _you_ really hold to that? How
refreshing. Then you don’t look down on these mountain girls that
usually have to work as servants?”
“Gee!” she exclaimed indignantly, “I guess I do. Servants is one thing
and sales-ladies is another. And I ain’t never goin’ to the mountins
agin for vacations--not while there’s cheap hotels at Asbury Park, and
Ocean Grove. I ain’t used to settin at table with servants, or ‘hired
help’ as they call themselves. But a lady frien’ of mine’s got an aunt
up here and she giv me no peace till I come, I was that near dead with
work and heat.”
If I were of an hysterical turn I probably should have succumbed. But I
maintained a becoming gravity and looked at her with that concentrated
interest which forces people to talk about themselves.
“But,” I said diffidently,--“as you have told me you work you won’t
mind my alluding to it--suppose you had been less clever than you are
or had had less influence than you did have--and had been forced to go
out as a servant----”
“I’d ’a been a fluff first--naw, I don’t mean that. But I just
wasn’t--that’s all. And I guess I ain’t goin’ to associate with those
beneath me when I don’t have to. Wouldn’t I be a fool if I did?”
“You certainly would not be a good American. But if you call yourself
‘sales-lady’ why should not the poor servant be permitted to ease her
self-respect by calling herself ‘hired help’?”
“She kin, for all of me, but it don’t make her nothin’ else. I hear
somebody comin’”--her voice fell to a terrified whisper. “Oh, lordy, I
hope it ain’t a tramp.”
It was Mr. Rogers. His anxious face appeared above the rubbish, and I
spoke immediately.
“What a relief!” he exclaimed, as he picked his way toward us. “I heard
voices and hoped you might be here.”
“It is good to see you,” I said. “How do you happen to be down in the
valley?”
“It was just after the first rumble that I met Rolfs coming out of
the forest. He told me you had passed him and I immediately got an
umbrella, told the Duke I was going in search of you, and started off.
I have been quite alarmed, and am more relieved than I can say.”