had tripped away ("to see about my dinner," they said) I was attracted
by a faded cabinet photograph framed with shells. It was a full length
figure of a young man on horseback. He was dressed something like those
splendid cowboys they took me to see at Earlscourt when I was a little
girl, and the face was Mr. Brett's. It was so handsome and dashing I
could hardly stop staring at it while I washed off the dust of
motoring. Evidently the photograph in its frame has been on the wall a
long time. I am glad they happened to put it in what they call the
"spare room," so I can look at it whenever I like without anyone
noticing.
XVII
ABOUT COWS AND NATIONAL CHARACTERISTICS
When I went downstairs, dinner was ready in a cool, shady dining-room,
with a bare floor painted brown, and a long table down the middle. It
wasn't quite two o'clock, but it turned out that the family had had
their dinner at noon exactly, and this was a meal only for Mr. Brett
and me, with Patty and Ide to bring us things from the kitchen and wait
upon us, while Mrs. Trowbridge flitted in smiling from time to time, to
ask how we were "getting along." It was she who was cooking for us, and
I felt quite distressed at the trouble I was giving, on such a hot day,
too, but she said she was enjoying it.
It was a very funny dinner, according to my ideas, for I never had a
meal a bit like it at home, even when I was small and dined in the
daytime with the governess. But it was tremendously good, though none
of the things went together properly. We had delicious young
chicken--quite babies they were, poor dears--fried with cream; and
wreathed all round our plates in a semicircle were a quantity of tiny
dishes. Each one had a big dab of something different in it; mashed
potatoes, succotash, green peas, a kind of vegetable marrow to which
they gave the unworthy name of "squash," raw tomatoes, sweet green
pickles, preserved strawberries, and goodness knows what all besides;
while, if we stopped eating to breathe or speak, Patty flew in with a
plate of freshly-made things of the most heavenly nature, called corn
fritters. Mrs. Trowbridge beamed all over when I said I should like to
live on them for a month. To drink we had tumblers of iced tea, and
there was raspberry vinegar, too, which we were supposed to swallow
with our dinner; and afterwards there was hot apple pie, with custard
and slabs of cheese to eat at the same time.
We were obliged to eat a good deal of everything, otherwise Mrs.
Trowbridge would have felt hurt, and I felt sleepy when we had
finished, but I refused to go and lie down to rest, as they wanted me
to, it seemed such a waste of time. At last Mr. Trowbridge offered to
show "Cousin Jim" round the farm, and maybe I looked wistful, for when
they found that I was determined not to take a nap, they asked if I
would go with them.
Mr. Trowbridge had on a linen coat now, a long, yellow one, which I
should laugh at if I saw it on the stage in a play, but it suited him,
and he looked quite impressive in it. He fanned himself with a large
straw hat, without any ribbon, and talked splendidly to us, as we three
walked together under the trees.
If any English person should write a novel, and make a farmer in it
talk like Mr. Trowbridge, everyone who read the book would say he was
impossible. His way of speaking was a little slipshod, sometimes
(though not a bit more than ours when we drop our "g's" and things like
that, only more guileless sounding); but without seeming a bit as if he
wanted to show off what he knew--which is so boring--he quoted
Shakespeare, and Wordsworth, and Tennyson; and in mentioning his work
at the hives in the morning, asked if we had read Maeterlinck's "Life of
the Bee." From that he fell to discussing other things of Maeterlinck's
with Mr. Brett, and incidentally talked of Ibsen. There wasn't the
least affectation about it all. The quotations and allusions he made
were mixed up incidentally with conversation about the beauty of the
country, and life on a farm. He was interested in the subjects, and
took it for granted that we were, so he chatted about things he cared
for, modestly and happily.
By and by he left us alone for a few minutes, while he went to speak to
a man who works on the farm. He was going to show us the maple sugar
camp when he came back, and we sat on a felled oak and waited, with a
smell of clover coming to us on the warm breeze, and the "tinkle,
tankle" of cow-bells in the distance.
"What an extraordinary man!" I said to Mr. Brett.
"You mean because he's a farmer," said he, his eyes laughing.
"Well--I suppose I do. But then, of course, he's a gentleman farmer,
not an ordinary one at all."
"He's a gentleman in the way that all the good people in the country
round are gentlefolk, because they're self-respecting and kind-hearted
and intelligent. But he comes of generations of workers. They make no
pretensions to blue blood, though perhaps they may have some in their
veins, and don't think themselves superior socially to their own farm
hands--like that one over there. Nor do they consider themselves
inferior to anybody. Not that they would think of _asserting_ their
claims to equality with your friend Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox, for instance.
