MISS OPDYKE FROM NEW YORK.
THE next week was a busy one. Packing had begun; and what with Mrs.
Young's motherly desire to provide her children with every possible
convenience for their new home, and Imogen's rooted conviction that
nothing could be found in Colorado worth buying, and that it was
essential to carry out all the tapes and sewing-silk and buttons and
shoe-thread and shoes and stationery and court-plaster and cotton cloth
and medicines that she and Lionel could possibly require during the next
five years,--it promised to be a long job.
In vain did Lionel remonstrate, and assure his sister that every one of
these things could be had equally well at St. Helen's, where some of
them went almost every day, and that extra baggage cost so much on the
Pacific railways that the price of such commodities would be nearly
doubled before she got them safely to the High Valley.
"Now what can be the use of taking two pounds of pins, for example?" he
protested. "Pins are as plenty as blackberries in America. And all those
spools of thread too!"
"Reels of cotton, do you mean? I wish you would speak English, at least
while we are in England. I shouldn't dare go without plenty of such
things. American cotton isn't as good as ours; I've always been told
that."
"Well, it's good enough, as you'll find. And do make a place for
something pretty; a few nice tea-cups for instance, and some things to
hold flowers, and some curtain stuffs for the windows, and photographs.
Geoff and Mrs. Geoff have made their house awfully nice, I can tell you.
Americans think a deal of that sort of thing. All this haberdashery and
hardware is ridiculous, and you'll be sorry enough that you didn't
listen to me before you are through with it."
"Mother has packed some cups already, I believe, and I'll take that
white Minton jar if you like, but really I shouldn't think delicate
things like that would be at all suitable in a new place like Colorado,
where people must rough it as we are going to do. You are so infatuated
about America, Lion, that I can't trust your opinion at all."
"I've been there, and you haven't," was all that Lionel urged in answer.
It seemed an incontrovertible argument, but Imogen made no attempt to
overthrow it. She only packed on according to her own ideas, quite
unconvinced.
It lacked only five days of their setting out when she and her brother
walked into Bideford one afternoon for some last errands. It was June
now, and the south of England was at its freshest and fairest. The
meadows along the margin of the Torridge wore their richest green, the
hill slopes above them were a bloom of soft color. Each court yard and
garden shimmered with the gold of laburnums or the purple and white of
clustering clematis; and the scent of flowers came with every puff of
air.
As they passed up the side street, a carriage with three strange ladies
in it drove by them. It stopped at the door of the New Inn,--as quaint
in build and even older than the New Inn of Clovelly. The ladies got
out, and one of them, to Imogen's great surprise, came forward and
extended her hand to Lionel.
"Mr. Young,--it is Mr. Young, isn't it? You've quite forgotten me, I
fear,--Mrs. Page. We met at St. Helen's two years ago when I stopped to
see my son. Let me introduce you to my daughter, the Comtesse de
Conflans, and Miss Opdyke, of New York."
Lionel could do no less than stop, shake hands, and present his sister,
whereupon Mrs. Page urged them both to come in for a few minutes and
have a cup of tea.
"We are here only till the evening-train," she explained,--"just to see
Westward Ho and get a glimpse of the Amyas Leigh country. And I want to
ask any quantity of questions about Clarence and his wife. What! you
are going out to the High Valley next week, and your sister too? Oh,
that makes it absolutely impossible for me to let you off. You really
must come in. There are so many messages I should like to send, and a
cup of tea will be a nice rest for Miss Young after her long walk."
"It isn't long at all," protested Imogen; but Mrs. Page could not be
gainsaid, and led the way upstairs to a sitting-room with a bay window
overlooking the windings of the Torridge, which was crammed with quaint
carved furniture of all sorts. There were buffets, cabinets,
secretaries, delightful old claw-footed tables and sofas, and chairs
whose backs and arms were a mass of griffins and heraldic emblems. Old
oak was the specialty of the landlady of this New Inn, it seemed, as
blue china was of the other. For years she had attended sales and poked
about in farmhouses and attics, till little by little she had
accumulated an astonishing collection. Many of the pieces were genuine
antiques, but some had been constructed under her own eye from wood
equally venerable,--pew-ends and fragments of rood-screens purchased
from a dismantled and ruined church. The effect was both picturesque and
unusual.
