Several days later she took Cecil to the redwoods. Mrs. Montgomery
consented reluctantly--Lee had always been a little beyond her--but
put up the lunch herself. They started early, for the weather was very
warm, and as they rode hard there was little conversation, although
both were in high spirits. When they reached the foothills they were
obliged to slacken speed, and Cecil said:
“I feel exactly as if we had started out in search of adventures again.
Let us hope there will not be a fog nor an earthquake.”
They had talked old times threadbare, and, after shuddering once more
over that memory, Lee said: “The redwoods are just the place for
stories of thrilling adventures with tigers and lions and things. As
Coralie says, you are altogether too modest. I shall insist.”
“I don’t mind telling you anything you like; but to sit up by the hour
and rot to other people about oneself--it’s too much like----”
“American brag?”
“Well, I don’t like to be rude, but that was what I meant. Of course
there are exceptions,” he added hastily. “Take Mr. Trennahan, for
instance. I have noticed that the American who has lived a good deal
abroad neither brags nor is in any way provincial. And, as Montgomery
says, the others have every excuse. They would have a right to be cocky
about their country, if only on account of what Nature has done for it.”
“They are lovely, aren’t they?” Lee pointed her whip proudly to the
forest above. It began on the next slope they ascended, straggling
carelessly for a mile or more, then seemingly knit into a black and
solid wall of many tiers. Presently the hills closed about them, the
great arms of the mountain reached down on every side, its grass burnt
golden, its redwoods casting long shadows, until their own shade grew
too heavy. As the riders ascended higher, there was often, far down
on one side of the road, a cañon set thick with the rigid trees, and
cut with a blade of water; an almost perpendicular wall on the other.
Finally, they passed the outposts, and entered a long steep avenue of
redwoods leading to the depths of the forest.
“I never knew anything so intensely still, nor so solemnly beautiful,”
said Cecil. “Couldn’t we come here for our honeymoon? Is there a house
to be had?”
“The Trennahans have one. I am sure they would lend it to us. Oh, I
should like nothing so much as that!”
“Nor I! Fancy!”
When they felt that they were really in the forest, they tethered their
horses and sat down at once with their luncheon. It was a very good
one, and they ate it with relish, for they had been in the saddle
several hours. When it was over, Cecil made a pillow of his saddle, and
smoked a pipe.
“You look quite happy,” said Lee sarcastically.
“Oh, I am! I never knew anything so jolly!”
“Would you like me to pull off your boots?”
“What an unforgiving spirit you have. I should be much happier if you
would sit as close to me as you can.”
Lee sat down beside the saddle.
“Now, tell me your adventures,” she commanded.
Whatever the final results of her inspiration, the immediate were
very agreeable. Cecil’s adventures had been many, and the enthusiasm
of the sportsman made him eloquent. It was soon evident that he had
returned heart and soul into the past two years; and although Lee was
pleased to observe that his grasp on her hand did not relax, his pipe
was permitted to go out. Although his adventures did not consist of a
series of hairbreadth escapes, they were novel and exciting, and Lee
was thrilled.
“You always were the most sympathetic listener,” he exclaimed. “Fancy
my talking to any one else like this! I do believe my tongue has been
wagging for two hours.”
“I don’t wonder you love sport. I should, too. It was a mere name to me
before. The boys go fishing once a year; they camp out in this forest;
and, occasionally, they go duck or snipe shooting, or kill a few quail;
but I never heard even the expression ‘big game’ except from you.”
“And with grizzlies and pumas--fancy! What are the men thinking of?”
“Of course there are lots of old mountaineers and trappers who have
shot more bears and things than they can count; but even those of our
men that are not chasing the mighty dollar don’t seem to take to sport.”
“It’s not a tradition with them. It will come with more leisure, more
Englishmen, and the inevitable imitation of ourselves in that and in
other things. They hate us, but the tail of their eye is always on
England’s big finger writing on the wall. The Eastern men copy our
accent, our clothes, our customs. The New Yorkers are already good
sportsmen, and they owe it to us that they are. They began with a
spirit that did them little credit, but they are twice the men they
would be otherwise--this generation of them, I mean. I am given to
understand that, in its mad rush for money, the race has deteriorated
since the Civil War. Your Californians are slower, because they are on
the edge of the world, and customs take longer to reach them; but one
day some idle young blood will spend a year in England, then come back
and make sport the fashion, and the next generation will be men with
healthy bodies and healthy minds.”
“And better manners! I am so glad you are not going to hustle for
money. I hate the loathsome stuff--except to have it; it has so much
to answer for. I should think the race has deteriorated. Look at the
Southerners! Look at Randolph! The only picture Mrs. Montgomery has of
her husband was taken when he had been out here twenty years, and then
his face had become very sharp and keen; but his father and grandfather
were most aristocratic-looking men--full of fire, but with a repose as
fine as yours. And Randolph was a most courtly boy; it is doubtful if
you think him a gentleman.”
“Oh, yes, yes! The American armour fairly rattles on him, and when he’s
old he’ll look like the American eagle; but I feel jolly sure that when
it came to the point, he’d never do anything unworthy of a gentleman.”
“Not even to get a woman?”
“All’s fair in love; but he would never do anything tricky or vulgar.”
“Once he wouldn’t; but he has been rubbing elbows with dishonest and
common men for so many years. His standards are lowered; I can see the
change from year to year.”
“Blood is blood. He will never descend quite to the level of the men of
one generation. I’ve just thought of another yarn.”
“Oh, do tell it! Let us walk.”
They wandered about for an hour or two, pushing through the low forest
of fronds and young redwoods, sometimes silent and happy, sometimes
planning out the days of their honeymoon, sometimes absorbed in the
vast silence, the almost overwhelming suggestion of immensity and power
and antiquity of the redwoods.
“They are a thousand years old--some of them.”
“They are so new to me that I can hardly realise their age. But they
make the rest of the world seem a thousand miles away, and there is
something about them that agitates soul and sense, and promises--almost
everything. If Trennahan won’t lend us his house, we’ll come here and
camp out.”
They went down to the flashing creek whose walls were brilliant with
green and scarlet, and counted the fish, Cecil hungrily sighing for a
rod.
“I’ll let you fish during the honeymoon--you remember, I promised--but
only one hour in the morning and another in the afternoon.”
“I see you are determined to make a good wife without sacrificing your
precious individuality. But, my dear, we must go.”
As they descended the mountain out of the redwoods, Cecil looked back
with a sigh. “If we had only _seen_ something,” he said. “I have talked
so much sport to-day that I’m all on fire again for my grizzly.”