HIGH VALLEY.
Clover was putting Phil's chamber to rights, and turning it into a
sitting-room for the day, which was always her first task in the morning.
They had been at St. Helen's nearly three weeks now, and the place had
taken on a very homelike appearance. All the books and the photographs
were unpacked, the washstand had vanished behind a screen made of a
three-leaved clothes-frame draped with chintz, while a ruffled cover of
the same gay chintz, on which bunches of crimson and pink geraniums
straggled over a cream-colored ground, gave to the narrow bed the air of a
respectable wide sofa.
"There! those look very nice, I think," she said, giving the last touch to
a bowl full of beautiful garden roses. "How sweet they are!"
"Your young man seems rather clever about roses," remarked Phil, who,
boy-like, dearly loved to tease his sister.
"My young man, as you call him, has a father with a gardener," replied
Clover, calmly; "no very brilliant cleverness is required for that."
In a cordial, kindly place, like St. Helen's, people soon make
acquaintances, and Clover and Phil felt as if they already knew half the
people in the town. Every one had come to see them and deluged them with
flowers, and invitations to dine, to drive, to take tea. Among the rest
came Mr. Thurber Wade, whom Phil was pleased to call Clover's young
man,--the son of a rich New York banker, whose ill-health had brought him
to live in St. Helen's, and who had built a handsome house on the
principal street. This gilded youth had several times sent roses to
Clover,--a fact which Phil had noticed, and upon which he was fond of
commenting.
"Speaking of young men," went on Clover, "what do you suppose has become
of Clarence Page? He said he should come in to see us soon; but that was
ever so long ago."
"He's a fraud, I suspect," replied Phil, lazily, from his seat in the
window. He had a geometry on his knees, and was supposed to be going on
with his education, but in reality he was looking at the mountains. "I
suppose people are pretty busy on ranches, though," he added. "Perhaps
they're sheep-shearing."
"Oh, it isn't a sheep ranch. Don't you remember his saying that the cattle
got very wild, and they had to ride after them? They wouldn't ride after
sheep. I hope he hasn't forgotten about us. I was so glad to see him."
While this talk went on, Clarence was cantering down the lower end of the
Ute Pass on his way to St. Helen's. Three hours later his name was brought
up to them.
"How nice!" cried Clover. "I think as he's a relative we might let him
come here, Phil. It's so much pleasanter than the parlor."
Clarence, who had passed the interval of waiting in noting the different
varieties of cough among the sick people in the parlor, was quite of her
opinion.
"How jolly you look!" was almost his first remark. "I'm glad you've got a
little place of your own, and don't have to sit with those poor creatures
downstairs all the time."
"It is much nicer. Some of them are getting better, though."
"Some of them aren't. There's one poor fellow in a reclining-chair who
looks badly."
"That's the one whose room Mrs. Watson has marked for her own. She asks
him three times a day how he feels, with all the solicitude of a mother,"
said Phil.
"Who's Mrs. Watson?"
"Well, she's an old lady who is somehow fastened to us, and who considers
herself our chaperone," replied Clover, with a little laugh. "I must
introduce you by-and-by, but first we want a good talk all by ourselves.
Now tell us why you haven't come to see us before. We have been hoping
for you every day."
"Well, I've wanted to come badly enough, but there has been a combination
of hindrances. Two of our men got sick, so there was more to do than
usual; then Geoff had to be away four days, and almost as soon as he got
back he had bad news from home, and I hated to leave him alone."
"What sort of bad news?"
"His sister's dead."
"Poor fellow! In England too! You said he was English, didn't you?"
"Yes. She was married. Her husband was a clergyman down in Cornwall
somewhere. She was older than Geoff a good deal; but he was very fond of
her, and the news cut him up dreadfully."
"No wonder. It is horrible to hear such a thing when one is far from
home," observed Clover. She tried to realize how she should feel if word
came to St. Helen's of Katy's death, or Elsie's, or Johnnie's; but her
mind refused to accept the question. The very idea made her shiver.
"Poor fellow!" she said again; "what could you do for him, Clarence?"
"Not much. I'm a poor hand at comforting any one,--men generally are, I
guess. Geoff knows I'm sorry for him; but it takes a woman to say the
right thing at such times. We sit and smoke when the work's done, and I
know what he's thinking about; but we don't say anything to each other.
