the things they loved on this island. Even when you motor over these
velvet smooth roads, and pass fine modern places as at Southampton and
dreamy old ones at Quogue, and cottages pretty and modest as violets, on
the way through the woods to Westhampton, you can't put out of your head
the thought of Indians and their trails through the forests. It is a
thought like a dim background of ghosts in a picture where the
foreground is bright and gay.
I almost cried at _dejeuner_ yesterday when Captain Winston told about
Henry Hudson and the happy, kind tribe of the Canarsies--in 1609, three
hundred and seven years ago this spring. They were so pleased when he
came sailing into Gravesend Bay in his little ship the _Half Moon_ (that
is on another part of Long Island, not where I write of), and they put
on their best clothes of animals' skins and mantles made of brilliant
feathers, to go and meet the men from "another world." They took
presents of green tobacco and furs, and made feasts to honour their
visitors. But a man named John Colman admired their most beautiful woman
too much, and was shot by an arrow. After that they all fought, and a
great many Indians were killed, and they got to think that every
European was treacherous. If you, dear Adrienne, could see a place
called Coney Island, it would seem funny to you that John Colman (who
liked the Indian girl too well) should be buried there. It is not at all
a place to be buried in; and he feels that, for his ghost walks at
night. What a wonder they do not hire it for a side show! The story of
John Colman is not the only romance Captain Winston has found in the old
books. There are lots, but the nicest one happened in the Shinnecock
part I have told you of: the romance of the Indian Water Serpent, who
avenged the murder of a white girl, Edith Turner, who nursed him to life
when he was dying. Water Serpent travelled for months, tracking a man
who stabbed and threw her in the water of Peconic Bay. Through marshes
and forests he went, and at last he tired the murderer out. Then he left
him dead with a dagger in his heart, the same dagger that killed Edith.
After that there was nothing left for Water Serpent to love, so he
starved himself to death, and died on Edith's grave. Do you believe
there are white men who can love like that?
All this side of the Island has Indian names, though on the other they
are more English; a few English names here, too, of course, only it is
the Indian ones you remember best, they are so queer. And it seems
right, in memory of the Indians, that many roads are cut through lovely
woods. Could you forget names like "Speonk" and "Moriches?" I _know_ you
could not forget the woods either, if you saw them once, or the perfume
of the pines and the yellow lilies growing wild. Even they had an Indian
name, Captain Winston says, or their roots had: "sebon" or "shubun"; and
the legend is that the lilies are the spirits of Indian children who
come back each spring to their old playgrounds.
There is another thing they say, too: if you travel along this sandy
road (it's really part of the big sandbar which makes Fire Island--Fire
Island that walls in the South Bay)--if you travel by moonlight, or come
on the road between Moriches and Bellport, you can see prints of naked
feet, one straight in front of the other, as the Indians used to walk;
and they are not the feet of Europeans. I like those tales; and the ways
through the woods (even where there are villages, like one I loved,
called "Watermill") are so romantic, it would be more strange _not_ to
have Indian ghosts!
Bellport I _could_ not pass through without stopping, because of the
curiosity shops. I had not much money to buy things, but I wanted to
look. So the procession stopped; and the three boys we call Tom, Dick,
and Harry--the ones who love me--clubbed together and bought me an old
black japanned tea tray with flowers painted on it. Their hearts would
have been in broken pieces if I had said no, I could not take it. So I
said "yes, thank you!" and that put me into trouble, because then Mr.
Caspian bought me something also: a tiny model of an old whaling ship.
It was perfect, and cost a great deal. I knew, because I had asked the
price and he had heard me. But what could I do? I was thinking what to
say, when the wife of the shop man rushed up and reminded him that the
model was engaged, and could not be sold to this gentleman. That gave me
time to finish thinking! I said no one must buy me anything else, so I
was in time to stop Mr. Caspian from giving me a fat silver watch of the
time of the Georges. It would have gone well with our house, but I
should not have liked it from him. He thumped the watch down when I
refused, and Mr. Storm bought it under his nose. I will tell you by and
by what happened about it and the model ship.