Mrs. Page seated her guests in two wide, high-backed chairs, rang for
tea, and began to question Lionel about affairs in the High Valley,
while Imogen, still under the influence of surprise at finding herself
calling on these strangers, glanced curiously at the younger ladies of
the party. The Comtesse de Conflans was still young, and evidently had
been very pretty, but she had a worn, dissatisfied air, and did not look
happy. Imogen learned afterward that her marriage, which was considered
a triumph and a grand affair when it took place, had not turned out very
well. Count Ernest de Conflans was rather a black sheep in some
respects, had a strong taste for baccarat and _rouge et noir_, and spent
so much of his bride's money at these amusements during the first year
of their life together, that her friends became alarmed, and their
interference had brought about a sort of amicable separation. Count
Ernest lived in Washington, receiving a specified sum out of his wife's
income, and she was travelling indefinitely in Europe with her mother.
It was no wonder that she did not look satisfied and content.
"Miss Opdyke, of New York" was quite different and more attractive,
Imogen thought. She had never seen any one in the least like her. Rather
tall, with a long slender throat, a waist of fabulous smallness, and
hands which, in their _gants de Suede_, did not seem more than two
inches wide, she gave the impression of being as fragile in make and as
delicately fibred as an exotic flower. She had pretty, arch, gray eyes,
a skin as white as a magnolia blossom, and a fluff of wonderful pale
hair--artlessly looped and pinned to look as if it had blown by accident
into its place--which yet exactly suited the face it framed. She was
restlessly vivacious, her mobile mouth twitched with a hidden amusement
every other moment; when she smiled she revealed pearly teeth and a
dimple; and she smiled often. Her dress, apparently simple, was a wonder
of fit and cut,--a skirt of dark fawn-brown, a blouse of ivory-white
silk, elaborately tucked and shirred, a cape of glossy brown fur whose
high collar set off her pale vivid face, and a "picture hat" with a
wreath of plumes. Imogen, whose preconceived notion of an American girl
included diamond ear-rings sported morning, noon, and night, observed
with surprise that she wore no ornaments except one slender bangle. She
had in her hand a great bunch of yellow roses, which exactly toned in
with the ivory and brown of her dress, and she played with these and
smelled them, as she sat on a high black-oak settle, and, consciously or
unconsciously, made a picture of herself.
She seemed as much surprised and entertained at Imogen as Imogen could
possibly be at her.
"I suppose you run up to London often," was her first remark.
"N-o, not often." In fact, Imogen had been in London only once in the
whole course of her life.
"Dear me!--don't you? Why, how can you exist without it? I shouldn't
think there would be anything to do here that was in the least
amusing,--not a thing. How do you spend your time?"
"I?--I don't know, I'm sure. There's always plenty to do."
"To do, yes; but in the way of amusement, I mean. Do you have many
balls? Is there any gayety going on? Where do you find your men?"
"No, we don't have balls often, but we have lawn parties, and tennis,
and once a year there's a school feast."
"Oh, yes, I know,--children in gingham frocks and pinafores, eating buns
and drinking milk-and-hot-water out of mugs. Rapturous fun it must
be,--but I think one might get tired of it in time. As for lawn parties,
I tried one in Fulham the other day, and I don't want to go to any more
in England, thank you. They never introduced a soul to us, the band
played out of tune, it was as dull as ditch-water,--just dreary,
ill-dressed people wandering in and out, and trying to look as if five
sour strawberries on a plate, and a thimbleful of ice cream were bliss
and high life and all the rest of it. The only thing really nice was the
roses; those _were_ delicious. Lady Mary Ponsonby gave me three,--to
make up for not presenting any one to me, I suppose."
"Do you still keep up the old fashion of introductions in America?" said
Imogen with calm superiority. "It's quite gone out with us. We take it
for granted that well-bred people will talk to their neighbors at
parties, and enjoy themselves well enough for the moment, and then they
needn't be hampered with knowing them afterward. It saves a lot of
complications not having to remember names, or bow to people."