Now let's speak of something else. I want to settle about your coming to
High Valley."
"High Valley? Is that the name of your place?"
"Yes. I want you to see it. It's an awfully pretty place to my
thinking,--not so very much higher than this, but you have to climb a good
deal to get there. Can't you come? This is just the time,--raspberries
ripe, and lots of flowers wherever the beasts don't get at them. Phil can
have all the riding he wants, and it'll do poor Geoff lots of good to see
some one."
"It would be very nice indeed," doubtfully; "but who could we get to go
with us?"
"I thought of that. We don't take much stock in Mrs. Grundy out here; but
I supposed you'd want another lady. How would it be if I asked Mrs. Hope?
The doctor's got to come out anyway to see one of our herders who's put
his shoulder out in a fall. If he would drive you out, and Mrs. Hope would
stay on, would you come for a week? I guess you'll like it."
"I 'guess' we should," exclaimed Clover, her face lighting up. "Clarence,
how delightful it sounds! It will be lovely to come if Mrs. Hope says
yes."
"Then that's all right," replied Clarence, looking extremely pleased.
"I'll ride up to the doctor's as soon as dinner's over."
"You'll dine with us, of course?"
"Oh, I always come to Mother Marsh for a bite whenever I stay over the
day. She likes to have me. We've been great chums ever since I had fever
here, and she took care of me."
Clover was amused at dinner to watch the cool deliberation with which
Clarence studied Mrs. Watson and her tortuous conversation, and, as he
would have expressed it, "took stock of her." The result was not
favorable, apparently.
"What on earth did they send that old thing with you for?" he asked as
soon as they went upstairs. "She's as much out of her element here as a
canary-bird would be in a cyclone. She can't be any use to you, Clover."
"Well, no; I don't think she is. It was a sort of mistake; I'll tell you
about it sometime. But she likes to imagine that she's taking care of me;
and as it does no harm, I let her."
"Taking care of you! Great thunder! I wouldn't trust her to take care of a
blue-eyed kitten," observed the irreverent Clarence. "Well, I'll ride up
and settle with the Hopes, and stop and let you know as I come back."
Mrs. Hope and the doctor were not hard to persuade. In Colorado, people
keep their lamps of enjoyment filled and trimmed, so to speak, and their
travelling energies ready girt about them, and easily adopt any plan which
promises pleasure. The following day was fixed for the start, and Clover
packed her valise and Phil's bag, with a sense of exhilaration and escape.
She was, in truth, getting very tired of the exactions of Mrs. Watson.
Mrs. Watson, on her part, did not at all approve of the excursion.
"I think," she said, swelling with offended dignity, "that your cousin
didn't know much about politeness when he left me out of his invitation
and asked Mrs. Hope instead. Yes, I know; the doctor had to go up anyway.
That may be true, and it may not; but it doesn't alter the case. What am I
to do, I should like to know, if the valves of my heart don't open, or
don't shut--whichever it is--while I'm left all alone here among
strangers?"
"Send for Dr. Hope," suggested Phil. "He'll only be gone one night. Clover
doesn't know anything about valves."
"My cousin lives in a rather rough way, I imagine," interposed Clover,
with a reproving look at Phil. "He would hardly like to ask a stranger and
an invalid to his house, when he might not be able to make her
comfortable. Mrs. Hope has been there before, and she's an old friend."
"Oh, I dare say! There are always reasons. I don't say that I should have
felt like going, but he ought to have asked me. Ellen will be surprised,
and so will--He's from Ashburn too, and he must know the Parmenters, and
Mrs. Parmenter's brother's son is partner to Henry's brother-in-law. It's
of no consequence, of course,--still, respect--older people--Boston--not
used to--Phillips--" Mrs. Watson's voice died away into fragmentary and
inaudible lamentings.
Clover attempted no further excuse. Her good sense told her that she had a
perfect right to accept this little pleasure; that Mrs. Watson's plans for
Western travel had been formed quite independently of their own, and that
papa would not wish her to sacrifice herself and Phil to such unreasonable
humors. Still, it was not pleasant; and I am sorry to say that from this
time dated a change of feeling on Mrs. Watson's part toward her "young
friends." She took up a chronic position of grievance toward them,
confided her wrongs to all new-comers, and met Clover with an offended air
which, though Clover ignored it, did not add to the happiness of her life
at Mrs. Marsh's.