We took our _dejeuner_ at a place of the queerest name of all; or, no,
it was the lake that has the name; we were in a restaurant on the shore,
with a flowery terrace shaded by pines. Could you pronounce the word
"Ronkonkoma," if nobody told you how, and you had not Indian ancestors
haunting your heart? When we were at our tables--two, drawn near
together--Peter Storm called out that Mrs. Winston offered a prize for
the person getting the right pronunciation. She knew, because her
husband had learned it in some book. We all tried, and Mr. Caspian and I
spoke it the same way--at least, it sounded to me the same. But Molly
made Peter Storm umpire (that means a person who decides when there is a
dispute; and is hated if in baseball or football), and Peter decided for
me, because I put the emphasis in the right place--"Ron_kon_koma." What
do you suppose the prize was? The fat watch I had wanted! It seemed that
Peter (I would not call him Peter to his face) had bought it for Molly.
And I may as well tell you at this same time, she gave me the ship for a
present that evening. It was for my birthday, she explicated. Though it
was passed by some weeks, she had wanted to find a thing I liked; and
she had gone behind the back of Mr. Caspian to bargain with the shop
woman, so it could be a surprise. She knew it would be spoiled to come
through Mr. Caspian. I shall not dare to put the ship at home where he
can see, but it will be in my room, where he can never come. His face
looked so cross about the watch of the Georges! I couldn't help to be
pleased.
If Peter Storm were not the man he is, above caring much for girls,
maybe I should think he had arranged these two things to happen with the
help of Molly. But that is not possible. It would only be a great
conceit of mine.
We had quite a splendid _dejeuner_ at the lake of the prize name, with
Blue Point oysters, which you will have heard of because they are of an
importance like royalties. They are born close by Ronkonkoma Lake, at a
place named after them. I will not say they are named after it!
When we started again, I was allowed to drive for miles--not ordinary
common miles, but a spin through a kind of motor heaven ruled by the god
of "Things as They Ought to Be." I think his name in America is
Billiken. It quite belongs to him, though he inspired a mortal to make
the road forty-five miles! You will have to do it in your head in
kilometres. The Parkway (they call it) is private, and you pay to go
through--only a very little, though it is worth much for the joy. There
is no dust and no crowd and no noise, and no policemen springing out
like Jacks from boxes; and they let you go forty miles an hour. It is a
pity to rush so fast, though, unless you turn and go back again, because
the fun is over too soon. Besides, there is scenery of every kind. One
would say they had brought bits from every part of the world. There are
woods, dark perfumy pines, and white birches like bridal processions of
young girls in white. There are hills and rocks, with emerald ferns, and
wild flowers almost like Switzerland; and gorse, and fragrant shrubs
which must be like the "maquis" they tell you of in Corsica. There are
meadows lovely as lawns, and glimpses of blue water like nymphs' eyes
suddenly opening from enchanted sleep, perhaps to close when you have
gone! I hope they do, for I hate to think of everything going on when
our backs are turned as when we are there to see, don't you?
I could have cried when we came out of the Motor Parkway, and I must
give up the wheel because of Mr. Goodrich, who fears I might snap in two
pieces at the waist and wreck his family. But it was very pretty country
still, so I was soon consoled. It is difficult, wishing to live in so
many villages! If I had to choose, I do not see how I could; and Peter
says it will be the same with me in New England. But, ma chere, if you
could see _Jericho_! I do not mean the one we speak of when we say "I
wish I were in Jericho!" but the Jericho of Long Island, where I should
love to buy all the beautiful old houses, I could not possibly choose
between! I would stay in one after the other, and sit in rocking-chairs
rocking back and forth like so many old ladies do. But I should not be
old. And I would have a man sitting in another chair, rocking, too. He
would look like Peter Storm in some ways--that is, he would have such
eyes as Peter's. I cannot take interest in other eyes now, his are so
living, and they have _all_ the expressions as with ponds which show the
moods of the sky. But I would not say this to another than you, not
even to Molly! And speaking of ponds, cherie, on Long Island they carpet
them with water lilies, or else with ducks, and sometimes both,
beautifully mixed together. For modern ducks to be smart and fashionable
must not swim or move about much. If they do, it gives them muscles, and
to have muscles, makes tough. How glad I am there are not creatures
thinking things like that about me when I play tennis or dance or drive
a motor! But ducks do not seem to be bitter about it. They just float
through life and smile in that way they have, when they are not waddling
slowly in front of motors. By the way, Peter says the "race memory" of
ducks and chickens and especially geese (who are clever though
misunderstood) is improving so much they do not now always cross a road
when a motor car is coming. They begin to remember from their ancestors
it is wise to wait.
