my Mercedes? Of course it's only a _very_ few years ago! Not being Aunt
Mary, I won't make any remark about the number. But if you haven't quite
forgotten that first love, doesn't it make your heart beat to think of
those great terraced, castellated buildings of gray stone massed against
the cliffsides above the sparkling river, almost Walhalla-like in
grandeur, of the gracious elms and the prim soldierly barracks draped
with ivy, of the vast parade ground and the wonderful grouping of
mountains whose shapes lie reflected far down under the crystal water,
Cro' Nest, haunted by the "Culprit Fay," and Storm King; and little
Constitution Island which tried its best to stop the British ships.
I wish a cadet had fallen in love with me! I wish one would do it now! I
adored them all as I sat in the motor watching the ranks of white-clad
figures moving to music and looking, in the late sunshine against their
green background, like hundreds of marble statues come alive. When they
stood to "attention" they were like snow men. Oh, and what music it was,
to which they moved! Jack said there couldn't be a scene of its kind
half so fine and picturesque anywhere else in the world. I felt quite
proud to have been born an American as I looked at it, and so, judging
from their expressions, did crowds of pretty girls who gazed adoringly
at all those soldiers in the making. It worried me a little, just when
the music was at its noblest, that a man in a motor _char-a-bancs_ or
something huge and touristy should be telling his victims how West Point
had been "the key to the Hudson," and what a fatal blow would have been
dealt to hopes of independence if Benedict Arnold could have handed it
over to the British. I thought he glared at Jack as he delivered this
lecture, guessing perhaps by the shape of his particularly nice nose
that he's a Britisher. But just then the sunset gun was fired, echoing
again and again among the mountains. All the female victims squeaked and
stopped their ears, and the man jumped, so that Jack was saved.
You, who have happy memories of Flirtation Walk, will pity Pat when I
tell you that her sensitive conscience made her consent to walk there
with Ed Caspian after dinner, Jack and Peter Storm and I following at a
respectful distance. Peter could hardly bear it. I suppose the moonlight
on the water glinting far under the high cliff walk and the bitter-sweet
scent of the ferns went to his head. He forgot that we'd all planned
together this way of disgusting Pat with what she thought her
duty--throwing her so constantly with Caspian that she'd find out all
his faults. But when Peter was leading up to some excuse for joining the
pair in front, Jack reminded him that if ever the medicine could be
beneficial to the poor little patient it would be in such a scene, and
on such a night made for love and happiness.
Mrs. Shuster and Larry and Idonia were walking, too. I believe Larry had
intended to take Idonia alone, having advised Lily to rest, but Lily
passionately refused to rest. Fancy her on Flirtation Walk!
West Point is a _witching_ place to spend a night in, even though a
dance--or a "hop," or whatever they call it--is going on, and _you're_
not invited!
Next morning, after lingering again at Battle Point to drink in as
lovely a view as the world can give, we dashed off once more. It was
just the hour of "Guard mount," and the cadets looked too fascinating.
The girls gazed at them as if they were the heroes of a hundred battles,
and so, in a way, they were and are: at least, as West Pointers they're
heirs to those who fought a hundred battles. Jack read in some book that
out of sixty battles in the Civil War fifty-six had for commanders men
from West Point--and not all on one side! Of course, they fought in the
old Mexican War as well, for West Point has been a training school
ever since 1794. That seems a long time in America!
[Illustration: THE HUDSON RIVER "When we came into sudden sight of the
river there was a magical effect: a veil of silver mist, with boats big
and little moving behind it, like white swans"]
We had a gorgeous run to Tuxedo--a road that might make Europe
jealous--among mountains of the Catskill family, too important and
beautiful, I thought, to dismiss as foothills. What a pity Rip Van
Winkle spent all his twenty years asleep in one place! _I_ should have
walked in my sleep, and changed my bed from mountain to mountain every
night or so. Oh, I forgot to tell you, at West Point I heard a new
legend of the Catskills. At least, it's so old that it's as good as new.
Once when the Indians were just comfortably beginning to feel at home
after one of those interrupting Ice Ages, there lived a fearful giant
with a wife and children as terrible as himself. The only things they
cared to eat were Indian babies; and after this horrid family had been
vainly admonished for their ways by the Great Spirit they were suddenly,
in the midst of a meal, turned into stone. Being so big, they became
mountains, and as some tried to run away and escape the others' fate,
they grouped themselves in a chain along the riverside. I don't quite
believe this story, though! I'd rather think that a _good_ family of
giants asked the Great Spirit to let them become beautiful mountains
when they died, and so be remembered lovingly forever, while the world
lasts.