They simply take it for granted that they are the equals of any other
American, or for the matter of that, persons of any foreign nations.
You will perhaps hear them talking about your king and queen as
'Edward' and 'Alexandra'; but they won't mean the slightest
disrespect."
"You needn't be afraid I shall misunderstand anything they may do or
say," said I. "My ideas about them are beginning to crystallise
already, as you thought they would. But I'm wondering at them all,
still. They're so utterly new to me, so absolutely different from any
types we have or could have at home."
"What would your mother the Duchess think of them--now, honour bright?
Don't dream you'll hurt my feelings because they're my cousins and we
come of the same stock."
I thought for a minute, and then I said:
"Mother would begin to patronise them graciously at first, as if they
could be classified with our farmers--I mean, the peasant ones, not the
younger-son or poor-gentleman kind. When she found she couldn't, she
would be inclined to resent it. Then, at last, when a dim, puzzled
inkling of the truth came into her head, and she found out that they
knew as much as she about books and politics and all sorts of
things--oh, I can hardly fancy exactly what she would feel; but I'd
trust Mr. and Mrs. Trowbridge or anyone like them not to appear at a
disadvantage with her, whatever she did with them. They wouldn't have
self-consciousness enough to be overawed by her, though she can be so
dreadfully alarming. Why, Mr. Brett, in a way I believe they're like
_Us_--more like us, really, deep down and far back, than a good many
enormously rich people I met at Newport, who think no end of themselves
and live in palaces, and know Royalties abroad. Just as I said once to
Sally--Miss Woodburn--_we_ take ourselves for granted, and then don't
make any more fuss or bother about our manners or whether we're going
to do the right thing or not. But a few of the people even in your Four
Hundred don't seem quite easy in their minds about themselves. I've
never seen anything in big houses at home, where I've been with Mother
or Vic, to come near the luxury of theirs, yet several I've met can't
seem to relax and look thoroughly comfortable, as if they really liked
it. They don't loll about as we do; they only pretend to loll, because
it's in their part in the play they're acting--oh, such a smart,
society kind of play, with lots of changes of dress and scene in every
act. They build castles because it's the smartest thing they can do,
and because grand people always did it a long time ago. Of course, in
old times you had to live in them and couldn't have nice seaside
cottages with balconies, because if you did your enemies shot off your
head, or poured boiling oil on you; but nowadays they merely say horrid
things behind your back, and it's just play-acting to build new ones.
People talk about a man being 'worth' so many millions, as if it didn't
matter what else he's worth, and they seem to be worrying a lot about
themselves. Now, I can't imagine your cousins doing that. They just
take themselves for granted, as we do in England. Their behaviour is
like the air they breathe, and as much a part of themselves as that air
is when it's in their lungs. There's a kind of invisible bond between
our kind of people at home and people like these, I think, if you come
to study it. Partly, it's from having all one's natural interests in
the country, maybe, and not just going into the country from a town to
play. They are real. There's nothing artificial about them."
"You've got hold of things even sooner than I thought you would, Lady
Betty," said Mr. Brett, when I stopped, horrified at myself for my long
harangue, in which I'd been thinking out things as I went on. "But all
the same, though these new types and this pleasant Ohio farm interest
you now, you know you'd rather die than be doomed to live among such
people and in such a place."
"Perhaps I should be bored after a while, but I don't feel now as if I
should. I know I could be happy if I had people with me whom I loved."
"But could you love anyone who----"
"Well, I've got rid of that fellow," said Mr. Trowbridge cheerfully.
"Now we'll have a look around the camp and I'll show you how we tap the
maple trees for the sap; then afterwards we'll go into the sugar house
where we boil it down and make the maple syrup."
We'd been talking so earnestly that we hadn't heard him come up, and I
felt quite dazed for a minute.
He explained everything to us, or rather to me, for Mr. Brett knew all
about it beforehand. Then we had a long walk over the hills, which are
billowy and wooded, like Surrey, and when we came back Mr. Trowbridge
took me to the beehives to get some honey and show me what a queen bee
is like. He gave me a hat with a mosquito-net veil and put on one
himself. Then he opened a hive, and when I wasn't a bit nervous,
because I trusted him, he said, "I tell you what it is, Lady Betty,
you're a trump. I shouldn't be surprised if there isn't something in
blood after all."