"Yes, I know that's the theory, but I call it a custom introduced for
the suppression of strangers. Of course, if you know all the people
present, or who they are, it doesn't matter in the least; but if you
don't, it makes it a ghastly mockery to try to enjoy yourself at a
party. But do tell me some more about Bideford. I'm so curious about
English country life. I've seen only London so far. Is it ever warm over
here?"
"Warm?" vaguely, "what do you mean?"
"I mean _warm_. Perhaps the word is not known over here, or doesn't mean
the same thing. England seems to me just one degree better than Nova
Zembla. The sun is a mere imitation sun. He looks yellow, like a real
one, when you see him,--which isn't often,--but he doesn't burn a bit.
I've had the shivers steadily ever since we landed." She pulled her fur
cape closer about her ears as she spoke.
"Why, what can you want different from this?" asked Imogen, surprised.
"It's a lovely day. We haven't had a drop of rain since last night."
"That is quite true, and remarkable as true; but somehow I don't feel
any warmer than I did when it rained. Ah, here comes the tea. Let me
pour it, Mrs. Page. I make awfully good tea. Such nice, thick cream!
but, oh, dear!--here is more of that awful bread."
It was a stout household loaf, of the sort invariable in south-county
England, substantial, crusty, and tough, with a "nubbin" on top, and in
consistency something between pine wood and sole leather. Miss Opdyke,
after filling her cups, proceeded to cut the loaf in slices, protesting
as she did so that it "creaked in the chewing," and that
"The muscular strength that it gave to her jaw
Would last her the rest of her life."
"Why, what sort of bread do you have in America?" demanded Imogen,
astonished and offended by the frankness of these strictures. "This is
the sort every one eats here. I'm sure it's excellent. What is there
about it that you don't like?"
"Oh, everything. Wait till you taste our American bread, and you'll
understand,--or rather, our breads, for we have dozens of kinds, each
more delicious than the last. Wait till you eat corn-bread and waffles."
"I've always been told that the American food was dreadfully messy,"
observed Imogen, nettled into reprisals; "pepper on eggs, and all that
sort of thing,--very messy and nasty, indeed."
"Well, we _have_ deviated from the English method as to the eating of
eggs, I admit. I know it's correct to chip the shell, and eat all the
white at one end by itself, with a little salt, and then all the yellow
in the middle, and last of all the white at the other end by itself; but
there are bold spirits among us who venture to stir and mix. Fools rush
in, you know; they _will_ do it, even where Britons fear to tread."
"We stopped at Northam to see Sir Amyas Leigh's house," Mrs. Page was
saying to Lionel. "It's really very interesting to visit the spots where
celebrated people have lived. There is a sad lack of such places in
America. We are such a new country. Lilly and Miss Opdyke walked up to
the hill where Mrs. Leigh stood to see the Spanish ship come in,--quite
fascinating, they said it was."
"You must be sure to stay long enough in Boston to see the house where
Silas Lapham lived," put in the wicked Miss Opdyke. "One cannot see too
much of places associated with famous people."
"I don't remember any such name in American history," said honest
Imogen,--"'Silas Lapham,' who was he?"
"A man in a novel, and Amyas Leigh is a man in another novel," whispered
Miss Opdyke. "Mrs. Page isn't quite sure about him, but she doesn't like
to confess as frankly as you do. She has forgotten, and fancies that he
really lived in Queen Elizabeth's time; and the coachman was so solemnly
sure that he did that it's not much wonder. I bought an old silver
patch-box in a jeweller's shop on the High Street, and I'm going to tell
my sister that it belonged to Ayacanora."
"What an odd idea."
"We are full of odd ideas over in America, you know."
"Tell me something about the States," said Imogen. "My brother is quite
mad over Colorado, but he doesn't know much about the rest of it. I
suppose the country about New York isn't very wild, is it?"
"Not very," returned Miss Opdyke, with a twinkle. "The buffalo are
rarely seen now, and only two men were scalped by the Indians outside
the walls of the city last year."
"Fancy! And how do you pass your time? Is it a gay place?"
