“Well, as three’s a crowd and it ain’t rainin’ any more I guess I’ll
waltz. Pleased to meet you, Lady Helen. I kin alwus see a real flesh
and blood Lady of the nobility now when I’m readin’ the ‘Herald’ or
---- ---- ----’s[A] lovely novels. Good-bye. Hope you’ll git up the
mountin O. K.” And she took herself and her feathers out of the ruin.
“I think we had better start for home,” said Mr. Rogers. “Your brother
and Lady Agatha will be so anxious.”
“But you must be tired----”
“Not in the least. Do you think no one can walk but the English?” This
with a smile and intonation that took all abruptness out of it.
We left the church and in a few moments were climbing the mountain,
a doubly difficult task now that the logs were slippery with rain.
But the forest was so green and dripping, the sun-flecks glittered in
the rain-drops, the depths looked so dark and wet, and full of sweet
fragrant mystery! The odour of the balsam came down to us with a
rush. Mr. Rogers is a pleasant companion at all times, but I like him
particularly in the forest. He seems to need it so, to be so grateful
for it. I fear I have only a dim inkling of what this brief dip into
the wilderness means to the tired nervous practical New Yorker.
“I hear you want to leave us,” he said presently.
“Only for a few days. I am curious to see other lakes and other parts
of the forest.”
“And other people? I am afraid you do not like my friends as well as I
had hoped.”
“Ah! you are wrong,” I exclaimed with the warmth of insincerity. “They
interest me tremendously. They are too clever for me, that is all. I
don’t feel up to them.”
“You are far cleverer than any of them,” he replied, turning upon me
that _approving_ expression of which I have written, and smiling a
trifle of warmth into his grave face. “Many of them are beginning to
admit it quite frankly. The American nature is very generous, I assure
you.”
“Mrs. Laurence and Mr. Rolfs never have admitted anything of the sort,
I’ll wager,” I cried gaily.
“Well--no; but you see they are rather spoiled.”
“Nor Mr. William Lee Randolph,” I said, alluding to an author who
arrived two days ago. “I dreamed all last night of cutting his conceit
into little bits and watching them fly together again and cohere as
snugly as if nothing had happened.”
“You are a severe critic, dear Lady Helen----”
“It _is_ horrid of me to criticise your friends. And after your
many-sided kindness! I feel a rude little beast.”
“If you were not frank with me about everything I should be greatly
disappointed. And--I am quite willing to admit it to you--your
frankness is very refreshing to me. I get very tired of all this posing
and hero-worship and these everlasting fads. But they are inevitable in
all circles where certain of its members have accomplished great things
and others feel that their rôle is to admire extravagantly if they
would keep their heads above water and feel in the swim.”
“Do _you_ think Mr. Rolfs and Mrs. Laurence and Mr. Randolph great?” I
asked pointedly. “Now, you be just as frank as I am for once.”
He hesitated a moment, then said: “I believe there is no admission I
would not make to you, if you only gave me sufficient encouragement. Be
careful of that mud hole--these stones are better. I do wish you would
wear rubbers. Frankly then I do not think that any of my authors are
great, but I think it best to convince the world that they are because
they are unquestionably on the right track and their success will
encourage the younger talent to follow in their footsteps, crowning
the achievement of to-day with the richer harvest of a more virile
generation. I am quite aware that we lack virility, but when a more
full-blooded generation does arrive think of the vast advantage it will
have in this skeleton example of flawless art and perfect taste.”
“It seems to me more likely that there will be a violent reaction,” I
said. “That they will smash your porcelain skeleton to smithereens and
build a big rude lusty giant in its place.”
“Oh, I hope not,” he said anxiously, “I hope not. That _would_ be a
life-time thrown away.”
It was the first time I had heard him sigh, and the momentary
unconscious appeal to my sympathy touched me sharply.
“You _have_ lived for something besides self!” I exclaimed. “I believe
you actually have given your best energies, and all your time and much
of your fortune to building up an Art in your country that future
generations may be benefited by and proud of. I do hope for your sake
that it will be a success.”
He turned to me with such a glow on his face that I realized I had
gone too far for once, and had a wild desire to pick up my skirts and
run headlong into the forest. I must say he looked handsome and most
attractive. It seemed to me that I felt something glow and leap beside
me, something that I never had admitted the existence of, but which
gave him a distinct fascination. I could not run, and heaven knows
what might have happened next. But at that moment a turn of the road
brought us face to face with Mr. Nugent.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Oh! _What_ a relief. I knew of course that Rogers
would find you--but what might have happened before--Were you in the
woods during the storm?”
“I was in the Catholic Church with a sales-lady from New York who
demanded so much solace that I had no time to be frightened, myself.” I
plunged at once into a description of the adventure, out of kindness to
Mr. Rogers as much as to disembarrass the situation. I knew the violent
reaction within him--and I hoped he was communing with his soul in good
healthy swear words.
When I did not talk, Mr. Nugent did, and Mr. Rogers’ silence was well
covered. Not that he did not recover himself almost immediately, and
occasionally put in an apt remark.
Finally Mr. Nugent dismissed the subject of sales-ladies with his usual
abruptness.
“I think I can say that I have persuaded your brother and sister to
let you go to-morrow,” he said. “I demonstrated the absurdity of such
slavish adherence to the conventions in this wilderness. Your maid is
chaperonage enough for a few hours’ trip, to say nothing of the fact
that Hunter and another man will carry your trunk behind us down the
mountain and that still another man with a buckboard will meet us in
the valley.”
My eyes danced. “What a lark!” I exclaimed. “To really go on a trip
without Bertie or Agatha. But _will_ they consent?”
“I am sure they will. I told them that if they insisted upon it my
sister would come for you, and although of course they would not hear
of such a thing I think that clinched them. So be prepared to start
to-morrow morning at eight.”
And, Polly, I really believe I am going! My love to you.