“SLEEPY HOLLOW, A LAND OF DREAMS”
For the first time in her life she now beheld a lady for whom there is
no English expression so good as the French, “a grande dame.”
There was still daylight in Madame Van Mater’s drawing room, but she
stood for a moment in the center of her doorway staring with brilliant,
hard, black eyes from one guest to the other and slightly inclining her
head. Then she walked over to the high, carved chair near the tea table
and sat down under the picture of the little boy. Feeble from old age,
she was yet of too determined a spirit to accept help from any one, for
when Donald tried to slip a cushion under her feet, she calmly motioned
it away. Her hair, which was snow white, was piled high on her head by a
careful maid; her skin, showing the remorseless touch of age, was yet as
delicately powdered and rouged as if she had been an actress about to
make her debut, and she was carefully dressed in a gown of deep purple
silk with lace at her throat and old amethysts. And yet no art or effort
could hide the ravages of age and of sorrow in the face, though the
coldness of her air and expression suggested that she would have
repelled grief as well as love whenever she was humanly able.
The atmosphere of the old drawing room was not any more cheerful after
its hostess had entered. Indeed, no one in the room seemed to be able to
speak except Miss Winthrop, for Mrs. Harmon was plainly ill at ease and
even Elizabeth had been taught to treat this wealthy old aunt, whose
fortune she expected some day to share with her brother, with more
respect than she showed to any one else in the world.
Unconsciously the young people, including Jessica Hunt, had huddled
close together, solemnly drinking their tea but having little to say to
one another.
Finally a cold voice made the five of them jump and Jean was barely able
to suppress a giggle. “Donald,” Madame Van Mater said, “bring the girl,
whom you tell me you met in the West and who bears so strange a
resemblance to your mother, closer to me. I think all resemblances are
ridiculous and yet you have made me curious.”
Why on earth should Olive be made the center of all eyes when of all
things she most hated it, and yet what else was there for her to do in
this instance but to arise and allow Donald to lead her across the room
to his aunt? Donald’s eyes begged forgiveness for the old woman’s
peremptory manner, and yet he showed no sign of disobedience.
“Turn on the electric light,” Madame Van Mater ordered, for the dusk was
creeping into the big room. And under the light, facing her hostess,
Olive waited with Mrs. Harmon only a few feet away.
It was unlike this shy, delicate girl on meeting with strangers even to
raise her eyes to theirs, and yet she now stared straight at Madame Van
Mater with a gaze as fixed and direct as hers and almost as searching
and haughty. For Olive’s emotion was immediately one of the deepest
antagonism toward this woman, however old she might be, who summoned her
as a queen might summon a subject.
Beginning at the girl’s feet, Madame Van Mater surveyed her slowly
through a pair of gold-rimmed lorgnettes, her eyes, of course, resting
longest on Olive’s face. And was the sigh she drew one of relief as she
turned again to Donald and to Mrs. Harmon? “I do not see the least
likeness in this girl to any member of my family,” she announced.
“Whatever her name may be, her appearance is quite foreign and I should
prefer never to have the subject of this resemblance mentioned again.”
And nodding her head, the old lady apparently dismissed Olive to her
seat.
But Miss Winthrop caught at her pupil’s hand as she passed her drawing
her down toward her. “Let me look at you, Olive,” she murmured. “I had
not heard of this fancy of Donald’s, but it has seemed to me that I have
seen some one a little like you somewhere, I fancied in some old
picture.” Then smiling she shook her head. “No, Donald, I can’t say I
see any likeness to your mother, and yet, after all, perhaps there is
enough of a suggestion of her for you not to be altogether snubbed.”
And now at last Olive was permitted to return to her chair, where she
sat down pretending to look out of the window, though all the time she
was feeling hot and rebellious at the scene in which she had just been
compelled to play an unwilling part. Why, because she was so uncertain
of her ancestry, should she be forced to go through these moments that
made the fact more bitterly painful to her?
