THE CAMP ON THE OVERLOOK
Mountain Camp was rightly named, for it was built on the side of one
mountain and was facing another. Between the two eminences was a lake at
least five miles long and almost as broad. The wind had blown so hard
during the blizzard that the snow had not piled upon the ice at all,
although it was heaped man-high along the edges. The pool of blue ice
stretched away from before Mountain Camp like a huge sheet of plate glass.
The two storied, rambling house, built of rough logs on the outside, stood
on a plateau called the Overlook forty feet above the surface of the lake.
Indeed the spot did overlook the whole high valley.
The hills sloped down from this height in easy descents to the plains.
Woods masked every topographical contour of the surrounding country. Such
woods as Betty Gordon and her friends had never seen before.
"Virginia forests are not like this," confessed Louise Littell. "The pines
are never so tall and there is not so much hardwood. Dear me! see that
dead pine across the lake. It almost seems to touch the sky, it is so
tall."
This talk took place the next morning when they had all rested and, like
all healthy young things, were eager for adventure. They had been welcomed
by Mr. and Mrs. Canary in a way that put the most bashful at ease.
Even Ida Bellethorne had soon recovered from that sense of strangeness
that had at first overpowered her. The girls had been able to help her out
a little in the matter of dress. She appeared at the dinner table quite as
one of themselves. Betty would not hear of Ida's withdrawing from the
general company, and for a particular reason.
In truth, Betty felt a little condemned. She had considered a suspicion of
Ida's honesty, and afterward she knew it could not be so! The English girl
had no appearance of a dishonest person. Betty saw that Uncle Dick was
favorably disposed toward Ida. If he did not consider her all right he
surely would not have introduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Canary as one of his
party.
Nor did Uncle Dick allow Ida to tell her story the evening they arrived at
the camp on the Overlook. "To-morrow will do for that," he had said.
At breakfast time there were so many plans for exciting adventure
discussed that Betty surely would have forgotten all about Ida
Bellethorne's expected explanation had it not been for the lost locket.
The possibility that Ida knew something about it had so impressed Betty
that nothing else held her interest for long.
Every one had brought skates from Fairfields, and the great expanse of
blue ice--no ice is so blue as that of a mountain lake--was unmarked.
Naturally skating was the very first pleasure that beckoned.
"Oh, I'm just crazy to get on skates!" cried Bobby.
"I think I'll be glad to do some skating myself," came from Libbie, who
had been reading a book even before breakfast.
"What do you say to a race on skates?" came from Tommy Tucker.
"I think we had better get used to skating up here before we talk about a
race," said Bob. "This ice looks tremendously hard and slippery. You won't
be able to do much on your skates unless they are extra sharp."
"Oh, I had 'em sharpened."
"Don't forget to wrap up well," admonished Mrs. Canary. "Sometimes it gets
pretty cold and windy."
"Not to say anything about its being cold already," answered Bobby. "My,
but the wind goes right through a person up here!"
While the other seven ran off for skates and wraps, Betty nodded to Uncle
Dick and then, tucking her arm through that of Ida Bellethorne, urged her
to follow Mr. Gordon from the breakfast room to a little study, or "den,"
that was possibly Mr. Canary's own.
"Now, girls," said Uncle Dick in his quiet, pleasant way and smiling with
equal kindness upon his niece and the English girl, "let us get
comfortable and open our hearts to each other. I think you know, Ida, that
Betty and I are immensely interested in your story and we are hungry for
the details. But not altogether out of mere curiosity. We hope to give you
aid in some way to make your situation better. Understand?"
"Oh, Mr. Gordon, I quite understand that," said the English girl seriously
and without smiling. "I never saw such friendly people as you are. And you
both strangers to me! If I were at home I couldn't find better friends, I
am sure."
"That's fine!" declared Uncle Dick. "It is exactly the way I want you to
feel. Betty and I are interested. Now suppose you sit down and tell us all
about it."
"Where shall I begin?" murmured the girl thoughtfully, hesitating.