The Ramapo Valley is a dream of loveliness all the way, with its lakes
like wide-open blue eyes of dryads, and its laced silver ribbon of
river. Larry has a friend at court--I mean Tuxedo Park; so he was again
useful as well as ornamental--a rare thing for him! We sailed in at the
queer gates as confidently as if we owned a hundred acres of land and a
lake inside the magic circle. Only the Hippopotamus balked. He had tire
trouble just inside the entrance to Paradise; but I think he could have
crawled in if Tom, Dick, and Harry had urged him a little. They, poor
boys, are under a cloud since Pat's engagement was announced, and are
only going on as a sort of mute protest against its irrevocability. If
it were any one else except Caspian--Peter Storm, for instance--they
would bravely retire from the field with congratulations for the victor,
but they have a vague idea in their nice heads that Pat isn't happy and
may have to be rescued when the time comes, but they must have felt that
nothing so violent could happen in a place as "exclusive" as Tuxedo
Park. By the way, don't you hate the expression "exclusive" in
connection with society? I do think it quite naively snobbish, not to
say un-Christian! How much more heart-warming to speak of an _in_clusive
place or entertainment! However, we humans haven't mounted to that
height yet; and "exclusive" being not only the word but the feeling at
Tuxedo, the Boys felt themselves and the Hippopotamus unsuited to the
occasion. Consequently they broke down outside the sacred precincts, and
we glided past the gray-stone, red-gabled portals while they grouped
round a tire to hide the fact that it was flat.
We spent the morning with Larry's friend for our guide, seeing one grand
private place after another. His own is almost the grandest of all, and
is on a lake fringed with feathery trees which weave a gold-green
network across the blue. The golf course is perfectly beautiful, and
made me for the first time want to learn. I never have, because it seems
to me a middle-aged, pottering game; and I've always so hated staying
at country houses with golf lovers who talk of nothing else. Anyhow, I
don't want to have a golf complexion until I'm _forced_ to be over
twenty-six.
[Illustration: map]*
The gardens of the Tuxedo Park dwellers are really bits of Eden,
although you would have to bite a bit out of the apple before you could
be sophisticated enough to make them grow like that. We lunched with
Larry's friend, and should have enjoyed the feast immensely if Ed
Caspian hadn't put on multimillionaire airs, and snubbed Peter Storm at
the table. Pat turned crimson, and I hoped that good might come out of
evil--that she might break off with the rude wretch as a punishment.
Peter behaved so well that he deserved such a reward. Jack and I were
proud of him! But the engagement survived the earthquake, as an ugly
house of "reinforced" cement will stand when medieval castles fall. I
found out afterward why, and I'll tell you presently. As for Mrs.
Shuster, I was rather sorry for her. She sat opposite Larry and beside
her incarnate Peace Tract, Larry being at his hostess's left hand with
Idonia Goodrich on his other side. The hostess is a beauty, so is
Idonia, so you may well imagine that Larry would have forgotten Lily's
existence if she hadn't frequently reminded him of it by screaming his
Christian name across banks of pansies and orchids. J. and I hoped that
jerry-built betrothal might crumble in consequence, as Larry's
fastidiousness is his most prominent feature. But no! it also stood; and
I will tell you the reason when I tell you about Pat.
Things were going on normally--and hatefully--when we bade Tuxedo Park
farewell, and found the Boys eating sausages and drinking ginger-beer.
We sailed about seeing scenery for part of the afternoon--scenery of
the Ramapo Valley and round Suffern, I mean--and falling more and more
in love with the Ramapo River. It has cataracts and wide-open spaces;
secret, hidden mysteries; Revolution history, and enough beauty and
charm of every sort to suffice three rivers instead of one. But we'd set
our hearts on spending the night at the Delaware Water Gap, so we had to
rush on in that irritating way which becomes a habit hard to break. It's
an obsession with even the least offensive motorists--like Jack and me!
There can't be _sweeter_ country anywhere than this, which I'm trying to
lure you to come and see when you and Monty can take your second
honeymoon, as we are doing; but it has no look of being _undiscovered_
like some we saw the day before. Rich people, but luckily people of
taste, know all about that cup of crystal, Pompton Lake, the sweet
singing Wanaqua River, and lovely Pequannock Park. They have made homes
for themselves, quite wonderful in beauty, and never pretentious; never
a staring house or grotesquely expensive gates to shock the dear little
childlike mountains and shady river. Along the winding roads, where
trees trailed shadows like dragging masses of torn Spanish lace, there
were fine stone walls draped with woodbine, and among the folding hills
were orchards like great flower-beds, surrounding the most lovable and
livable houses. Every five minutes we would come to a picture which
might have been "composed" by an artist: a pond reflecting a quaint
little church with two guardian grandfather trees, and a funny old "gig"
with a yellow horse, waiting for some one we should never see; an
ancient white house born to make a background for cedars far more
ancient; a lake with shining surface half hidden under red water-weeds
like coral necklaces broken and scattered on a silver salver. Oh, and I
mustn't forget the funny fire-alarms in front of isolated houses! A big
thing like a split iron ring with a hammer to strike it. The ring
vibrates better if it's split; and you could see nothing quainter in
Holland. There was a very odd monument, too, which I loved. I think it
was in the nice, wide-streeted village of Pompton. It might have been a
Titan helmet smashed by a bomb, and I should have loved to stay and find
out all about it!
