_From the Lady_ HELEN POLE _to the Countess of_ EDGE _and_ ROSS.
_Chipmunk Lake_,
July 27th
_Dear Polly_:
Mr. Nugent, the all conquering, arranged it, Polly dear, and here I am
at a far more beautiful lake than Boulder--which seems tamely pretty
in comparison. It is on top of another mountain surrounded by another
dense forest which grows down into the very water; but there the
resemblance ends. Although not large it is almost like four different
lakes, so irregular and cut up is it. From the natural terrace on which
the four camps are built you look over a small body of brown water
fringed with reeds and water-lilies to two mountain peninsulas which
jut so far into the lake as almost to close it. The opening is called
The Narrows and just beyond and across the distance runs another high
sloping mountain quite cutting off further view except of far pale
peaks. It is only when you are in a boat beyond The Narrows that you
see the lake’s three other parts, one end closed up with great rocks
and floating logs, but with the avenue of the inlet showing beyond;
everywhere else, the dense silent forest, the spruce crowding to the
front, the water-lilies and their pads spreading almost to the middle
of the lake. There are white lilies and yellow ones and a miniature
variety with so sweet and intoxicating a fragrance that in the early
morning you feel as if the boat were cutting a visible passage through
it. And the mountains, mountains, everywhere.
The four cottages are made of logs, three with the bark on, the
other peeled and polished. Mrs. Van Worden’s is the largest and also
the most homelike. We arrived rather late. Mr. N. and I, tired of
the “buckboard,” had left it and walked on ahead, arriving quite
noiselessly. I never shall forget how comfy Mrs. Van Worden’s
living-room looked as we peered a moment through the glass door before
knocking. It is a long low room with heavy beams across the dark
red paper of the ceiling, and a red brick fireplace from floor to
roof--in which great logs were blazing. In one corner was a graceful
staircase, and on the “sealed” gold-coloured walls were many prints
and photographs of sporting life in the Adirondacks. In one corner was
a divan piled with cushions and draped with silk, a lamp swinging from
the canopy. Against another wall was a straight divan, on which a young
man was lying, reading a book. Then there were mounted deer heads and
rugs and tables and at least eight rocking-chairs--I am going to take
back a “rocker” as a present for you.
Mrs. Van Worden, who was standing with her foot on the fender staring
into the fire, seemed to feel our presence in a moment, for she turned
about suddenly and came swiftly to the door. And then the warmth of her
welcome quite dissipated the misgivings I had felt about descending in
this summary fashion upon a complete stranger. I like her better than
any woman I have met in the country and as we sat up talking half the
night, I already know her quite well.
She is tall and thin, with no figure exquisitely dressed--though with
much more simplicity than the fashion of Boulder Lake would dictate.
But these women _have_ to dress so much oftener during other parts of
the year that they are more disposed to a complete rest up here. Still,
they can’t help dressing well. Her figure’s only “points” are the
hands and feet, which are so small that I stare at them almost rudely.
Nevertheless the hands look extremely determined. She is not pretty but
has rather the beauty of individuality. Her complexion is dead white,
almost transparent, and her nose irregular, but she has great glowing
black eyes, a sensitive and beautiful mouth, and soft mahogany-brown
hair charmingly arranged. She is about six-and-thirty, I should say,
and when she hinted to me that she was nine-and-twenty I felt disposed
to offer her my confidence without reserve. Never trust a woman who
will not lie about her age after thirty. She is unwomanly and unhuman
and there is no knowing what crimes she will commit.
The man on the divan--a long clean-limbed smooth faced delightful
looking young fellow, with a humorous mouth, a frank eye and a fine
high-bred _University_ air about him--stood up as soon as we entered
and was presented as Mr. Latimer of New York. Mr. Van Worden is a
banker, very business-like and absent minded, and years older than his
wife.
We had the jolliest little supper in one corner of the living-room--at
least four of us did, for Mr. Van Worden was on the lake, having
dined--and were waited on by the lake-keeper’s wife, a woman of immense
weight, but so light on her feet and so deft and swift in her movements
that she might have been a fairy. More of her later. She interests me
very much.
After supper, as it was blowing rather hard, we all sat about the
blazing logs for two hours and Mrs. Van Worden and young Latimer
rattled alternately. But they did not irritate me for a moment, they
were so impersonal even when talking of themselves, so really clever
without seeming to be in the least aware of it, so full of a humour
that made no attempt at wit, and so interesting in what they had to say
and in their manner of looking at things. I felt grateful enough to hug
myself.
