THORNS AND ROSES.
"GEOFF," said Clover as they sat at dinner two days later, "couldn't we
start early when we go in to-morrow to meet Rose, and have the morning
at St. Helen's? There are quite a lot of little errands to be done, and
it's a long time since we saw Poppy or the Hopes."
"Just as early as you like," replied her husband. "It's a free day, and
I am quite at your service."
So they breakfasted at a quarter before six, and by a quarter past were
on their way to St. Helen's, passing, as Clover remarked, through three
zones of temperature; for it was crisply cold when they set out,
temperately cool at the lower end of the Ute Pass, and blazing hot on
the sandy plain.
"We certainly do get a lot of climate for our money out here," observed
Geoff.
They reached the town a little before ten, and went first of all to see
Mrs. Marsh, for whom Clover had brought a basket of fresh eggs. She
never entered that house without being sharply carried back to former
days, and made to feel that the intervening time was dreamy and unreal,
so absolutely unchanged was it. There was the rickety piazza on which
she and Phil had so often sat, the bare, unhomelike parlor, the
rocking-chairs swinging all at once, timed as it were to an
accompaniment of coughs; but the occupants were not the same. Many sets
of invalids had succeeded each other at Mrs. Marsh's since those old
days; still the general effect was precisely similar.
Mrs. Marsh, who only was unchanged, gave them a warm welcome. Grateful
little Clover never had forgotten the many kindnesses shown to her and
Phil, and requited them in every way that was in her power. More than
once when Mrs. Marsh was poorly or overtired, she had carried her off
to the High Valley for a rest; and she never failed to pay her a visit
whenever she spent a day at St. Helen's.
Their next call was at the Hopes'. They found Mrs. Hope darning
stockings on the back piazza which commanded a view of the mountain
range. She always claimed the entire credit of Clover's match, declaring
that if she had not matronized her out to the Valley and introduced her
and Geoff to each other, they would never have met. Her droll airs of
proprietorship over their happiness were infinitely amusing to Clover.
"I _think_ we should have got at each other somehow, even if you had not
been in existence," she told her friend; "marriages are made in Heaven,
as we all know. Nobody could have prevented ours."
"My dear, that is just where you are mistaken. Nothing is easier than to
prevent marriages. A mere straw will do it. Look at the countless old
maids all over the world; and probably nearly every one of them came
within half an inch of perfect happiness, and just missed it. No,
depend upon it, there is nothing like a wise, judicious, discriminating
friend at such junctures, to help matters along. You may thank me that
Geoff isn't at this moment wedded to some stiff-necked British maiden,
and you eating your head off in single-blessedness at Burnet."
"Rubbish!" said Clover. "Neither of us is capable of it;" but Mrs. Hope
stuck to her convictions.
She was delighted to see them, as she always was, and no less the bottle
of beautiful cream, the basket full of fresh lettuces, and the bunch of
Mariposa lilies which they had brought. Clover never went into St.
Helen's empty-handed.
Here they took luncheon No. 1,--consisting of sponge-cake and
claret-cup, partaken of while gazing across at Cheyenne Mountain, which
was at one of its most beautiful moments, all aerial blue streaked with
sharp sunshine at the summit. It was the one defect of the High Valley,
Clover thought, that it gave no glimpse of Cheyenne.
Luncheon No. 2 came a little later, with Marian Chase, whom every one
still called "Poppy" from preference and long habit. She was perfectly
well now, but she and her family had grown so fond of St. Helen's that
there was no longer any talk of their going back to the East. She had
just had some beautiful California plums sent her by an admirer, and
insisted on Clover's eating them with an accompaniment of biscuits and
"natural soda water."
"I want you and Alice Perham to come out next week for two nights," said
Clover, while engaged in this agreeable occupation. "My friend Mrs.
Browne arrives to-day, and she is by far the greatest treat we have ever
had to offer to any one since we lived in the Valley. You will delight
in her, I know. Could you come on Monday in the stage to the Ute Hotel,
if we sent the carryall over to meet you?"