After Jericho and another sweet place called East Norwich we came close
to Oyster Bay. Maybe your new cousin from America has told you about it,
and of Mr. Roosevelt, who is one of the heroes of America and has been
soldier and President and explorer and a little of everything. He lives
at Oyster Bay when he has time to live anywhere. And he is a "great
chief," so it is well to have a place called Sagamore Hill. You will see
why when you learn more about Indian things, as you will have to do if
you marry an American man, you know! I cannot stop to tell you now,
because I have come to the mysterious part of my letter; and the only
place that matters is the place which is lent us to live in.
[Illustration: map]*
We thought only to stay at an hotel, and Mr. Caspian or Captain
Winston would have telegraphed, but Peter Storm said no, there was a
nicer plan. For a surprise to us, Marcel Moncourt--our great
Marcel!--had asked a man he knew to let us dispose at his house--I mean,
_of_ his house. The man was away, but he was of those who will have all
things ready for the notice of a moment, if he drops down from the sky
upon his servants.
But, my child, it is a wonderful house! Not old, quite new, like the
Palace of Aladdin. All that misses is a roc's egg, hanging up in the
great hall, unless it is there, disguised in a chandelier from Venice.
Some servants are kept to be ready whatever happens. They are Japanese,
which makes even more the fairy-tale effect. Peter Storm gives them
orders, for that was arranged with our Marcel, it seems, before we
started. We owe this experience to Marcel; but then, we owe Marcel to
Mr. Storm; and I think it annoys Mr. Caspian very, very much that it is
thanks to Peter we are here. He would like always to be the important
one, and he feels it should be his right to be of importance, because
(now this is one of the strange things!) the fairy palace was built by a
cousin of his--the cousin from whom came all his money. That is really
odd, but it is not yet the mysterious part. Now I have just come to it.
From Peter I have heard nothing except what I told you: that the house
belongs to a friend of Marcel Moncourt's, who is always away since he
owned it and will not let but will lend his place sometimes. From Mr.
Caspian I have this story which I write for you.
His cousin, an old man named Stanislaws--only a cousin through a
marriage--built the house for his son. It was to be a surprise birthday
present, and it must be so beautiful, with many features and furnishings
of other countries, that this young man would consent to settle in it.
He liked to wander over the world, and his poor father thought if he
could give him in one house all the things he loved the best in far-off
lands he might be satisfied. That was pathetic, don't you find? To have
the house ready in time the old Stanislaws offered a great sum to an
architect who must put that work in front of all other engagements. He
did so, but trying to keep his contracts with every one gave him in the
end an illness many people in this country have, called nervous
prostration. I suppose it is an American disease, as one does not have
it elsewhere. That was the first bad luck of the house, but not the
last. When it was finished, before even it was named, the old Stanislaws
died in a sad way--a way Mr. Caspian said I would not like to hear of;
and the son died, too. Mr. Caspian thought the house would come to him
with everything else; but no, it had been given by the young Stanislaws
to some friend. This friend kept away, and would not even let his name
be known; so Mr. Caspian fought to get the place for himself, claiming
through the law there must be something wrong. He had hope, for he
wished to live there, not liking the west, where the old Stanislaws home
was. But the case came out against him in the end. A lawyer in New York
proved that the house had been legally given, and nothing could be done.
Since then it is Marcel Moncourt who pays the servants and acts for the
owner, but Mr. Caspian is sure the place is not his.
Well, here we are in it, anyhow, and shall be till to-morrow, for we
are seeing the neighbourhood to-day, and to-night motoring to a dance at
Piping Rock, where there is a country club very rich and celebrated.
Now, is it not mysterious: a house without a name, belonging to a
nameless man? Figure to yourself, we eat this man's food, for we are not
allowed to pay, and we know not whom to thank! Last night when we
arrived we were shown to our rooms by a Japanese butler. Each room has
its bath, and not only that, but its own little _salon_. (My suite is
French, Molly's and Captain Winston's is English of the Elizabeth time;
and there are rooms Spanish, Italian, Egyptian, Chinese, Russian, and
Greek.) We bathed and dressed, and went down to dine in a circular
dining-room with inlaid marble walls, and doors of carved, open-work
bronze that have transparent enamel, like iridescent shell let into the
openings. It is the first house I have seen big enough to make the
Goodrich family look small, and the girls screamed with admiration in
the dining-room; but Peter Storm laughed at the whole house. He said he
would like as much to live in the Museum at Athens.