We'd come into northern New Jersey at Oakland, so no wonder we saw
splendid cedars, for New Jersey has lots of cedars and heaps of history,
and is proud of both. I hadn't realized that it would be such a
beautiful state of forest-clad hills, lakes and rivers that mingle so
you can't tell where they begin or end, and villages walled by woods and
tied together by silver ribbons of river or brook. This is the northern
part I'm talking about; the south is flat, where it becomes seacoast.
Along bowery roads to Stockholm, Franklin, Lafayette we passed (later in
the year the goldenrod must be like a sunburst there!), and motors, big
and little, weave their way democratically among lazy-looking,
old-fashioned chaises and slender "buggies." The "going" was always
good, and there was some delicious "coasting" down one long, long hill
almost like a mountainside. How Jack loved the cozy farmhouses and red
barns which were so becoming to the black and white cattle grazing in
the valleys; and the slender waving corn like fairy dancers in jewelled
head-dresses! Some of the barns were so big, the houses they belonged
to reminded him of little mothers who had produced giant children. The
homelike effect of all these gentle hills and flowery valleys and
floating blue mist wreaths appealed curiously to the heart, like minor
music; yet there were grand things, too: here and there a noble
limestone cliff; a gloomy wood of hemlocks where it seemed _anything_
might happen; a mossy dark ravine, as at Branchville; and all the large
lakes or "ponds," so unexpected each time when you come in sight of
them.
After a dear little town called Layton (with a river singing it to
sleep) we turned off to the right for Dingman's Ferry, and then felt we
were really on the way to the Delaware Water Gap. We had come to the
Delaware River! From the top of a very high hill we saw it--the river, I
mean; and, oh, but it looked worthy of its guardian mountains! Winding
and wonderful it was in beauty as we dropped into its deep, intimate
valley, down the tremendous slope. We were so excited we hardly knew the
road was bad! And after all there was no old ferry answering to the name
of "Dingman," but a wide bridge in its place. On the other side was
Pennsylvania, with a barred gate to keep you out of it until you had
handed over forty cents to a wee boy who "held us up" and firmly said,
"You've got to pay!" He lived in a pet of a house, where I should love
to live, myself (with Jack), and the entrance to the neighbour state was
so fine as to seem dramatic.
The smooth tarred road was a relief, too, after a few hard bumps: a
lovely tree-shadowed road past a big yellow-painted hotel; past a
delightful village high above the river bed, where a great forest made a
dark, perfumed screen between our eyes and the bright glitter of
water. So we dipped down by and by to a house with a garden full of
flowers, and a forest of its own with the river sparkling through it.
The hemlocks gave out a perfume as if a box of spices had been newly
opened; and when we saw that the house was a hotel and restaurant we
simply had to stop for tea. To our surprise and joy we found that the
man who kept the place was a Frenchman--an Alsatian named Schanno; and
everything he gave us was so delicious we might have been at Ciro's, in
Paris or Monte Carlo!
[Illustration: DELAWARE WATER GAP "Winding and wonderful it was in
beauty, as we dropped into its deep, intimate valley, down the
tremendous slope"]
Almost, it would have been a relief, said Jack, to find the scenery less
beautiful, so as to have a diminuendo and a crescendo--the crescendo to
be our goal of that day, the Water Gap. But it _would_ keep on being so
lovely, we could scarcely say when it was just _good_, when better, or
when best. We had a gray road, glossy as a beaver's back, to travel on
toward the Gap; a valley road with small mountains lifting curly dark
heads in every direction to gaze down on us out of their glistening,
perfumed foot-bath of evening mist. The villages we passed had pretty,
sophisticated-looking new houses for "summer people"; here and there was
a charming country inn with the air of being famous. At Bushkill (nice
name!) the brown river forked, in a coquettish, laughing way shaking
hands with itself and parting in the woods. Nearby was a glorious
waterfall among charming hills which seemed to have been roused by the
music of the cataract, and sat up with their hair standing all on end.
