But moved in a harmony firm and sweet.
As she passed from view I looked down at the trio below me. Mrs.
Northrup was regarding her brother curiously, and I don't think either
she or I was at all surprised when he turned, his face aglow with
enthusiasm, and said: “What a lovely girl!” Then, with quick change of
tone, “Who is that man with her?”
“Lovely as a Prang,” remarked my lady, dryly. “The man is your hated
rival, of whom you are already madly jealous. He is young, beautiful
and rich, dances divinely, speaks _real_ English and has very nearly
a tablespoonful of brains--not that he needs such a preponderance of
brain, for he has enough money to make a social success of a
jibbering idiot. His name is Francis Floyd-Jones, but we speak of him
affectionately as 'Fluggeon,' and those that know him best sometimes
lovingly refer to him as 'Balaam's Ass'--but you'll like him, Harry.”
Van Zandt's reply I did not hear, as I discreetly moved away; but
I heard both men laugh, and I joined them heartily when at a safe
distance.
When we landed I found we were all bound for the same hotel, a capital
one, named for and kept by one of a famous hotel-keeping family. The
Northrups' little girl, a madcap child of six, was on the lawn waiting
the return of her parents and the arrival of her uncle, of whom she was
evidently very fond, although she abandoned him speedily in order to hug
and kiss his superb Irish setter, Blarney, who licked the small imp's
face calmly and appeared in his grave dog's way genuinely glad to see
her.
Ethel, as I found out in a day or two, had taken one of those intense
fancies that children do occasionally to almost entire strangers to “the
lady in rouge,” and would escape to her whenever chance permitted. Poor
Mrs. Northrup! Her ranks were deserters to the enemy. Her husband openly
admired the gorgeously-tinted girl, her child simply worshipped her, her
brother had palpably fallen in love at first sight, and, when we came
out from dinner, it was found that Blarney had dumbly sworn allegiance
to the violet of two zones and could with difficulty be induced to leave
her. The dog's infatuation was put to-practical service by his master
during the next few weeks, for that astute young gentleman, when unable
to discover the whereabouts of his idol by peering and prowling, would
take one of Blarney's silky ears in his hand and whisper, “Go, find
her, boy,” which the clever animal promptly proceeded to do, usually
successfully, though often the search would receive a check on the edge
of the lake and be resumed after a run of a mile on the island.
Madame Nell and I soon discovered that we had a host of common friends
in New York and Washington, and that an uncle on her mother's side (poor
Dick Whitney, who was lost on the _Ville de Havre_) had been a classmate
of mine at Harvard forty odd years before. These kindly young people
were as good and affectionate to me as though I had been a relative, and
the heart of a lonely old man went out to them gratefully and lovingly.
By the way, I am tempted to repeat a compliment that I overheard toward
the end of the summer, because it was the pleasantest and heartiest I
ever had paid to me, or rather about me. Charge it to the garrulity of
age or simple conceit, but here it is:
I came up behind them one dark night on the piazza, just as Mrs.
Northrop turned to her husband and said: “Do you know, Tom, dear, I
think Dr. Zobel is the very nicest old man I ever knew; he has the head
of a sage and the fresh, pure heart of a little child.”
[Illustration: 0316]
There was a hop that first evening in the large drawing room of the
hotel, and a little while before the music began I wandered in to find
three or four small groups talking and laughing, among them Van Zandt
and his sister. She made room for me on the sofa, and said I should be
her attendant cavalier, as she did not intend to dance. We chatted a
bit and then madame began a running commentary on the people as they
entered.
“The Robinsons--papa, mamma and daughter. Papa looketh upon the wine
when it is red. Mamma is a devout Catholic. Daughter openly defies both
parents and, I am convinced, hath a devil. I have ventured to rename
them 'Rum, Romanism and Rebellion.'”
“What De Quincy would call 'an overt act of alliteration,' Nell,” said
Van Zandt, and added: “Who is the imposing-looking old girl leading the
small, meek man?”