It was early in the afternoon when they started, and the sun was just
dipping behind the mountain wall when they drove into the High Valley. It
was one of those natural parks, four miles long, which lie like
heaven-planted gardens among the Colorado ranges. The richest of grass
clothed it; fine trees grew in clumps and clusters here and there; and the
spaces about the house where fences of barbed wire defended the grass from
the cattle, seemed a carpet of wild-flowers.
Clover exclaimed with delight at the view. The ranges which lapped and
held the high, sheltered upland in embrace opened toward the south, and
revealed a splendid lonely peak, on whose summit a drift of freshly-fallen
snow was lying. The contrast with the verdure and bloom below was
charming.
The cabin--it was little more--stood facing this view, and was backed by a
group of noble red cedars. It was built of logs, long and low, with a rude
porch in front supported on unbarked tree trunks. Two fine collies rushed
to meet them, barking vociferously; and at the sound Clarence hurried to
the door. He met them with great enthusiasm, lifted out Mrs. Hope, then
Clover, and then began shouting for his chum, who was inside.
"Hollo, Geoff! where are you? Hurry up; they've come." Then, as he
appeared, "Ladies and gentleman, my partner!"
Geoffrey Templestowe was a tall, sinewy young Englishman, with ruddy hair
and beard, grave blue eyes, and an unmistakable air of good breeding. He
wore a blue flannel shirt and high boots like Clarence's, yet somehow he
made Clarence look a little rough and undistinguished. He was quiet in
speech, reserved in manner, and seemed depressed and under a cloud; but
Clover liked his face at once. He looked both strong and kind, she
thought.
The house consisted of one large square room in the middle, which served
as parlor and dining-room both, and on either side two bedrooms. The
kitchen was in a separate building. There was no lack of comfort, though
things were rather rude, and the place had a bare, masculine look. The
floor was strewn with coyote and fox skins. Two or three easy-chairs stood
around the fireplace, in which, July as it was, a big log was blazing.
Their covers were shabby and worn; but they looked comfortable, and were
evidently in constant use. There was not the least attempt at prettiness
anywhere. Pipes and books and old newspapers littered the chairs and
tables; when an extra seat was needed Clarence simply tipped a great pile
of these on to the floor. A gun-rack hung upon the wall, together with
sundry long stock-whips and two or three pairs of spurs, and a smell of
tobacco pervaded the place.
Clover's eyes wandered to a corner where stood a small parlor organ, and
over it a shelf of books. She rose to examine them. To her surprise they
were all hymnals and Church of England prayer-books. There were no others.
She wondered what it meant.
Clarence had given up his own bedroom to Phil, and was to chum with his
friend. Some little attempt had been made to adorn the rooms which were
meant for the ladies. Clean towels had been spread over the pine shelves
which did duty for dressing-tables, and on each stood a tumbler stuffed as
full as it could hold with purple pentstemons. Clover could not help
laughing, yet there was something pathetic to her in the clumsy, man-like
arrangement. She relieved the tumbler by putting a few of the flowers in
her dress, and went out again to the parlor, where Mrs. Hope sat by the
fire, quizzing the two partners, who were hard at work setting their
tea-table.
It was rather a droll spectacle,--the two muscular young fellows creaking
to and fro in their heavy boots, and taking such an infinitude of pains
with their operations. One would set a plate on the table, and the other
would forthwith alter its position slightly, or lift and scrutinize a
tumbler and dust it sedulously with a glass-towel. Each spoon was polished
with the greatest particularity before it was laid on the tray; each knife
passed under inspection. Visitors were not an every-day luxury in the High
Valley, and too much care could not be taken for their entertainment, it
seemed.
Supper was brought in by a Chinese cook in a pigtail, wooden shoes, and a
blue Mother Hubbard, Choo Loo by name. He was evidently a good cook, for
the corn-bread and fresh mountain trout and the ham and eggs were savory
to the last degree, and the flapjacks, with which the meal concluded, and
which were eaten with a sauce of melted raspberry jelly, deserved even
higher encomium.