Afterward in the garden Mr. Caspian spoke of that, and said it was "bad
taste," because Mr. Storm could never have been to the Museum of Athens,
and "a man of his stamp" was no judge. It was only an impertinence of
him to pretend, and an accident that he should have climbed up for a
while from his position to ours.
That divided me between a laugh and a snap! Because Mr. Caspian is a
little man without distinction, and Peter--but already you know from my
letters what he is like.
"I thought," said I, "you were socialist, and for you one man was worth
another."
"I am not that now," he hurried to tell me. "Since I came into so much
responsibility I am broader."
I knew what he meant, because now I learn the nuances of English words.
But to spite him I agreed. "Ah, yes, it is in the waist a little, I
suppose!" That was the cat in me, for it is true he is growing fat just
at his waistcoat. But I remembered in time my promise to Larry and
dropped the cat to be the meek mouse, while Mr. C. explained with care
that it was his mind which had broadened out.
Perhaps I might have been sorry I had scratched, if he had not gone on
with talk against Peter Storm, as he always does if he finds me alone,
or else he makes love. He tried to explain two telegrams that Mrs.
Shuster had sent wrong: one which was meant for him, addressed to Mr.
Storm, and vice versa. It seemed as if Mr. Caspian had wanted her to get
Peter back in the middle of the trip, on a pretense of much work; but he
tried to make me believe it was not his wish at all. "I am Mrs.
Shuster's friend, and she asks my advice," he said. "Honestly I do think
Storm is a slacker about work. It looks as if he'd only engaged as her
secretary to get into a class above his own and enjoy himself. I'm
afraid he'll lose his job if he doesn't 'watch' out, the way Mrs.
Shuster feels. But she's good-natured, and perhaps she'll give him
another chance if he shows his good will by stopping indoors to-morrow
and correcting some proofs that must go to the publishers in a hurry. I
happen to know they've arrived, by express delivery. It's a test of
Storm's loyalty. If you're willing to let me drive your car on its
sight-seeing tour of the neighbourhood, Storm can make good with Mrs.
Shuster."
These were almost the words he spoke, for I listened hard while I
thought what to do.
I answered, sweet as honey, "Yes, _please_ drive to-morrow. I will tell
Mr. Storm he is free to work for Mrs. Shuster all day long."
He was so pleased with me! Then Peter happened to walk by, in another
path, and I said, "I will break it now." "Do!" he whispered back; and
did not try to come with me, as he often does if I am going near Peter.
It is a joke with Peter and me since the mistake of the telegrams that
Mr. Caspian would do some desperate thing to drive the Grayles-Grice,
and that made it more easy to play a little trick. I said: "I hear you
are asked to correct proofs of a peace tract. Is it hard to do, or could
I help when I finish a long letter I write to-morrow? I have seen so
many beautiful sights, I shall mix all up in my mind if I see more
before I put on paper my thoughts about them. Mr. Caspian can drive well
enough the short smooth ways we have mapped out, do you not think?--and
he would have his wish."
Peter laughed, and so did I. There was not need to explain for him to
understand that the plan was part of our joke.
Oh, it has been the most heavenly day in the garden! I have sat on a
purply red velvet cushion, on a marble seat brought from Italy. Behind
the seat is a row of cedars, like a guard of black soldiers. These
things suit Long Island as well as they suit Italy, though Peter laughs
at them for being here. He laughs in a good-natured yet almost sad way,
as if he thought it wrong to make fun of what a dead man did for love of
his son. Peter has sat in the garden, too, working hard, and we have not
disturbed each other. The Japanese brought us lunch out of doors in a
summer house built like a temple in a Roman garden. We had hothouse
strawberries and cream of Jersey cows, and when Peter heard me say I
would like to see a Jersey, he ordered a Japanese to have one fetched.
It came--oh, so small a cow, like a great toy, colour of biscuit, and
with a purple tongue which it rolled round a tartine I gave. I have
never been more happy.