“Where? Oh! of course. The lion and the lamb. Mrs. Colter is literary,
writes things, reads Browning understanding (happy woman!), quotes Greek
to people that never harmed her, and herds the lamb, who never has
any capers in his sauce, and who is, I am told, her third matrimonial
venture.”
“A fulfillness of prophecy,” murmured Harry, “'And the lion and the lamb
shall lie down together.'”
“Harry, you are incorrigible. The young man of peculiarly unwholesome
appearance who has just sneaked in is, I am morally certain, Uriah Heep,
though he says his name is Penrose. That [as a handsome old lady of
large proportions came into the room] is Miss Eldridge. She is very
nice, but is omnipresent, so we call her 'The Almighty,' Her escort
is Mr. Hinton; he is the biggest, jolliest and--except my Tom--the
bestnatured man here. Everyone calls him 'Jumbo' or 'Billy' Look out for
him, Buz; he is another rival and determined to have the chromo at any
price. There she is with 'Buttons' in tow, and the disconsolate 'Wafer'
vainly endeavoring to console himself with his divinity's aunt.”
The young gentlemen were aptly named. The first, a handsome young West
Pointer on furlough, in all the glory of cadet gray and a multitude of
bell buttons; the other, a pleasant-faced fellow, surprisingly tall and
thin. Nell had introduced Van Zandt and me to Miss Solander and her
aunt shortly after dinner, and I had had a very pleasant chat with
the stately, whitehaired old lady, who was so proud and fond of her
exquisite niece. She was Mr. Solander's sister and the widow of Captain
Dupont of the French Navy.
Several friends of Mrs. Northrup joined her, and Van Zandt excused
himself and went to make one of the little group of men around Miss
Solander, followed by a parting injunction from his sister to remember
that benzine would remove paint spots if applied while they were fresh.
Beautiful as this flower-faced girl was at all times, by lamp light and
in evening dress she was lovely beyond all power of words to express,
and as I came to know her I found that her beauty was not alone in her
superb coloring, in the perfect lines of her face and figure or in her
exuberant health, but was in her life; for she was--and is--that rare,
sweet thing, a womanly woman, brave, strong, gentle, generous, pure of
heart and clean of thought, a lover of truth, a hater of meanness, with
a mind broadened by travel and burnished by attrition; and she carried,
moreover, a cloak of charity of such wide and ample fold that it fell
lovingly over even the follies and frailties of those weaker ones of her
own sex and was proof against the arrows of envy.
With old people and children she was a great favorite; the men were her
enthusiastic admirers, and a good half dozen of them were helplessly,
hopelessly, over head and ears in love with her; but a number of the
young married women and girls professed strong disapproval of her,
on similar grounds to those outlined by Mrs. Northrup on the steamer,
though I had my private suspicions that, in some cases at least, they
were a trifle jealous of the attention she received from the men, who,
as is generally the case at summer resorts, were not overabundant. Mrs.
Northrup's dislike was an honest one, for she firmly believed the girl
was artificial, and having carefully avoided an intimacy knew but little
of the lovely nature and bright mind that no one was better fitted to
appreciated than she.
Besides, Madame Nell was a born matchmaker and wanted her adored
brother to marry her particular friend and crony, Miss Carrie Belmont,
a brighteyed, keen-witted, merry little soul, who took nothing seriously
except medicine and had about as much fixedness of purpose as a
month-old kitten. To a man like Van Zandt, who needed both the curb and
spur of a mentality as strong and earnest as his own, she would have
been about as valuable a helpmeet as was poor little Dora to David
Copperfield. But Nell was fond of the pretty, clever little creature,
felt sure (as our mothers and sisters, God bless 'em! always do) that
her brother was thoroughly incapable of picking out the right kind of
a wife, and weeks before he came had perceived in Miss Solander's
marvelous loveliness a dangerous and powerful factor in the personal
equations she wished to make equal to each other, so that by the
transposition of matrimony they should become one.