"We are willing to be treated as company this first night," observed Mrs.
Hope; "but if you are going to keep us a week, you must let us make
ourselves useful, and set the table and arrange the rooms for you."
"We will begin to-morrow morning," added Clover. "May we, Clarence? May we
play that it is our house, and do what we like, and change about and
arrange things? It will be such fun."
"Fire away!" said her cousin, calmly. "The more you change the more we
shall like it. Geoff and I aren't set in our ways, and are glad enough to
be let off duty for a week. The hut is yours just as long as you will
stay; do just what you like with it. Though we're pretty good housekeepers
too, considering; don't you think so?"
"Do you believe he meant it?" asked Clover, confidentially afterward of
Mrs. Hope. "Do you think they really wouldn't mind being tidied up a
little? I should so like to give that room a good dusting, if it wouldn't
vex them."
"My dear, they will probably never know the difference except by a vague
sense of improved comfort. Men are dreadfully untidy, as a general thing,
when left to themselves; but they like very well to have other people make
things neat."
"Mr. Templestowe told Phil that they go off early in the morning and don't
come back till breakfast at half-past seven; so if I wake early enough I
shall try to do a little setting to rights before they come in."
"And I'll come and help if I don't over-sleep," declared Mrs. Hope; "but
this air makes me feel dreadfully as if I should."
"I sha'n't call you," said Clover; "but it will be nice to have you, if
you come."
She stood at her window after Mrs. Hope had gone, for a last look at the
peak which glittered sharply in the light of the moon. The air was like
scented wine. She drew a long breath.
"How lovely it is!" she said to herself, and kissed her hand to the
mountain. "Good-night, you beautiful thing."
She woke with the first beam of yellow sun, after eight hours of dreamless
sleep, with a keen sense of renovation and refreshment. A great splashing
was going on in the opposite wing, and manly voices hushed to suppressed
tones were audible. Then came a sound of boots on the porch; and peeping
from behind her curtain, she saw Clarence and his friend striding across
the grass in the direction of the stock-huts. She glanced at her watch. It
was a quarter past five.
"Now is my chance," she thought; and dressing rapidly, she put on a little
cambric jacket, knotted her hair up, tied a handkerchief over it, and
hurried into the sitting-room. Her first act was to throw open all the
windows to let out the smell of stale tobacco, her next to hunt for a
broom. She found one at last, hanging on the door of a sort of
store-closet, and moving the furniture as noiselessly as she could, she
gave the room a rapid but effectual sweeping.
While the dust settled, she stole out to a place on the hillside where the
night before she had noticed some mariposa lilies growing, and gathered a
large bunch. Then she proceeded to dust and straighten, sorted out the
newspapers, wiped the woodwork with a damp cloth, arranged the disorderly
books, and set the breakfast-table. When all this was done, there was
still time to finish her toilet and put her pretty hair in its accustomed
coils and waves; so that Clarence and Mr. Templestowe came in to find the
fire blazing, the room bright and neat, Mrs. Hope sitting at the table in
a pretty violet gingham ready to pour the coffee which Choo Loo had
brought in, and Clover, the good fairy of this transformation scene, in a
fresh blue muslin, with a ribbon to match in her hair, just setting the
mariposas in the middle of the table. Their lilac-streaked bells nodded
from a tall vase of ground glass.
"Oh, I say," cried Clarence, "this _is_ something like! Isn't it
scrumptious, Geoff? The hut never looked like this before. It's wonderful
what a woman--no, two women," with a bow to Mrs. Hope--"can do toward
making things pleasant. Where did that vase come from, Clover? We never
owned anything so fine as that, I'm sure."
"It came from my bag; and it's a present for you and Mr. Templestowe. I
saw it in a shop-window yesterday; and it occurred to me that it might be
just the thing for High Valley, and fill a gap. And Mrs. Hope has brought
you each a pretty coffee-cup."
It was a merry meal. The pleasant look of the room, the little surprises,
and the refreshment of seeing new and kindly faces, raised Mr.