"Why, of course. I never have any engagements when a chance comes for
going to the dear Valley; and Alice has none, I am pretty sure. It will
be perfectly delightful! Clover, you are an angel,--'the Angel of the
Penstamen' I mean to call you," glancing at the great sheaf of purple
and white flowers which Clover had brought. "It's a very good name. As
for Elsie, she is 'Our Lady of Raspberries;' I never saw such beauties
as she fetched in week before last."
Some very multifarious shopping for the two households followed, and by
that time it was two o'clock and they were quite ready for luncheon No.
3,--soup and sandwiches, procured at a restaurant. They were just coming
away when an open carriage passed them, silk-lined, with a crest on the
panel, jingling curb-chains, and silver-plated harnesses, all after the
latest modern fashion, and drawn by a pair of fine gray horses. Inside
was a young man, who returned a stiff bow to Clover's salutation, and a
gorgeously gowned young lady with rather a handsome face.
"Mr. and Mrs. Thurber Wade, I declare," observed Geoffrey. "I heard that
they were expected."
"Yes, Mrs. Wade is so pleased to have them come for the summer. We must
go and call some day, Geoff, when I happen to have on my best bonnet. Do
you think we ought to ask them out to the Valley?"
"That's just as you please. I don't mind if he doesn't. What fine
horses. Aren't you conscious of a little qualm of regret, Clover?"
"What for? I don't know what you mean. Don't be absurd," was all the
reply he received, or in fact deserved.
And now it was time to go to the train. The minutes seemed long while
they waited, but presently came the well-known shriek and rumble, and
there was Rose herself, dimpled and smiling at the window, looking not a
whit older than on the day of Katy's wedding seven years before. There
was little Rose too, but she was by no means so unchanged as her mother,
and certainly no longer little, surprisingly tall on the contrary, with
her golden hair grown brown and braided in a pig-tail, actually a
pig-tail. She had the same bloom and serenity, however, and the same
sedate, investigating look in her eyes. There was Mr. Browne too, but he
was a brief joy, for there was only time to shake hands and exchange
dates and promises of return, before the train started and bore him away
toward Pueblo.
"Now," said Rose, who seemed quite unquenched by her three days of
travel, "don't let's utter one word till we are in the carriage, and
then don't let's stop one moment for two weeks."
"In the first place," she began, as the carryall, mounting the hill,
turned into Monument Avenue, where numbers of new houses had been built
of late years, Queen Anne cottages in brick and stone, timber, and
concrete, with here and there a more ambitious "villa" of pink granite,
all surrounded with lawns and rosaries and vine-hung verandas and
tinkling fountains. "In the first place I wish to learn where all these
people and houses come from. I was told that you lived in a lodge in the
wilderness, but though I see plenty of lodges the wilderness seems
wanting. Is this really an infant settlement?"
"It really is. That is, it hasn't come of age yet, being not quite
twenty-one years old. Oh, you've no notion about our Western towns,
Rose. They're born and grown up all in a minute, like Hercules
strangling the snakes in his cradle. I don't at all wonder that you are
surprised."
"'Surprised' doesn't express it. 'Flabbergasted,' though low, comes
nearer my meaning. I have been breathless ever since we left Albany.
First there was that enormous Chicago which knocked me all of a heap,
then Denver, then that enchanting ride over the Divide, and now this!
Never did I see such flowers or such colored rocks, and never did any
one breathe such air. It sweeps all the dust and fatigue out of one in a
minute. Boston seems quite small and dull in comparison, doesn't it,
Roeslein?"
"It isn't so big, but I love it the most," replied that small person
from the front seat, where she sat soberly taking all things in.
"Mamma, Uncle Geoff says I may drive when we get to the foot of a long
hill we are just coming to. You won't be afraid, will you?"
"N-o; not if Uncle Geoff will keep his eye on the reins and stand ready
to seize them if the horses begin to run. Rose just expresses my
feelings," she continued; "but this is as beautiful as it is big. What
is the name of that enchanting mountain over there,--Cheyenne? Why,
yes,--that is the one that you used to write about in your letters when
you first came out, I remember. It never made much impression on
me,--mountains never seem high in letters, somehow, but now I don't
wonder. It's the loveliest thing I ever saw."