Of course this knowledge came to me gradually; but even that first
evening, as Van Zandt and Miss Solander passed near us in the waltz, I
could see that he was wonderfully taken with his fair partner. For the
next few days he was more or less the victim of some little sisterly
traps that were set with great tact and amused Northrup and me
immensely. Then my young gentleman escaped and made great running,
distancing “Buttons,” “The Wafer,” “Balaam's Ass,” and the rest of what
Nell called the “fry,” and crowding Hinton closely for what each felt
was his life's race for a prize that might be for neither of them. They
were a nice, manly, generous pair of rivals, and I never saw either take
an unfair advantage of the other. I remember one day I was fishing,
when they both rushed down to their boats and started for the island
at racing stroke. Just as they were abreast of me Van Zandt, who was
leading, broke a rowlock, and Hinton forged ahead; but the moment he saw
what had occurred he backed water, tossed Harry an extra rowlock, waited
until he had put it in, and then away they went again.
Which was the favored one it was for some time difficult to decide, as
the girl was evidently used to a great deal of attention, and accepted
it gracefully and even gratefully; but yet somehow as though it was a
matter of course. She took many things as matters of course, by the way,
among others her beauty, of which she was as little vain as a flower
is of its color or perfume, and she labored under the pleasant delusion
that men liked her simply because she could dance and ride and row and
shoot and play tennis. There was another thing she played beside tennis,
and that was the banjo, and it seemed to me that her rich, flexible
contralto, the liquid tingle of the banjo and the Spanish words of the
song she loved best to sing, made a harmony as soft and sweet as the
fragrant, moonlit nights of her Southern home.
Until I read the generous and intelligent praise of the banjo by the
gifted pen of America's greatest writer of romance, I had been rather
diffident of expressing my liking for this charming instrument, partly
because it was rather impressed upon me by my parents, who were a little
tinged with Puritanism, that it was low, and partly because a musical
friend, whose opinion in matters harmonic I always deferred to, disliked
it; but, under the rose, I thought it delicious, and many years ago I
used to wander pretty often to a beer garden in New York, where an old
darky named Horace touched the strings with a master's hand and drew
from them the half sad, half merry, but wholly sweet melodies of his
child-hearted race, which always struck some responsive chord in me that
no other music ever did.
There was a good deal of musical talent in the three hotels that
summer. Miss Solander, Miss Belmont, Hinton and Van Zandt were a capital
quartet; Mrs. Robinson was an accomplished pianist and accompanist;
a young girl from Troy sang Irish songs to a zither delightfully;
“Buttons” gave us the lays of West Point, and “Balaam's Ass,” as Mrs.
Northrup expressed it, “really brayed very melodiously.”
Van Zandt had one decided advantage over the other men in his wooing,
for he had brought his own saddle horse with him, and as Miss Solander
had hers, a beautiful and very fast bay mare, and was an enthusiastic
horsewoman, riding nearly every day, wet or dry, he frequently managed
to be her escort.
They asked me to go with them one morning for a long ride through the
mountains, and as it was not impossible that we might see a deer or some
birds Miss Viola took her repeating shotgun, a pretty and close-shooting
little weapon with which she was very expert, and Van Zandt and I our
Stevens rifles.
My mount was the best to be had in the village, and was a strong, slow
animal, intended by nature to grace a plow.
It was a grand day, crisp and clear, and the first level stretch of road
we came to my young companions decided to have a race. Away they went,
Blarney and I at an increasing interval behind them. At a turn in the
road, about a quarter of a mile ahead, Harry's big gray was leading
the mare by a good length, and when they rejoined me Miss Solander
acknowledged her defeat handsomely, but put in a saving clause for her
pet by adding, “She runs her best when frightened. I don't think even
your splendid gray could catch her if we saw a bear.”
Harry laughed pleasantly, said he imagined his horse, too, might develop
unexpected speed under such circumstances, and we cantered on. A little
before noon we left the main road and struck into a bridle path that
led through a dense pine forest, utterly impassable by reason of fallen
trees and underbush, except on the narrow trail. We had not gone
far when our way seemed barred by a huge dead pine that had fallen
slantingly across the path and rested on a great boulder on the other
side. It was too high to jump near the roots without great danger and
the triangular opening by the rock did not look high enough for a horse
to go through. However, we dismounted and managed to get the animals
through, though there was very little room to spare.