Templestowe's spirits, and warmed him out of his reserve. He grew cheerful
and friendly. Clarence was in uproarious spirits, and Phil even worse. It
seemed as if the air of the High Valley had got into his head.
Dr. Hope left at noon, after making a second visit to the lame herder, and
Mrs. Hope and Clover settled themselves for a week of enjoyment. They were
alone for hours every day, while their young hosts were off on the ranch,
and they devoted part of this time to various useful and decorative arts.
They took all manner of liberties, poked about and rummaged, mended,
sponged, assorted, and felt themselves completely mistresses of the
situation. A note to Marian Chase brought up a big parcel by stage to the
Ute Valley, four miles away, from which it was fetched over by a cow-boy
on horseback; and Clover worked away busily at scrim curtains for the
windows, while Mrs. Hope shaped a slip cover of gay chintz for the
shabbiest of the armchairs, hemmed a great square of gold-colored canton
flannel for the bare, unsightly table, and made a bright red pincushion
apiece for the bachelor quarters. The sitting-room took on quite a new
aspect, and every added touch gave immense satisfaction to "the boys," as
Mrs. Hope called them, who thoroughly enjoyed the effect of these
ministrations, though they had not the least idea how to produce it
themselves.
Creature comforts were not forgotten. The two ladies amused themselves
with experiments in cookery. The herders brought a basket of wild
raspberries, and Clover turned them into jam for winter use. Clarence
gloated over the little white pots, and was never tired of counting them.
They looked so like New England, he declared, that he felt as if he must
get a girl at once, and go and walk in the graveyard,--a pastime which he
remembered as universal in his native town. Various cakes and puddings
appeared to attest the industry of the housekeepers; and on the only wet
evening, when a wild thunder-gust was sweeping down the valley, they had a
wonderful candy-pull, and made enough to give all the cow-boys a treat.
It must not be supposed that all their time went in these domestic
pursuits. No, indeed. Mrs. Hope had brought her own side-saddle, and had
borrowed one for Clover; the place was full of horses, and not a day
passed without a long ride up or down the valley, and into the charming
little side canyons which opened from it. A spirited broncho, named
Sorrel, had been made over to Phil's use for the time of his stay, and he
was never out of the saddle when he could help it, except to eat and
sleep. He shared in the herders' wild gallops after stock, and though
Clover felt nervous about the risks he ran, whenever she took time to
think them over, he was so very happy that she had not the heart to
interfere or check his pleasure.
She and Mrs. Hope rode out with the gentlemen on the great day of the
round-up, and, stationed at a safe point a little way up the hillside,
watched the spectacle,--the plunging, excited herd, the cow-boys madly
galloping, swinging their long whips and lassos, darting to and fro to
head off refractory beasts or check the tendency to stampede. Both
Clarence and Geoffrey Templestowe were bold and expert riders; but the
Mexican and Texan herders in their employ far surpassed them. The ladies
had never seen anything like it. Phil and his broncho were in the midst of
things, of course, and had one or two tumbles, but nothing to hurt them;
only Clover was very thankful when it was all safely over.
In their rides and scrambling walks it generally happened that Clarence
took possession of Clover, and left Geoff in charge of Mrs. Hope.
Cousinship and old friendship gave him a right, he considered, and he
certainly took full advantage of it. Clover liked Clarence; but there were
moments when she felt that she would rather enjoy the chance to talk more
with Mr. Templestowe, and there was a look in his eyes now and then which
seemed to say that he might enjoy it too. But Clarence did not observe
this look, and he had no idea of sharing his favorite cousin with any one,
if he could help it.
Sunday brought the explanation of the shelf full of prayer-books which had
puzzled them on their first arrival. There was no church within reach; and
it was Geoff's regular custom, it seemed, to hold a little service for the
men in the valley. Almost all of them came, except the few Mexicans, who
were Roman Catholics, and the room was quite full. Geoff read the service
well and reverently, gave out the hymns, and played the accompaniments for
them, closing with a brief bit of a sermon by the elder Arnold. It was all
done simply and as a matter of course, and Clarence seemed to join in it
with much good-will; but Clover privately wondered whether the idea of
doing such a thing would have entered into his head had he been left
alone, or, if so, whether he would have cared enough about it to carry it
out regularly. She doubted. Whatever the shortcomings of the Church of
England may be, she certainly trains her children into a devout observance
of Sunday.