Clover was much pleased at Rose's appreciation of her favorite mountain,
and also with the intelligent way in which she noted everything they
passed. Her eyes were as quick as her tongue; chattering all the time,
she yet missed nothing of interest. The poppy-strewn plain, the green
levels of the mesa delighted her; so did the wide stretches of blue
distance, and she screamed with joy at the orange and red pinnacles in
Odin's Garden.
"It is a land of wonders," she declared. "When I think how all my life I
have been content to amble across the Common, and down Winter Street to
Hovey's, and now and then by way of adventure take the car to the Back
Bay, and that I felt all the while as if I were getting the cream and
pick of everything, I am astonished at my own stupidity. Rose, are you
not glad I did not let you catch whooping cough from Margaret Lyon? you
were bent on doing it, you remember. If I had given you your way we
should not be here now."
Rose only smiled in reply. She was used to her little mother's vagaries
and treated them in general with an indulgent inattention.
The sun was quite gone from the ravines, but still lingered on the
snow-powdered peaks above, when the carriage climbed the last steep
zigzag and drew up before the "Hut," whose upper windows glinted with
the waning light. Rose looked about her and drew a long breath of
surprise and pleasure.
"It isn't a bit like what I thought it would be," she said; "but it's
heaps and heaps more beautiful. I simply put it at the head of all the
places I ever saw." Then Elsie came running on to the porch, and Rose
jumped out into her arms.
"I thank the goodness and the grace
That on my birth has smiled,
And brought me to this blessed place
A happy Boston child!"
she cried, hugging Elsie rapturously. "You dear thing! how well you
look! and how perfect it all is up here! And this is Mr. Page, whom I
have known all about ever since the Hillsover days! and this is dear
little Geoff! Clover, his eyes are exactly like yours! And where is
_your_ baby, Elsie?"
"Little wretch! she _would_ go to sleep. I told her you were coming, and
I did all I could, short of pinching, to keep her awake,--sang, and
repeated verses, and danced her up and down, but it was all of no use.
She would put her knuckles in her eyes, and whimper and fret, and at
last I had to give in. Babies are perfectly unmanageable when they are
sleepy."
"Most of us are. It's just as well. I can't half take it in as it is. It
is much better to keep something for to-morrow. The drive was perfect,
and the Valley is twice as beautiful as I expected it to be. And now I
want to go into the house."
Elsie had devoted her day to setting forth the Hut to advantage. She and
Roxy had been to the very top of the East Canyon for flowers, and
returned loaded with spoil. Bunches of coreopsis and vermilion-tipped
painter's-brush adorned the chimney-piece; tall spikes of yucca rose
from an Indian jar in one corner of the room, and a splendid sheaf of
yellow columbines from another; fresh kinnikinick was looped and
wreathed about the pictures; and on the dining-table stood, most
beautiful and fragile of all, a bowlful of Mariposa lilies, their
delicate, lilac-streaked bells poised on stems so slender that the
fairy shapes seemed to float in air, supported at their own sweet will.
There were roses, too, and fragrant little knots of heliotrope and
mignonette. With these Rose was familiar; the wild flowers were all new
to her.
She ran from vase to vase in a rapture. They could scarcely get her
upstairs to take off her things. Such a bright evening followed! Clover
declared that she had not laughed so much in all the seven years since
they parted. Rose seemed to fit at once and perfectly into the life of
the place, while at the same time she brought the breath of her own more
varied and different life to freshen and widen it. They all agreed that
they had never had a visitor who gave so much and enjoyed so much. She
and Geoffrey made friends at once, greatly to Clover's delight, and
Clarence took to her in a manner astonishing to his wife, for he was apt
to eschew strangers, and escape them when he could.
They all woke in the morning to a sense of holiday.
"Boys," said Elsie at breakfast, "this isn't at all a common, every-day
day, and I don't want to do every-day things in it. I want something new
and unusual to happen. Can't you abjure those wretched beasts of yours
for once, and come with us to that sweet little canyon at the far end of
the Ute, where we went the summer after I was married? We want to show
it to Rose, and the weather is simply perfect."
"Yes, if you'll give us half an hour or so to ride up and speak to
Manuel."
"All right. It will take at least as long as that to get ready."