[Illustration: "_Mr. Trowbridge took me to the beehives to get some
honey and show me what a queen bee is like_"]
I was pleased, for I don't think that he or any of the others at the
Valley Farm are the kind to say nice things to you unless they really
mean them.
After we had done all this sight-seeing, it was past five o'clock, and
I was longing for tea. "We shall have it soon now," I said to myself,
as we sat on the side verandah on benches and rocking-chairs, fanning
ourselves with palm-leaf fans. Mrs. Trowbridge and the girls had
changed their dresses while we were away, and put on white ones, fresh
and nice, though the plainest of the plain--except Ide, who had a pink
Alsatian bow in her hair and a flowered sash. I think they must have
washed their faces with yellow kitchen soap, too, for they were so
incredibly clean and polished that the green of the waving trees seemed
to be reflected in their complexion in little sheens and shimmers. I
don't suppose it would have occurred to them to dust off the shine with
powder, as Mrs. Trowbridge and pretty Patty seem to have no vanity; or
perhaps they would consider it wicked.
They all sat and rocked, but nobody said anything about tea.
"They do have it late," I thought.
Suddenly Ide exclaimed, "My, how thirsty I am!" and she got up.
"Oh, joy," I said to myself.
"I guess I'll go and get a drink of water from the mineral spring," she
went on; and then catching my yearning eye she asked if I would like to
go too.
When your whole soul is sighing for tea, cold water does seem a poor
substitute, but I began to lose hope now, so I followed her. The
water--which we got at a spring in the deep grass, and drank out of a
tin dipper, was deliciously cold, more refreshing than iced water, and
didn't make you thirstier than ever again, in half a second. Still, I
couldn't tear my thoughts from tea, and when we got back to the house I
was encouraged to find that Mrs. Trowbridge and Patty had disappeared.
"I must go and help them get tea," said Ide, "if you'll excuse me."
I said "of course," with alacrity, and hoped soon to see a tray coming
out into the verandah, where it was so cool and breezy now. Half an
hour passed, however, and nothing happened. It was getting on towards
six o'clock, and a smell of frying floated to us from the kitchen.
"I suppose they're beginning to cook something that takes a long time
to do, for dinner--or supper, rather," I thought. "She _said_ they were
getting tea, so----"
"Tea's ready, good people, if you're ready for it," announced Mrs.
Trowbridge's gentle voice at the door.
Mr. Trowbridge and Mr. Brett got up, and I did too, disappointed that
we weren't to have it out of doors; but still, I reminded myself, the
sitting room would be nice and cool. But I found that we were being led
through to the dining room.
There was the long table laid out again, with a regular sit-down meal;
cream cheese, and cake, and blackberries, and a big plate of honey;
some curious kind of smoked meat cut very thin, and the potatoes which
I'd smelled frying.
"What an odd tea!" I thought. But the oddest part was that after all
there _wasn't_ any tea.
We sat down, and at the far end of the table were two young men, all
soapy and sleek, their hair very wet and their sleeves (with no cuffs
showing) very short. We were introduced to each other, and they bowed
rather awkwardly without saying anything, but I couldn't understand
their names. One of the two never spoke, and ate with his knife until
he saw me looking, when he stopped and got red. After that he cut up
everything on his plate quite small before he ate it, and stuck out his
elbows. The other, who sat next to Ide, talked to her in a low voice,
but I caught the words "picnic," and "beaux," and they both giggled a
great deal.
Instead of tea, those who liked had black coffee with thick cream, and
the others drank what I should call lemon-squash, but they all spoke of
it as lemonade.
It wasn't much past six when we finished, and soon Mr. Brett asked me
how I would like to walk over to Mrs. Randal's and see my friend Miss
Woodburn, since she couldn't come to me. The place was less than a mile
away by short cuts which he knew, and he would take me there.
The shadows were beginning to grow long and thin when we started,
though the sun was still bright, so I carried a sunshade, and went
hatless, American fashion.
To avoid going out in the road we took field paths and skirted along
the edge of meadows where grain was tall and golden, or white as a
summer snowstorm. There were no proper stiles, as with us, so whenever
we came to one of the rough fences which divided one field from another
I had to mount on the first or second bar, and let Mr. Brett lift me
over.