Donald guessed at Olive’s feelings, for though the ranch girls had tried
their best to keep her story from the ears of the Harmons during their
stay at Rainbow Lodge, a part of it Donald, his sister and mother had
learned through Aunt Ellen, through the cowboys on the ranch and through
one or two of their closest neighbors. And for this reason the young
fellow was perhaps even more interested in this half Indian girl. Now he
wished very much to help her escape from the unpleasant situation into
which his own idle talk had led her.
Donald turned to Jean and Jessica Hunt. “I wonder if you and Miss
Ralston would care to come and look over the old house with me?” he
asked “It is so old that it is quite worth seeing and I am sure that
Elizabeth will excuse us.”
Elizabeth did not pretend that she enjoyed the idea of being left with
only the older people, but as Jacqueline Ralston was the only one of the
ranch girls for whom she deeply cared, she made no objection,
particularly as no one waited for her to speak. For Jean fairly bounced
from her chair with relief, Jessica Hunt rose immediately and Olive soon
after, feeling that she would surely turn to stone if she were obliged
to remain another moment in the room with the old mistress of “The
Towers.”
Once out in the hall, the party of young people appeared suddenly to
have been released from prison. Jean danced a two-step, Jessica clapped
her hands softly together and Olive laughed, while Donald straightway
plunged head first up the dark mahogany steps. “Do come on upstairs,” he
begged, “for there isn’t much time and Miss Hunt knows the house well
enough to tell you that it is the tower room where we have the great
view that is most interesting. Please save your breath, for we have
rather a long climb.”
Immediately after Donald, Jean climbed and then Olive and then Jessica.
Of course, the first two flights of stairs were like those in any
ordinary house, but the third was a queer spiral resembling the steps in
a lighthouse. About midway up these steps Jessica noticed that Olive
paused, pressing her hands to her eyes as though to shut out some idea
or some vision that assailed her, and that she wavered as though she
felt faint.
“What is the matter, Olive, are you ill?” Jessica inquired, knowing that
climbing to unexpected heights often has this effect on sensitive
persons. And though Olive now shook her head, moving on again, Jessica
determined to watch her.
To Jean’s openly expressed surprise the tower room was not a small,
closet-like place as she had supposed, but a big, spacious apartment out
of which the little gabled windows winked like so many friendly eyes.
The room was fitted up as a boy’s room with a bed apparently just ready
to be slept in, there was a trapeze at one end and a punching bag, but
the bookcases were filled with books of all kinds and for all ages,
French, Spanish and German books and plays from the days of the miracle
plays down to the English comedies. Olive looked at these books for a
long time and then went over to a far corner of the room which seemed to
be a small museum, for rusty swords and old pistols were hung on the
walls, a shield and a helmet and the complete figure of a knight in
armor stood in one corner. Curious why these masculine trophies should
interest a girl, and yet for some reason they did interest Olive, for
she waited there alone; Jessica, Jean and Donald having gone over to one
of the windows were gazing out over the countryside made famous the
world over through its history and legend, “Sleepy Hollow, the Land of
Dreams.”
Jean beckoned to Olive. “Come over here, dear, if you wish to see the
view,” she begged, “for the sun will be going down in the next few
minutes.”
And in a moment, taking tight hold of Jean’s hand, Olive also looked out
the window. She saw the little brook and a bit of the bridge over which
they had lately passed, with the stretch of woodlands to one side and
the autumn-colored hills rising in the background. Very quietly she
began to speak:
“Not far from the village, perhaps about two miles, there is a little
valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the
quietest places in the whole world. A small brook glides through it,
with just murmur enough to lull one to repose; and the occasional
whistle of a quail or tapping of a woodpecker is almost the only sound
that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity.”
These words Olive repeated with her eyes still on the landscape and her
lips moving as though she were reciting a verse of poetry long ago
forgotten and now brought back to mind by the objects that inspired it.