So Choo Loo hastily broiled chickens and filled bottles with coffee and
cream; and by half-past nine they were off, children and all, some on
horseback, and some in the carryall with the baskets, to Elsie's "sweet
little canyon," over which Pike's Peak rose in lonely majesty like a
sentinel at an outpost, and where flowers grew so thickly that, as Rose
wrote her husband, "it was harder to find the in-betweens than the
blossoms." They came back, tired, hungry, and happy, just at nightfall;
so it was not till the second day that Rose met the Youngs, about whom
her curiosity was considerably excited. It seemed so odd, she said, to
have "only neighbors," and it made them of so much consequence.
They had been asked to dinner to meet Rose, which was a very formal and
festive invitation for the High Valley, though the dinner must perforce
be much as usual, and the party was inevitably the same. Imogen felt
that it was an occasion, and wishing to do credit to it, she unpacked a
gown which had not seen the light before since her arrival, and which
had done duty as a dinner dress for two or three years at Bideford. It
was of light blue mousselaine-de-laine, made with a "half-high top" and
elbow sleeves, and trimmed with cheap lace. A necklace of round coral
beads adorned her throat, and a comb of the same material her hair,
which was done up in a series of wonderful loops filleted with narrow
blue ribbons. She carried a pink fan. Lionel, who liked bright colors,
was charmed at the effect; and altogether she set out in good spirits
for the walk down the Pass, though she was prepared to be afraid of
Rose, of whose brilliancy she had heard a little too much to make the
idea of meeting her quite comfortable.
The party had just gathered in the sitting-room as they entered. Clover
and Elsie were in pretty cotton dresses, as usual, and Rose, following
their lead, had put on what at home she would have considered a morning
gown, of linen lawn, white, with tiny bunches of forget-me-nots
scattered over it, and a jabot of lace and blue ribbon. These toilettes
seemed unduly simple to Imogen, who said within herself, complacently,
"There is one thing the Americans don't seem to understand, and that is
the difference between common dressing and a regular dinner
dress,"--preening herself the while in the sky-blue mousselaine-de-laine,
and quite unconscious that Rose was inwardly remarking, "My! where _did_
she get that gown? I never saw anything like it. It must have been made
for Mrs. Noah, some years before the ark. And her hair! just the ark
style, too, and calculated to frighten the animals into good behavior
and obedience during the bad weather. Well, I put it at the head of all
the extraordinary things I ever saw."
It is just as well, on the whole, that people are not able to read each
other's thoughts in society.
"You've only just come to America, I hear," said Rose, taking a chair
near Imogen. "Do you begin to feel at home yet?"
"Oh, pretty well for that. I don't fancy that one ever gets to be quite
at home anywhere out of their own country. It's very different over here
from England, of course."
"Yes, but some parts of America are more different than some other
parts. You haven't seen much of us as yet."
"No, but all the parts I have seen seemed very much alike."
"The High Valley and New York, for example."
"Oh, I wasn't thinking of New York. I mean the plains and mountains and
the Western towns. We didn't stop at any of them, of course; but seen
from the railway they all look pretty much the same,--wooden houses, you
know, and all that."
"What astonished us most was the distance," said Rose. "Of course we all
learned from our maps, when we were at school, just how far it is across
the continent; but I never realized it in the least till I saw it. It
seemed so wonderful to go on day after day and never get to the end!"
"Only about half-way to the end," put in Clover. "That question of
distance is a great surprise; and if it perplexes you, Rose, it isn't
wonderful that it should perplex foreigners. Do you recollect that
Englishman, Geoff, whom we met at the _table d'hote_ at Llanberis, when
we were in Wales, and who accounted for the Charleston earthquake by
saying that he supposed it had something to do with those hot springs
close by."
"What hot springs _did_ he mean?"
"I am sure you would never guess unless I told you. The hot springs in
the Yellowstone Park, to be sure,--simply those, and nothing more! And
when I explained that Charleston and the Yellowstone were about as
distant from each other as Siberia and the place we were in, he only
stared and remarked, 'Oh, I think you must be mistaken.'"
"And are they so far apart, then?" asked Imogen, innocently.