He is so strong that he did it as if I were a bundle of down instead of
a tall girl, and I had much the same exhilarating sensation I used to
have as a wee thing when I rode wildly on Mohunsleigh's foot. I was
glad when we came to the fences, and that there were a good many of
them. But I wasn't at all glad when Mr. Brett jumped me over into a
grass meadow where there was a whole drove of ferocious-looking black
and white cattle.
"_Couldn't_ we go some other way round?" I asked, longing to get behind
him, but ashamed for him to see what an idiot I am about cows, and
perhaps make him lose his good opinion of me as a reasonably brave
girl.
"I'm afraid not, unless we turn back," said he. "But you needn't mind
them. Remember, you're with an old 'cow puncher.'"
"Oh, were you one, too?" I asked trying to seem at ease.
"Too?"
"I was thinking of a friend of my cousin Mohunsleigh's whom he was
always talking about, a Mr. Harborough, who lives in San Francisco.
Mohunsleigh knew him abroad somewhere. _He_ used to be a 'cow
puncher,'--whatever that is--in Texas, I believe, though now he's a
millionaire. Did you ever hear of him?"
"Yes," said Mr. Brett, in rather a dry way.
"I was so disappointed not to meet him."
(As we walked on, I kept my eyes on the horrible animals who were
grazing at some distance.)
"Why?" he asked the question almost sharply.
"Because my cousin says he's such a glorious person."
"Well gilded, anyhow."
"Oh, I don't mean on that account. I'm rather blase of millionaires
lately. But from Mohunsleigh's accounts he must be--well, the sort of a
man we like."
"We?"
"Girls. Brave and adventurous, and reckless, and that sort of thing."
"I'm afraid his millions are more of an attraction to most girls."
"Why, you're as bad as he!" I exclaimed.
"In what way?"
"Unjust, and--almost morbid. I wouldn't have thought _you_ would be
like that, though perhaps one can't blame him so much, if he's had bad
experiences. I _am_ sorry for him. It must be miserable to fancy always
that people care for you for your money."
"I'm sorry for him, too. At least, I used to be--whenever I thought of
him."
"Aren't you now?"
"No. I believe he's a changed man. He's found that there are exceptions
to the gloomy rule he'd laid down for humanity."
"Oh, then he's happier."
"So far as I understand the case, he isn't exactly happy yet. He isn't
out of the woods. In fact, he's in the thickest part. But he sees blue
sky and the sun shining overhead."
"What do you mean?"
"A fellow who knows him very well told me that Harborough had fallen in
love with a beautiful girl who was so unworldly that she might be
induced to marry for love--if she cared."
"Then why isn't he happy?"
"Because he doesn't know whether she can ever care for him--except as a
friend. He's sure she likes him pretty well, but there's nothing in
that. I'm mighty ignorant about such things myself, but they say if a
girl doesn't mind showing that she's your friend, and values you in a
way, it's a sign she's a thousand miles off from falling in love with
you. What's your opinion on the subject--as you seem to be rather
interested in Harborough?"
"My goodness, Mr. Brett, there's a cow looking at us. Oh, what _shall_
we do? It's the worst cow of all. It's putting its head down now. It
doesn't like us. Oh, what an appalling beast. I believe it must be a
bull."
"It's a very young one," said he, calmly. "Now, don't be frightened.
This is going to be nothing at all."
"Are you _sure_?"
"Can't you trust me?"
"Yes. I know you won't let me be hurt. But you----"
"Don't worry. Perhaps we shall have a little fun. Just wait."
I could cheerfully have waited a hundred years, and then put it off
again; but it didn't look as if we should have to wait long--not more
than three-quarters of a dreadful second, with my blood in my head, and
all the iced water I had drunk at Newport in my spine.
The cows were delighted. Evidently they regarded the horrid,
thick-necked brute as their champion. They didn't follow him towards
us, but lifted their heads and stared complacently, as much as to say,
"Isn't he a splendid fellow? _Now_ he's going to give them what they
deserve."
The rest happened so quickly it was all in a jumble. With a smile, Mr.
Brett reached out and took my sunshade, which I'd closed. Just as the
bull came at us, he opened it in the creature's face. The bull swerved
a few inches, surprised; and the next thing I knew the sunshade was
tossed away, Mr. Brett had seized the animal by his horns, and was
vaulting on his back with a laugh. "Run to the nearest fence," said he.
He did it as easily as if it were play, and so it seemed to be for him.