In about half a mile we came to the edge of the wood, and the trail
widened out to ten or twelve feet, bordered by a dense second growth
of ash. Perhaps a thousand yards farther on Blarney became excited over
some fresh tracks in the sandy soil, which we found were those of a deer
that had passed only a few minutes before, as was shown by a clump of
fern that was slowly straightening its crushed and bent fronds by the
side of the narrow road. Miss Solander and I halted, while Harry
rode quietly on ahead after Blarney, who was acting rather queerly, I
thought, following the deer track for a few feet, then pausing, with
nose in the air and bristling back, to snuff the air and growl. Van
Zandt spoke to him, and the dog went steadily and slowly forward. He was
a clever beast and the only setter I ever saw that could hunt all
kinds of game well. Miss Solander promptly emptied the magazine of her
shotgun, and refilled it with wire cartridges loaded with “buck and
ball.”
I was watching Van Zandt, who was a few hundred feet away, when there
was a crashing noise in the brush, and midway between him and us a
good-sized black bear stepped out on the trail. My horse made a buck
jump that nearly unseated me and backed half his length into the bush.
Bang! Bang! went Miss Viola's gun. The bear stumbled, gave a roar of
pain and rage, and started for us. The mare plunged wildly, wheeled
about sharply and flew back by the way we came. The brute I rode was
paralyzed with terror and I could not budge him, nor did I dare to shoot
for fear of hitting Van Zandt, and my position of course kept his rifle
silent. But he took in the situation at a glance, fired in the air, gave
a yell that a panther might have envied, and came toward us at a gallop.
[Illustration: 0326]
The bear turned to look at this new enemy, and rose promptly on his
hind legs to receive him. I saw the gray swerve slightly, heard a savage
“Jump, ------ you!” from Van Zandt, saw his spurs go home, and then the
great horse rise to the leap and skim over the bear in a splendid arch.
Blarney, who was just behind his master, was not so fortunate. He lit
fairly on the bear, and was sadly scratched and bitten before he got
away. Van Zandt shouted, “I must catch her before she gets to the fallen
tree!” and went by me like a whirlwind. It was not much over a mile, she
had a hundred yards and more the start of him, and the mare was going
like the wind. I fired a shot as soon as the gray passed me, and the
report seemed to rouse my horse, who, oblivious to spur and voice, had
cowered shivering in the brush, for he shook himself, snorted, took
a last look at the bear, which was preparing to join the procession,
turned tail and fled, developing speed of which I would not have
believed him capable.
It was a horrible ride, not on account of the bear, which might have
been a mouse for all the thought I gave it, but because there, ahead of
me, in that narrow road, a beautiful girl, just blossoming into splendid
womanhood, was rushing to an awful, ghastly death, and a few cruel yards
behind her the man that loved her and would so gladly have given his
life for hers. Oh, how my heart ached for him, and how I wished the old
man that was third in that terrible race might die instead of that sweet
child-woman! Could he overtake her? He was spurring fiercely and the
gray was doing his best; but though the gap between them was closing,
it was closing slowly--and we had entered the wood. Yes, he was surely
gaining now, sixty feet more and he would have her. But there was the
tree, and he couldn't reach her in time. I covered my eyes with my hands
and turned sick and faint. Then came back to me in a man's voice grown
shrill with agony, one word, and following it crash! crash! in rapid
succession, and again the sound of the hurrying hoof beats.
I opened my eyes. Was I blinded by my tears? There were no dreadful
bundles under the tree. Then that word, with its fierce, imperious note
of command, which had conveyed no meaning to me in that first awful
moment, came through the porch of the outer ear, where it had lingered,
into the brain, and I understood--“Jump!” He had taken the one chance
left to them at the last moment, shrieked his order at her, and she
had obeyed, lifting her mare to a leap that looked impossible. He had
followed her, and they had cleared it safely, for I could see their
heads over the fallen trunk. I checked my horse, dismounted, led him
through the opening and galloped on again.