Mr. Latimer had recently been in the Philippines and he told some of
his humorous adventures with a boyish abandon--I am told he is thirty
but he seems much younger--that made me laugh heartily. Suddenly I
caught Mr. Nugent’s eye and the expression of delight on his face made
me blush to my hair. We were alone for a moment just before going to
bed and he whispered to me eagerly:
“You like it here! I know that you do! I am so glad.”
“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed with the enthusiasm of sheer gratitude. “I do.
Thank you for bringing me.” Here he looked as if nothing could prevent
him from kissing me and I said hurriedly:
“What a difference! It reminds me of something the Prince is reported
to have said once: ‘Bright people--yes; but no damned intellect.’”
Not but what I fancy the intellect is really there, Polly, but it is
reserved as a sub-stratum, from which little sparks are sent up to
irradiate, not a constant conscientious blaze like an energetic thunder
storm.
Mrs. Van Worden invited me into her bed-room and we muffled ourselves
in warm wrappers and talked for hours while the wind howled. She
really has seen the world, and is as interesting as--well, as you are.
There is a woman who would sympathise with you from A to Z and never
criticise. Fancy the attitude of Mrs. Laurence or Mrs. Hammond. What is
Christianity, anyhow? A kind heart and a sophisticated mind?
The next morning I got up for a few moments at six and peered out of
my high window. Some of the smaller trees have been cut down and I
could see a little distance into the forest. It looked so quiet--so
expectant. I have decided that that is the spirit of these mountain
forests of the New World--expectancy, waiting. Civilisation is held
in check at present by the laws of New York, which owns the greater
portion of the Adirondack tract. But for how long? And they have had
more than a glimpse of man, these forests, from the old dead trappers
to the flowers of modern and greedy civilisation. What is it they
expect? What disaster? What conquests? It seems to me sometimes as if
they were holding their breath. And what are they like inside? I wish
I had eyes to see? Besides the two thousand lakes there are springs,
springs everywhere; there must be millions of them in the great range.
From what vast subterranean flood do they burst forth? What silent
potent _waiting_ tides are moving unceasingly beneath the brown lakes
and the riches of the forest, have been moving since the great glaciers
melted?
At eight the keeper’s wife, Mrs. Opp, came up with my breakfast--coffee,
and “johnnie cake,” and fish, fresh from the lake, and I detained her
for a few moments, for she interests me unaccountably. As I said, she
is very fat--she must weigh not a pound less than seventeen stone--and
cannot be under five feet nine. Her face is German, but the features
are small and delicately cut, and her complexion is as fine of grain
as an infant’s. She must be seven or eight and thirty, but her face
has that virginal expression of the married woman who never has had
children. Her manner is _gracious_--I cannot apply any other word to
it; but even more noticeable, I think, are her teeth and nails. They
are perfect and perfectly kept. And yet she is illiterate, and has, she
let fall, worked all her life. When Mrs. Van Worden is here she is both
cook and housekeeper. Her husband, the keeper, is a big lithe handsome
man, with regular features and a white throat. In his rough costume he
looks the ideal mountaineer.
“I am not going to be lazy every day,” I remarked apologetically. “But
I walked nearly all the way yesterday and then sat up late.”
“No wonder yor’re tired,” she said in her crooning indulgent voice. “A
mile of it jest kills me. I git het up so, and my poor legs are _that_
tired--Oh, my!” And she laughed a jolly laugh, as if, however, life
were all sunshine.
“But surely you walk sometimes in these beautiful woods.”
“Not very much. I git about enough walkin’ round the house. When I go
out of the woods in winter and visit hum fur a spell, well, then, I
guess I do go about more. You see there’s somethin’ to go to, but up
here--My! I worked in hotels mostly before I come here, so this seems
kinder lonesome.”
“You don’t remain here in winter then? I don’t blame you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s that dismal! Frank, he comes in and out, but
there ain’t no real need of me stayin’ here so I go home and have
a real good time. I like it here. I like it here. It’s as good’s
anywheres, only I’d have a hotel on the St. Lawrence if I could hev
my choice. There’d be some life in that! Well, I must go down and not
stand gassin’ here. Sure you got all you want? There’s lots more.”
I assured her that I had more than I could possibly eat, and she
smiled graciously upon me and withdrew. She is like the policeman and
Jemima and the sales-lady in her unconsciousness of caste, but with
a difference. What that difference is puzzles me when I have time to
think about it.