The bull tore about, ramping and raving, while I obediently flew for
the fence and scrambled over without ceremony. There I turned, panting,
frightened, yet laughing in spite of myself. Mr. Brett's hat had fallen
off, and his short hair was ruffled across his forehead. Riding the
black and white bull, hanging on by legs, as well as arms, he looked
like a runaway schoolboy, revelling in a mischievous "lark." His eyes
sparkled, and his white teeth shone.
The bull was sure he could throw his rider at first, but finding he
couldn't, was very much surprised. His wild gallop subsided to a trot,
and embracing his great neck, Mr. Brett bent far down to one side, to
snatch up my sunshade, which lay on the grass, open and undamaged. A
few moment's later, he had steered the bull in some curious way with
his feet, so that the beast came loping stupidly near the fence. Then
Mr. Brett jumped off, and vaulted over.
"That was a good bit of sport," said he. "It reminds me of old times,
when we chaps used to ride steers for a wager. I'm a little out of
practice now; but I hope you were amused."
"I was much too terrified," I said, thankful that he was on the right
side of the fence at last.
"Then I apologise for the exhibition. The silly brute didn't know he
was _our_ bull, you see, but I reckon he'll remember now, and act
accordingly. Here's your parasol, Lady Betty. I don't think it's hurt.
As for my hat, I'll make the cows a present of it. I don't want to keep
you waiting any longer."
"Fancy Daniel when he got safely out of the lions' den going back for
his hat!" I exclaimed.
"He was just the sort of man to have done it," said Mr. Brett, "if he
hadn't a lady waiting."
After that, nothing else happened to upset us on the way to Sally.
The place where she is staying isn't a farm, but quite a small cottage
in a lovely garden, walled in with oaks and maples; and Mrs. Randal
sells seeds and cuttings.
A young girl came to the door when we rang, and asked us to "please sit
down on the piazza"; she would call Miss Woodburn. Then we had a few
minutes to wait, and Sally appeared.
I _was_ glad to see her! And when she held me tight, and kissed me, I
had to wink back some silly tears. It was so good to feel that she
cared about me, and would sympathise in everything, for I knew she
would.
After Mr. Brett had said "how do you do," and a few polite words, he
added that he would just stroll over to the Green Dairy Farm across the
way. He knew the farmer there, and would like to have a chat with him.
We settled that he was to come back for me in an hour, and then Sally
and I were left alone together.
She made me begin at the beginning and tell all my adventures, cause as
well as effect, before she would give me any of her news, or even her
opinions on the situation as far as it concerned me.
It made quite a long story, and Sally was a beautiful listener, as only
sympathetic and unselfish people can be.
"There wasn't anything else for me to do, was there?" I asked, when she
knew everything exactly as it had happened.
She complimented me on my "pluck," like the dear creature she is, and
said she hadn't it in her heart to be sorry, as things had turned out,
that I had had such a chase to find her.
"To tell the truth, it was your affairs that drove me to Chicago," she
went on. "I don't mind your knowing now, deah. We can talk freely about
things I couldn't discuss with you before. Of course, I always knew
Katherine wanted you for Potter, and that they'd both do anything to
get you. It began with her trying to keep other men away from you even
on the ship. Do you remember? Nobody could get near you but Tom
Doremus, and he wouldn't if Kath hadn't been afraid of Mrs. Van der
Windt. It was just the same in Newport, whenever she could fix it so. I
couldn't exactly warn you; it wouldn't have been nice. They _are_ my
cousins, and I was Kath's guest--though I shouldn't have been for long,
if I hadn't wanted to watch over you. But you know I did drop hints
sometimes, didn't I? It wasn't my business if you'd fallen in love with
Potter, but though he isn't a bad fellow, he's not good enough or
strong enough for you, Betty, and I should have been mighty sick at
heart if he had got you."
"I never felt he wanted me, really," I said, "although he was always
proposing."
"Oh, yes, he did want you. Perhaps he wasn't truly in love at first,
though he always admired you, deah. There was an actress that he was
crazy about last winter--a nice girl, too, and he would have married
her if it hadn't been for Katherine, who was _wild_ over it, said such
a mesalliance in the family would ruin her as well as him, and
contrived to break it off somehow. Potter never cared for anyone else
so much. The girl seemed to understand his temper exactly, and though
he was heart and soul for winning you, after the race was begun, I
shouldn't wonder a bit--now he's lost you--if that affair didn't come
on again some day. He might do worse."
"I wish the girl joy of him," said I. "But how was it you went away
from Newport?"