In a few moments I had the pleasure of seeing the gray range up
alongside of the mare and Van Zandt seize her bridle. I joined them and
found they were sound in life and limb. Harry was standing by the mare's
head, quieting her, and somehow he had gotten possession of a little
gauntleted hand and was looking at the girl with a world of love in his
fine eyes. She was quite pale, but her face was steadfast and strong,
and in it as she met Van Zandt's look frankly was the dawning of
something that she was unaware of yet, something that, if she lived
would crown her lover's life with happiness “sweet beyond compare”--and
my old heart was glad for them both.
Neither Blarney nor the bear was in sight, and as I had hung on to my
rifle half unconsciously I proposed going back to look for the dog, but
they insisted on accompanying me, and Miss Solander showed her own gun
in its carbine holster with the flap buttoned. I tell you it took nerve
for a girl on a runaway horse to do that bit of work. Well, we went
cautiously back, Van Zandt holding a strap fastened to the mare's
bridle, and I on ahead. Nothing in sight until we got out of the wood
and had made a slight turn. Then we saw Blarney, very ragged and bloody,
but with an air of proud ownership, sniffing around the dead body of
the bear. We had some trouble in bringing up the horses, but managed it
finally.
Everyone seemed to feel after that that Van Zandt would win and wear
the violet. Even Mrs. Northrup was preparing to bow gracefully to
the inevitable, when Ethel came on the scene in the rôle of “enfante
terrible” and spoke her little piece.
It was a lovely summer afternoon. The next day, Monday, was Miss Viola's
twenty-first birthday; her father was to arrive by the evening boat,
and several of the young men had planned rowing and sailing races in her
honor. Mr. and Mrs. Northrup, Miss Belmont, Hinton and I were chatting
in a little summer house just by the edge of the lake, and a few feet
away, Viola, Harry and Ethel were skipping flat stones over the water.
In a pause in our talk, which had been of Byron, just after someone had
quoted:
She was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all,
We were all looking at the trio outside and speculating probably upon
the future of two of them, when we saw Ethel seize Miss Solander's hand,
look up at her adoringly, and heard her say, in her childish pipes:
“You're so pretty! Why does mamma called you 'the colored lady?' You're
not a nigger, are you?”
The girl flushed painfully, but stooped, kissed the child and, looking
straight at Mrs. Northrup, said very gently: “No, dear; and if mamma
knew me better she would not think I was colored.” Then she turned,
bowed slightly and walked rapidly up the beach. Nell burst into tears,
Van Zandt muttered something that didn't sound like a prayer and tore
after his lady love. Northrup was so startled and angry that, instead of
comforting his wife, he gave her a little shake and exploded with: “It's
too ----- ---------- bad! A nice mess you and the brat have made of
things!” Then, as the ludicrous side of the affair appealed to his
fun-loving nature: “To save time, I'll spank Ethel while you roll out the
crust of a nice, re: “To save time, I'll spank Ethel while you roll out
the crust of a nice, big humble pie.”
Hinton and Miss Belmont slunk off, and I was preparing to follow them,
when the unhappy little woman sobbed out, “Oh, Doctor, please, please
don't go! Stay and tell me what to do. Tom's so nasty--if you laugh, Tom
dear, I'll kill you.” So I stayed, and while we were consulting what was
best to do Van Zandt came quietly into the summer house, his face and
tightly-closed lips ashen, and his eyes the eyes of a strong man
in pain. Nell rushed at him, exclaiming: “My poor Harry, my darling
brother! I am so sorry; try to forgive me!”
He put her away from him with no show of anger, but very coldly, and
then, very evenly and in an emotionless, mechanical sort of way, he
said: “I have asked Miss Solander to be my wife. She refused me. I hope
you are satisfied. I give you my word of honor that I will never forgive
you, nor speak to you, until she accepts your apology and my love--and
that will be never,” he added, heavily, and half under his breath. There
was no doubt that he meant it and would stick to it, and his sister,
who knew he never broke his word, after one appealing look at him, threw
herself in her husband's arms and sobbed miserably. I followed the boy
and took an old man's privilege. He listened patiently and thanked me
affectionately, but it was of no use. Then I tried to find Miss Viola,
and came across Nell on the same quest; but no one saw her until the
next afternoon.