"Oh, Moggy, Moggy! what were your geography teachers thinking about?"
cried her brother. "It seems sometimes as if America were entirely left
out of the maps used in English schools."
"Lionel," said his sister, "how can you say such things? It isn't so at
all; but of course we learned more about the important countries."
Imogen spoke quite artlessly; she had no intention of being rude.
"Great Scott!" muttered Clarence under his breath, while Rose flashed a
look at Clover.
"Of course," she said, sweetly, "Burmah and Afghanistan and New Zealand
and the Congo States _would_ naturally interest you more,--large heathen
populations to Christianize and exterminate. There is nothing like fire
and sword to establish a bond."
"Oh, I didn't mean that. Of course America is much larger than those
countries."
"'Plenty of us such as we are'" quoted the wicked Rose.
"And pretty good what there is of us," added Clover, glad of the
appearance of dinner just then to create a diversion.
"That's quite a dreadful little person," remarked Rose, as they stood at
the doorway two hours later, watching the guests walk up the trail under
the light of a glorious full moon. "Her mind is just one inch across.
You keep falling off the edge and hurting yourself. It's sad that she
should be your only neighbor. I don't seem to like her a bit, and I
predict that you will yet have some dreadful sort of a row with her,
Clovy."
"Indeed we shall not; nothing of the kind. She's really a good little
thing at bottom; this angularity and stiffness that you object to is
chiefly manner. Wait till she has been here long enough to learn the
ways and wake up, and you will like her."
"I'll wait," said Rose, dryly. "How much time should you say would be
necessary, Clover? A hundred years? I should think it would take at
least as long as that."
"Lionel's a dear fellow. We are all very fond of him."
"I can understand your being fond of _him_ easily enough. Imogen! what a
name for just that kind of girl. 'Image' it ought to be. What a figure
of fun she was in that awful blue gown!"
The two weeks of Rose's visit sped only too rapidly. There was so much
that they wanted to show her, and there were so many people whom they
wanted her to see, and so many people who, as soon as they saw her,
became urgent that she should do this and that with them, that life soon
became a tangle of impossibilities. Rose was one of those charmers that
cannot be hid. She had been a belle all her days, and she would be so
till she died of old age, as Elsie told her. Her friends of the High
Valley gloried in her success; but all the time they had a private
longing to keep her more to themselves, as one retires with two or three
to enjoy a choice dainty of which there is not enough to go round in a
larger company. They took her to the Cheyenne Canyons and the top of
Pike's Peak; they carried her over the Marshall Pass and to many smaller
places less known to fame, but no less charming in their way.
Invitations poured in from St. Helen's, to lunch, to dinner, to
afternoon teas; but of these Rose would none. She could lunch and dine
in Boston, she declared, but she might never come to Colorado again, and
what she thirsted for was canyons, and not less than one a day would
content her insatiable appetite for them.
But though she would not go to St. Helen's, St. Helen's in a measure
came to her. Marian Chase and Alice made their promised visit; Dr. and
Mrs. Hope came out more than once, and Phil continually; while smart
Bostonians whom Clover had never heard of turned up at Canyon Creek and
the Ute Valley and drove over to call, having heard that Mrs. Deniston
Browne was staying there. The High Valley became used to the roll of
wheels and the tramp of horses' feet, and for the moment seemed a
sociable, accessible sort of place to which it was a matter of course
that people should repair. It was oddly different from the customary
order of things, but the change was enlivening, and everybody enjoyed it
with one exception.
This exception was Imogen Young. She was urged to join some of the
excursions made by her friends below, but on one excuse or another she
refused. She felt shy and left out where all the rest were so
well-acquainted and so thoroughly at ease, and preferred to remain at
home; but all the same, to have the others so gay and busy gave her a
sense of loneliness and separation which was painful to bear. Clover
tried more than once to persuade her out of her solitary mood; but she
was too much occupied herself and too absorbed to take much time for
coaxing a reluctant guest, and the others dispensed with her company
quite easily; in fact, they were too busy to notice her absence much or
ask questions. So the fortnight, which passed so quickly and brilliantly
at the Hut, and was always afterward alluded to as "that delightful time
when Rose was here," was anything but delightful at the "Hutlet," where
poor Imogen sat homesick and forlorn, feeling left alone on one side of
all the pleasant things, scarcely realizing that it was her own choice
and doing, and wishing herself back in Devonshire.