"Very. We pass our time doing all sorts of things. There's the Corn
Dance and the Green Currant Dance and the Water Melon pow wow, of
course, and beside these, which date back to the early days of the
colony, we have the more modern amusements, German opera and Italian
opera and the theatre and subscription concerts. Then we have balls
nearly every night in the season and dinner-parties and luncheons and
lectures and musical parties, and we study a good deal and 'slum' a
little. Last winter I belonged to a Greek class and a fencing class,
and a quartette club, and two private dancing classes, and a girls'
working club, and an amateur theatrical society. We gave two private
concerts for charities, you know, and acted the Antigone for the benefit
of the Influenza Hospital. Oh, there is a plenty to pass one's time in
New York, I can assure you. And when other amusements fail, we can go
outside the walls, with a guard of trappers, of course, and try our hand
at converting the natives."
"What tribe of Indians is it that you have near you?"
"The Tammanies,--a very trying tribe, I assure you. It seems impossible
to make any impression on them or teach them anything."
"Fancy! Did you ever have any adventures yourself with these Indians?"
asked Imogen, deeply excited over this veracious resume of life in
modern New York.
"Oh, dear, yes--frequently."
"Do tell me some of yours. This is so very interesting. Lionel never has
said a word about the--Tallamies, did you call them?"
"Tammanies. Perhaps not; Colorado is so far off, you know. They have
Piutes there,--a different tribe entirely, and much less deleterious to
civilization."
"How sad. But about the adventures?"
"Oh, yes--well, I'll tell you of one; in fact it is the only really
exciting experience I ever had with the New York Indians. It was two
years ago; I had just come out, and it was my birthday, and papa said I
might ride his new mustang, by way of a celebration. So we started, my
brother and I, for a long country gallop.
"We were just on the other side of Central Park, barely out of the city,
you see, when a sudden blood-curdling yell filled the air. We were
horror-struck, for we knew at once what it must be,--the war-cry of the
savages. We turned of course and galloped for our lives, but the Indians
were between us and the gates. We could see their terrible faces
streaked with war-paint, and the tomahawks at their girdles, and we
felt that all hope was over. I caught hold of papa's lasso, which was
looped round the saddle, and cocked my revolving rifle--all the New York
girls wear revolving rifles strapped round their waists," continued Miss
Opdyke, coolly, interrogating Imogen with her eyes as she spoke for
signs of disbelief, but finding none--"and I resolved to sell my life
and scalp as dearly as possible. Just then, when all seemed lost, we
heard a shout which sounded like music to our ears. A company of mounted
Rangers were galloping out from the city. They had seen our peril from
one of the watch-towers, and had hurried to our rescue."
"How fortunate!" said Imogen, drawing a long breath. "Well, go on--do go
on."
"There is little more to tell," said Miss Opdyke, controlling with
difficulty her inclination to laugh. "The Head Ranger attacked the
Tammany chief, whose name was Day Vidbehill,--a queer name, isn't
it?--and slew him after a bloody conflict. He gave me his brush, I mean
his scalp-lock, afterward, and it now adorns--" Here her amusement
became ungovernable, and she went into fits of laughter, which Imogen's
astonished look only served to increase.
"Oh!" she cried, between her paroxysms, "you believed it all! it is too
absurd, but you really believed it! I thought till just now that you
were only pretending, to amuse me."
"Wasn't it true, then?" said Imogen, her tardy wits waking slowly up to
the conclusion.
"True! why, my dear child, New York is the third city of the world in
size,--not quite so large as London, but approaching it. It is a great,
brilliant, gay place, where everything under the sun can be bought and
seen and done. Did you really think we had Indians and buffaloes close
by us?"
"And haven't you?"
"Dear me, no. There never was a buffalo within a thousand miles of us,
and not an Indian has come within shooting distance for half a century,
unless he came by train to take part in a show. You mustn't be so
easily taken in. People will impose upon you no end over in America,
unless you are on your guard. What has your brother been about, not to
explain things better?"