Monday was cloudy and windy, a real gray day. The races were to begin
at 3 o'clock, and the entire community was gathered on the shore of the
lake. Both Miss Solander and Van Zandt were entered, and I knew their
pride would make them show up. The first race was for ladies in Long
Lake boats over a half mile course and return, six entries, a handicap
of one hundred yards on Miss Solander and fifty on Mrs. Claggett. Viola
beat it handsomely and then rowed directly across to the island, where
she would have a good view of the sailing race, though I think her
object was more to escape the crowd.
[Illustration: 0332]
After an interval of a few minutes three canoes, manned by Hinton, Van
Zandt and another man, came up to the starter's boat.
The canoes got away together, Van Zandt to leeward. They had gone
perhaps a quarter of a mile when a squall from the opposite shore struck
them, and the canoe with the violet pennant (Harry's) went over like a
flash, the other two, with loose sheets, running before the wind. Mrs.
Northrup screamed, and so did several other women; but Van Zandt was a
capital swimmer, and I expected every moment to see him on the bottom of
the canoe.
Half a dozen men started in rowboats, but one shot out from the island
and fairly flew for the capsized craft. It was Viola, and we saw her,
when she reached her goal, stand up, shake off her outer skirts and
dive. I had a powerful glass, and when she came up I saw she had him and
was trying to reach her boat, which was drifting away. She gave that
up and struggled toward the canoe. They went down, and then the rescue
boats hid them. It seemed an eternity before two boats pulled swiftly
toward us. In the first was Van Zandt, a nasty cut on his head and
unconscious, but breathing faintly. In the next, held in the arms of
poor “Buttons,” whose tears were dropping on her lovely white face, was
the sweet child-woman, all the wonderful rose tints gone from lip and
cheek and in its place the sad, cold hue of death. There was no sign of
vitality, and I was hopeless from the first; but we were still working
over her when the steamer came in, and the next thing we knew there was
a heart-broken cry and her father had her in his arms.
Was it the bitter agony and yearning love in that strong man's cry that
called back the fleeing life, or was it the sudden jar of lifting her
and the fierce clasp of her father's arms that started the stilled
lungs? I do not know; but, physician though I am, I incline to the
former solution. Whatever may have been the cause there was a faint
flutter in pulse and breast, and we renewed our efforts. In half an
hour she was breathing softly and the color was coming back to her
bonny face. Her father carried her up to the hotel and her aunt and Mrs.
Northrup got her to bed. She recovered rapidly, but Van Zandt was pretty
ill for about a week, and positively refused to see his sister.
Well, I suppose it was officious and meddlesome in me, but one day when
I knew where Violante was I took Nell's hand in my arm and brought them
together. In a few minutes they were crying over each other in real
womanly fashion, and I prowled off. In about ten minutes little Nell,
her eyes shining with happiness, hunted me up and said, “I want you to
take me to Harry.” She showed me in her hand a beautiful and curious
ring, which I knew was the engagement ring of Miss Viola's mother.
Harry was sitting in an easy chair, with his back to the door, when we
entered, and, without turning his head, he asked, “Is that you, Doctor?”
I answered him, and then Nell stole up behind him, dropped the great
ruby in his lap, and whispered, with a sob in her voice, “With my
dear sister Violante's love.” Harry looked at the ring stupidly for an
instant, then Nell came around in front of him, and he pulled her down
into his arms without a word. And I stole away with wet eyes and a
glad heart, and told the news to Tom and Carrie and that prince of good
fellows, “Jumbo” Hinton.
That is about all. Mr. Solander gave his consent and something more
substantial, and two months later I went to the wedding of “The Lady in
Rouge.”
[Illustration: 0335]
[Illustration: 0336]