It was so utterly unlike Olive to be drawing attention to herself by
reciting that Jean stared at her in blank amazement, but neither Donald
Harmon nor Miss Hunt appeared in the least surprised and after a moment,
as though again striking the strings of her memory, the young girl went
on: “If ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal from the
world and its distractions, and dream quietly away the remnant of a
troubled life, I know of none more promising than this little valley.”
And then her recitation abruptly ended.
“What on earth are you spouting, Olive Ralston?” Jean demanded; “or tell
us, please, if you are composing an essay on the spur of the moment to
impress your English teacher?”
Jessica laughed. “Ignorant child, not to know what Olive is repeating! I
should have taught it you before now, but Olive seems to have gotten
ahead of me and learned it first.”
“But what is it?” Jean insisted. “The idea of Olive’s memorizing a thing
like that and then waiting for a critical minute to recite it so as to
impress her audience. I never should have suspected her!”
But as Olive made no answer to her friend’s teasing, Jessica said in
explanation: “Why, Olive has just recited Washington Irving’s
description of this countryside, which he gives in his ‘Legend of Sleepy
Hollow,’ and when you get back to school, Jean, I advise you to ask
Olive to lend you her book.”
Downstairs the little party broke up and on the way back to Primrose
Hall, Olive walked close beside Miss Winthrop. At first both the woman
and the girl were silent, but as they neared the school Olive spoke
suddenly:
“Miss Winthrop, I suppose most everybody in the world knows the feeling
of coming to a strange place and all at once thinking that you have been
there before, seen the same things or people and even heard the same
words said?”
Miss Winthrop nodded, trying to study Olive’s face closely and yet not
appearing too deeply interested, although the girl’s expression was both
puzzled and intent.
“Why, yes, Olive, it is a very usual experience,” she answered. “No one
can understand or explain it very well, but the impression is more apt
to come to you when you are young. I can recall once having gone into a
ballroom and there having had some one make a perfectly ordinary speech
to me and yet I had a sudden sensation almost of faintness, so sure was
I that at some past time I had been in the same place, under the same
circumstances and heard the same speech, and yet I knew at the time it
was impossible.”
“But can one remember actual words that may have been spoken in a
certain place? I don’t see how a thing can suddenly pop into one’s mind
without our remembering where we have learned it before,” Olive
persisted.
Miss Winthrop took the girl’s hand in hers. “My dear,” she said quietly,
“I think there are many wonderful things in the world around us that we
do not believe in because we do not yet understand them, just as long
years ago men and women did not believe that our world was round because
it had not then been revealed to them. And so I do not understand about
these strange psychical experiences about which we have just been
talking. But I recall a remarkable book by Du Maurier, one of the most
remarkable novels I have ever read, called ‘Peter Ibbetson.’ In this
story there is a song whose refrain is ever repeated in the hero’s mind
from the time he is a little boy all through his life. He does not
understand why he remembers this song, but by and by it is explained to
the reader that this song had played an important part in the life of
one of Peter Ibbetson’s ancestors. And just as we can inherit the color
of our eyes, the shape of our nose, a queer trait of character from some
far-off ancestor, so Du Maurier wrote that we might inherit some mental
impression, like the lines of this song. It is a difficult thing to
understand, but the idea is interesting.”
“It is very,” Olive replied. “I think I should like to read the book.”
Miss Winthrop again turned to study Olive’s face, but the darkness of
the late fall afternoon had now fallen completely.
“May I ask if you have had any queer experience, Olive? Have you ever
felt that you have been in a certain place before, where you know you
could never really have been, or have you thought suddenly of something
that you did not remember having in your mind before? But please do not
answer me if you would rather not, for I know that these queer
experiences most of us would rather keep to ourselves.”
“Thank you,” was Olive’s unsatisfactory answer as the four women started
up the outside steps of Primrose Hall.