"Well, he _has_ tried," said Imogen, candidly, "but I didn't half
believe what he said, because it was so different from the things in the
books. And then he is so in love with America that it seemed as if he
must be exaggerating. He did say that the cities were just like our
cities, only more so, and that though the West wasn't like England at
all, it was very interesting to live in; but I didn't half listen to
him, it sounded so impossible."
"Live and learn. You'll have a great many surprises when you get across,
but some of them will be pleasant ones, and I think you'll like it.
Good-by," as Imogen rose to go; "I hope we shall meet again some time,
and then you will tell me how you like Colorado, and the Piutes,
and--waffles. I hope to live yet to see you stirring an egg in a glass
with pepper and a 'messy' lump of butter in true Western fashion. It's
awfully good, I've always been told. Do forgive me for hoaxing you. I
never thought you _could_ believe me, and when I found that you did, it
was irresistible to go on."
"I can't make out at all about Americans," said Imogen, plaintively, as
after an effusive farewell from Mrs. Page and a languid bow from Madame
de Conflans they were at last suffered to escape into the street. "There
seem to be so many different kinds. Mrs. Page and her daughter are not a
bit like each other, and Miss Opdyke is quite different from either of
them, and none of the three resembles Mrs. Geoffrey Templestowe in the
least."
"And neither does Buffalo Bill and your phrenological lecturer. Courage,
Moggy. I told you America was a sizable place. You'll begin to take in
and understand the meaning of the variety show after you once get over
there."
"It was queer, but do you know I couldn't help rather liking that girl;"
confessed Imogen later to Isabel Templestowe. "She was odd, of course,
and not a bit English, but you couldn't say she was bad form, and she
was so remarkably quick and bright. It seemed as if she had seen all
sorts of things and tried her hand on almost everything, and wasn't a
bit afraid to say what she thought, or to praise and find fault. I told
you what she said about English bread, and she was just as rude about
our vegetables; she said they were only flavored with hot water. What do
you suppose she meant?"
"I believe they cook them quite differently in America. Geoff likes
their way, and found a great deal of fault when he was at home with the
cauliflower and the Brussels sprouts. He declared that they had no
taste, and that mint in green-peas killed the flavor. Clover was too
polite to say anything, but I could see that she thought the same. Mamma
was quite put about with Geoff's new notions."
"I must say that it seems rather impertinent and forth-putting for a new
nation like that to be setting up opinions of its own, and finding
fault with the good old English customs," said Imogen, petulantly.
"Well, I don't know," replied Isabel; "we have made some changes
ourselves. John of Gaunt or Harry Hotspur might find fault with us for
the same reason, giving up the 'good old customs' of rushes on the
floor, for instance, and flagons of ale for breakfast. There were the
stocks and the pillory too, and hanging for theft, and the torture of
prisoners. Those were all in use more or less when the Pilgrims went to
America, and I'm sure we're all glad that they were given up. The world
must move, and I suppose it's but natural that the new nations should
give it its impulse."
"England is good enough for me," replied the practical Imogen. "I don't
want to be instructed by new countries. It's like a child in a pinafore
trying to teach its grandmother how to do things. Now, dear Isabel, let
me hear about your mother's parcels."
Mrs. Templestowe had wisely put her gifts into small compass. There were
two dainty little frocks for her grandson, and a jacket of her own
knitting, two pairs of knickerbocker stockings for Geoff, and for Clover
a bit of old silver which had belonged to a Templestowe in the time of
the Tudors,--a double-handled porringer with a coat of arms engraved on
its somewhat dented sides. Clover, like most Americans, had a passion
for the antique; so this present was sure to please.
"And you are really off to-morrow," said Isabel at the gate. "How I wish
I were going too."
"And how I wish I were not going at all, but staying on with you,"
responded Imogen. "Mother says if Lionel isn't married by the end of
three years she'll send Beatrice out to take my place. She'll be turned
twenty then, and would like to come. Isabel, you'll be married before I
get back, I know you will."
"It's most improbable. Girls don't marry in England half so easily as in
America. It will be you who will marry, and settle over there
permanently."
"Never!" cried Imogen.
Then the two friends exchanged a last kiss and parted.
"My love to Clover," Isabel called back.
"Always Clover," thought Imogen; but she smiled, and answered, "Yes."