"If I were you," returned Uncle Dick, with a smile, "I would begin at the
beginning."
"Oh, but that's so very far back!"
"Never mind that. One of the most foolish mistakes which I see in
educational methods is to give the children lessons in modern history
without any reference to ancient history which comes to them in higher
grades. Ancient history should be gone into first. Suppose, Ida, you begin
with ancient history."
"Before Ida Bellethorne was born, do you mean?" asked the English girl
doubtfully.
"Which Ida Bellethorne do you mean?" asked Mr. Gordon, while Betty stared.
"I was thinking of my beautiful black mare. The darling! She is seven
years old now, Mr. Gordon; but I think that in those seven years enough
has happened to me to make me feel three times seven years old."
"Go ahead, Ida," said the gentleman cheerfully. "Tell it in your own way."
Thus encouraged, the girl began, and she did tell it in her own way. But
it was not a brief way, and both Mr. Gordon and Betty asked questions and
that, too, increased the difficulty of Ida's telling her story.
She had been the only living child of Gwynne Bellethorne, who had been a
horse breeder and sometimes a turfman in one of the lower English
counties. She had been motherless since her third birthday. Her only
living relative was her father's sister, likewise Ida Bellethorne, who had
been estranged from her brother for several years and had made her own
way on the continent and later in America on the concert stage.
Ida, the present Ida, remembered seeing her aunt but once. She had come to
Bellethorne Park the very week the black mare was foaled. When they all
went out to see the little, awkward, kicking colt in the big box stall,
separated from its whinnying mother by a strong barred fence, the owner of
the stables had laughingly named the filly after his sister.
"But," Ida told them, "father told Aunt Ida that the filly was to be my
property. He had, I think, suffered many losses even then. He made a bill
of sale, or something, making the filly over to me; but I was a minor, and
after father died my guardian had that bill of sale. He showed it to me
once. I don't see how Mr. Bolter could have bought my lovely mare when I
got none of the money for her."
This was not, however, sticking to the main thread of the story. Ida knew
that although her aunt had come to the Park in amity, there was a quarrel
between her father and aunt before the haughty and beautiful concert
singer went away, never more to appear at Bellethorne, not even to attend
her brother's funeral.
Before that sad happening the mare, Ida Bellethorne, had come to full
growth and as a three-year-old had made an astonishing record on the
English race tracks. The year Mr. Bellethorne died he had planned to ship
her to France for the Grand Prix. Her name was in the mouths of every
sportsman in England and her fame had spread to the United States.
The death of her father had signaled the breaking up of her home and the
severing of all home ties for Ida. Like many men of his class, Mr.
Bellethorne had had no close friends. At least, no honorable friends. The
man he had chosen as the administrator of his wrecked estate and the
guardian of his unfortunate daughter, Ida felt sure had been dishonorable.
There seemed nothing left for Ida when the estate was "settled." One day
Ida Bellethorne, the mare, had disappeared, and Ida the girl could learn
nothing about her or what had been done with her. At that she had run away
from her guardian, had made her way to Liverpool, had taken service with
an American family sailing for the United States, and so had reached New
York.
"I found a letter addressed to Aunt Ida after my father died," explained
the girl, choking back a sob. "On the envelope in pencil father had
written to me to find Aunt Ida and give it to her. He hoped she would
forgive him and take some interest in me. I've got that letter safe in
here." She touched the belt that held her blouse down so snugly. "I hope
I'll find Aunt Ida and be able to give her the letter. I remember her as a
most beautiful, tall woman. I loved her on sight. But, I don't know----"
"Cheer up!" exclaimed Mr. Gordon, beamingly. "We'll find her. I take it
upon myself to say that Betty and I will find her for you. Sha'n't we,
Betty?"
"Indeed we will. If she is singing in this country of course it will be
comparatively easy to find her."
"Do you think so?" asked Ida Bellethorne doubtfully. "I have not found it
so, and I have been searching for her for three months now. This is such a
big country! I never imagined it so big until I began to look for Aunt
Ida. It seems like looking for a needle in a haystack."