The next day, Monday, was to be their last,--a fact lamented by every one,
particularly Phil, who regarded the High Valley as a paradise, and would
gladly have remained there for the rest of his natural life. Clover hated
to take him away; but Dr. Hope had warned her privately that a week would
be enough of it, and that with Phil's tendency to overdo, too long a stay
would be undesirable. So she stood firm, though Clarence urged a delay,
and Phil seconded the proposal with all his might.
The very pleasantest moment of the visit perhaps came on that last
afternoon, when Geoff got her to himself for once, and took her up a
trail where she had not yet been, in search of scarlet pentstemons to
carry back to St. Helen's. They found great sheaves of the slender stems
threaded, as it were, with jewel-like blossoms; but what was better still,
they had a talk, and Clover felt that she had now a new friend. Geoff told
her of his people at home, and a little about the sister who had lately
died; only a little,--he could not yet trust himself to talk long about
her. Clover listened with frank and gentle interest. She liked to hear
about the old grange at the head of a chine above Clovelley, where Geoff
was born, and which had once been full of boys and girls, now scattered in
the English fashion to all parts of the world. There was Ralph with his
regiment in India,--he was the heir, it seemed,--and Jim and Jack in
Australia, and Oliver with his wife and children in New Zealand, and Allen
at Harrow, and another boy fitting for the civil service. There was a
married sister in Scotland, and another in London; and Isabel, the
youngest of all, still at home,--the light of the house, and the special
pet of the old squire and of Geoff's mother, who, he told Clover, had been
a great beauty in her youth, and though nearly seventy, was in his eyes
beautiful still.
"It's pretty quiet there for Isabel," he said; "but she has my sister
Helen's two children to care for, and that will keep her busy. I used to
think she'd come out to me one of these years for a twelvemonth; but
there's little chance of her being spared now."
Clover's sympathy did not take the form of words. It looked out of her
eyes, and spoke in the hushed tones of her soft voice. Geoff felt that it
was there, and it comforted him. The poor fellow was very lonely in those
days, and inclined to be homesick, as even a manly man sometimes is.
"What an awful time Adam must have had of it before Eve came!" growled
Clarence, that evening, as they sat around the fire.
"He had a pretty bad time after she came, if I remember," said Clover,
laughing.
"Ah, but he had _her_!"
"Stuff and nonsense! He was a long shot happier without her and her old
apple, I think," put in Phil. "You fellows don't know when you're well
off."
Everybody laughed.
"Phil's notion of Paradise is the High Valley and Sorrel, and no girls
about to bother and tell him not to get too tired," remarked Clover. "It's
a fair vision; but like all fair visions it must end."
And end it did next day, when Dr. Hope appeared with the carriage, and the
bags and saddles were put in, and the great bundle of wild-flowers, with
their stems tied in wet moss; and Phil, torn from his beloved broncho, on
whose back he had passed so many happy hours, was forced to accompany the
others back to civilization.
"I shall see you very soon," said Clarence, tucking the lap-robe round
Clover. "There's the mail to fetch, and other things. I shall be riding in
every day or two."
"I shall see you very soon," said Geoff, on the other side. "Clarence is
not coming without me, I can assure you."
Then the carriage drove away; and the two partners went back into the
house, which looked suddenly empty and deserted.
"I'll tell you what!" began Clarence.
"And I'll tell _you_ what!" rejoined Geoff.
"A house isn't worth a red cent which hasn't a woman in it."
"You might ride down and ask Miss Perkins to step up and adorn our lives,"
said his friend, grimly. Miss Perkins was a particularly rigid spinster
who taught a school six miles distant, and for whom Clarence entertained a
particular distaste.
"You be hanged! I don't mean that kind. I mean--"
"The nice kind, like Mrs. Hope and your cousin. Well, I'm agreed."
"I shall go down after the mail to-morrow," remarked Clarence, between the
puffs of his pipe.
"So shall I."
"All right; come along!" But though the words sounded hearty, the tone
rather belied them. Clarence was a little puzzled by and did not quite
like this newborn enthusiasm on the part of his comrade.