"Lion seems quite taken up with these new people and _that_ Mrs.
Browne," she reflected. "He's always going off with them to one place or
another. I might as well be back in Bideford for all the use I am to
him." This was unjust, for Lionel was anxious and worried over his
sister's depressed looks and indisposition to share in the pleasures
that were going on; but Imogen just then saw things through a gloomy
medium, and not quite as they were. She felt dull and heavy-hearted, and
did not seem able to rouse herself from her lassitude and weariness.
Out of the whole party no one was so perfectly pleased with her
surroundings as the smaller Rose. Everything seemed to suit the little
maid exactly. She made a delightful playfellow for the babies, telling
them fairy stories by the dozen, and teaching them new games, and
washing and dressing Phillida with all the gravity and decorum of an old
nurse. They followed her about like two little dogs, and never left her
side for a moment if they could possibly help it. All was fish that came
to her happy little net, whether it was playing with little Geoff, going
on excursions with the elders, scrambling up the steep side-canyons
under Phil's escort in search of flowers and curiosities, or riding
sober old Marigold to the Upper Valley as she was sometimes allowed to
do. The only cloud in her perfect satisfaction was that she must some
day go away.
"It won't be very pleasant when I get back to Boston, and don't have
anything to do but just walk down Pinckney Street with Mary Anne to
school, and slide a little bit on the Common when the snow comes and
there aren't any big boys about, will it, mamma?" she said,
disconsolately. "I sha'n't feel as if that were a great deal, I think."
"I am afraid the High Valley is a poor preparation for West Cedar
Street," laughed Rose. "It _will_ seem a limited career to both of us at
first. But cheer up, Poppet; I'm going to put you into a dancing-class
this winter, and very likely at Christmas-time papa will treat us both
to a Moral Drayma. There _are_ consolations, even in Boston."
"That 'even in Boston' is the greatest compliment the High Valley ever
received," said Clover, who happened to be within hearing. "Such a
moment will never come to it again."
And now the last day came, as last days will. Mr. Browne returned from
Mexico, with forty-eight hours to spare for enjoyment, which interval
they employed in showing him the two things that Rose loved
most,--namely, the High Valley from top to bottom, and the North
Cheyenne Canyon. The last luncheon was taken at Mrs. Hope's, who had
collected a few choice spirits in honor of the occasion, and then they
all took the Roses to the train, and sent them off loaded with fruit and
flowers.
"Miss Young was extraordinarily queer and dismal last night," said Rose
to Clover as they stood a little aside from the rest on the platform. "I
can't quite see what ails her. She looks thinner than when we came, and
doesn't seem to know how to smile; depend upon it she's going to be ill,
or something. I wish you had a pleasanter neighbor,--especially as she's
likely to be the only one for some time to come."
"Poor thing. I've neglected her of late," replied Clover, penitently. "I
must make up for it now that you are going away. Really, I couldn't
take my time for her while you were here, Rosy."
"And I certainly couldn't let you. I should have resented it highly if
you had. Oh dear,--there's that whistle. We really have got to go. I
hoped to the last that something might happen to keep us another day. Oh
dear Clover,--I wish we lived nearer each other. This country of ours is
a great deal too wide."
"Geoff," said Clover, as they slowly climbed the hill, "I never felt
before that the High Valley was too far away from people, but somehow I
do to-night. It is quite terrible to have Rose go, and to feel that I
may not see her again for years."
"Did you want to go with her?"
"And leave you? No, dearest. But I am quite sure that there are no
distances in Heaven, and when we get there we shall find that we all are
to live next door to each other. It will be part of the happiness."
"Perhaps so. Meanwhile I am thankful that my happiness lives close to me
now. I don't have to wait till Heaven for that, which is the reason
perhaps that for some years past Earth has seemed so very satisfactory
to me."
"Geoff, what an uncommonly nice way you have of putting things," said
Clover, nestling her head comfortably on his arm. "On the whole I don't
think the High Valley is so _very_ far away."