I would have asked Peter at _dejeuner_ if there was a son of Marcel
Moncourt, but it seemed not the right time somehow, I can hardly tell
why. When I have helped him with the proofs perhaps. (I am to copy his
marks on a second set, and I shall try so hard not to have mistakes!) Or
to-night, at the Piping Rock Club, where we shall dance together, I
hope. Anyway soon. And I will write to you all he says.
Your fairy-tale goose girl--or princess--I know not which!
PATRICE.
IX
ANGELE DUBOIS, PATRICIA MOORE'S MAID, TO THE MARQUISE DE MONCOURT
(_A translation of her letter into English._)
Madame la Marquise has done me the honour of commanding me to write when
there was news, good or bad, of the distinguished Monsieur Laurence
Moore.
The first time I took pen in hand I had the pain of telling Madame of
his failure in finance, which greeted Mademoiselle his daughter and me
on our arrival in this country. Had it not been for my promise to
Madame, I do not know if my courage would have supported the
humiliations I was obliged to suffer at that time, but I reminded myself
of her confidence in me, and praise be to the saints was able to
accomplish my duties until better days dawned. In this I was aided by
the kindness of Monsieur, who has much sympathy and condescension for
all near him. It is unfortunate that he should be forced to put his
beautiful house to the uses of a hotel, as I took the liberty of
complaining before to Madame. But such is the unique charm of Monsieur,
he carries off this apparent ignominy without losing caste, and is most
popular with all his guests and domestics--even too popular with some of
the former who are females. And this brings me to my excuse for
troubling Madame.
Poor Monsieur is as gay and good-natured as a boy. He can bear to hurt
the feelings of no one, not even a cat, human or otherwise. And then,
naturally, like all men, he has a weakness for being comfortable. Money
should grow in his pockets, but alas! it does not. They are often empty,
and he knows not how to put up with that. It is no doubt the duty of his
daughter to take a husband rich and generous enough to put Monsieur in
the position he should fill, without anxieties, where, if there is any
question of a second marriage for him, the choice of a wife may be made
by his heart. And if Madame la Marquise will forgive me the immense
presumption of speaking my mind, I may say that, from the inquiries
Monsieur has made concerning his friends in France, I feel assured his
soul is really there.
Most unluckily, however, Mademoiselle--who pretends such devotion to her
"Larry"--puts her own fancies before his welfare. I have done all my
possible to persuade her that she should accept a certain Monsieur
Caspian, who has one of the great fortunes of this country, it appears,
and is also most presentable. This I have done not only because it is
for the ultimate good of Mademoiselle, and because Monsieur Caspian has
been considerate to me, but far more because of my promise to watch in
every way the true interests of Monsieur Moore. With such a son-in-law,
he would be free to turn his face toward France: and he himself wishes
the marriage in his wiser moments. He may even have borrowed some few
thousands of francs from Monsieur Caspian. But his good nature is the
enemy again--always the enemy! He has fear of being the cruel parent.
Indeed he is not, I think, intended by heaven for a parent at all. Yet,
rather than push Mademoiselle into a marriage, he is ready to be drawn
into one himself, and there is now much danger that this may happen.
As I write, Mademoiselle is away on a short automobile tour, and
Monsieur is completely unprotected, except by me, and what can I do but
write to Madame la Marquise? Staying in the house is a dangerous woman,
not possessed of siren fascinations; indeed, on the contrary, she is of
a plainness to chill the blood of a _debonnaire_ man like Monsieur
Moore. It is her money that is the magnet, and ah, the power makes
itself felt! She, the woman who has the _bourgeois_ name of Shuster, has
remained at home, giving various excuses, but the true reason is to get
herself safely engaged to Monsieur before the return of his daughter.
Monsieur also, it must be confessed, is a little to blame in this
matter, but it is his good nature once more! And, then, he was not
perhaps averse to an innocent flirtation with a woman, even an
unattractive one, who flattered him. Now, he is being drawn farther than
he may have meant when he made the pretext that he was needed at home. I
would telegraph to Madame, but I do not see what good that would
accomplish. It is not likely that even to save an old friend from
disaster, Madame would launch herself at a moment's notice upon a
dangerous voyage. Besides, there is this consolation: even if Monsieur
is led by the nose--his so handsome nose!--a betrothal is not a
marriage, and there is many a cup does not reach the lip which awaits
it.