Four or five miles from the great Water Gap we began to see the
formation which gives that name. The mountains seem cleft in twain. It's
a marvellous effect--startling! It took my breath away, as if I had
seen a great window suddenly flung wide open in the sky. Truly, that's
not an exaggeration of the sunset-wonder of the Delaware Water Gap! The
hills were a deep, almost sullen purple that evening, the purple of
darkest hyacinths. They made a high wall for the valley; then, in an
instant, the wall was gone, as if hewed down with a firm, straight
stroke, and there was that immense open window of golden light. Why, it
was worth crossing the ocean to see as we saw it then! And we had come
through such winding ways of hill and valley that it felt as if this
were the end of the earth, the jumping-off place into a sea of jewelled
colour. Yet they say it's only three or four hours in a fast train from
New York! I don't want to believe that, and I shall never know by
experience, for I shan't be so sacrilegious as to take a train while
motors run on roads and aeroplanes skim through clouds.
The town where the hotels and cottages are is as gay a little fairyland
among the mountains as I used to think Baden-Baden or Carlsbad; just
such maddeningly attractive little shops and bright gardens and
beautifully grouped trees. We went on to a hotel in the woods, a hotel
which seemed all veranda and view--a view our spirits drank in, in deep,
unforgettable draughts: I mean, Jack's and mine drank. They were the
only well-regulated, calm spirits in the whole procession, except the
Goodriches, who are "always merry and bright."
When darkness fell in a shimmering blue curtain shot with silver, we
found that the hotel had other things besides those two "Vs" which were
all we had thought of at first: very nice, pleasant things, and Jack and
I decided that it wouldn't be wrong or selfish to the war, or each
other, to let ourselves feel perfectly happy for a few serene hours. But
it wasn't to be! Far from it--Fate has such a rude way of ignoring my
plans and substituting her own, which are seldom a patch on mine!
I "got myself up to kill" for dinner, and thought Pat intended to do the
same. Being made in the Creator's image, I like to look as nice as I
can, to do Him credit, even when travelling, especially in large hotels
full of other women. But Pat didn't appear. Neither did Larry. My eyes
and Jack's conspired across the table. "Good!" we thought. "The Plot
works!"
We couldn't tell by what process it worked, but that it did work we were
sure, until Peter shook his head at the signal of our raised eyebrows.
"Nothing has happened in the Grayles-Grice," his expression said; so the
only hope left was the Wilmot. Anything that might take place there was
of secondary importance, still, indirectly, a break there might bring
relief to the other forces engaged. Instead of stopping downstairs to
let the world admire my Paris frock, and listen to the music (not just
nice little music for nice little minds, but something really good and
suited to the scenery), I bolted my dinner and dashed up to Patsey's
room.
A knock brought no answer, but when I called, "May I come in?" Patsey
unlocked the door. You know how, when I want to get things out of
people, I disguise myself with a spaniel smile and spaniel eyes? Well, I
did that with Pat. There was just enough light in the room for her to
see my spanielness, for she'd done away with all but one small
reading-lamp, with a depressing green shade. She was in her kimono,
with her hair down, looking an ideal Ophelia. Not that Ophelia sported a
kimono; but you know the effect I mean, all masses of wavy tresses round
a small white face, and eyes very big and wistful. She wasn't going to
tell me a thing, but my spanielhood melted her.
It was perfectly true, as Peter had warned me: nothing had happened in
the car; but the night before in Flirtation Walk Caspian had tried to
kiss the girl! He had wanted to before, when he gave her the ring; she
had refused, explaining that the Marquise had told her she was not to be
kissed before marriage. He hadn't persisted then, but last night he had
been _horrid_. She would not have gone for the walk if he hadn't asked
her before Larry, and Larry had seemed to want her to go. Perhaps it was
only that she might be near, and protect him from Mrs. Shuster; but
Idonia could have done that. Anyhow, Pat and "Mr. Caspian" (she would
not call him "Ed") had got separated from the others. She had struggled,
but he had succeeded in kissing her ear, and she had boxed his! "It
can't be exactly wicked to marry for money," sighed Pat. "It's too
disagreeable. And wicked things are always nice--in books. Oh, Molly, it
will be awful to marry _him_. Already he tries to make me do what he
likes. He puts himself in front of me and all r-round me like a bar-rbed
wire fence. I don't know how to bear it. I am a broken girl!"
[Illustration: DELAWARE WATER GAP "The mountains seem cleft in twain.
It's a marvellous effect--startling!"]
[Illustration: map]*
I said Nonsense--she wasn't broken; but the engagement had much better
be. "Give him back his ring," I went on. "Or perhaps you have given it?
I see you haven't worn it since the first day."
"It was too big, not suitable for motoring. And now--it is pawned," she
announced.
"Pawned?" I gasped.
"Yes. I cannot tell you the rest. But--it makes it so that I must go on
being engaged, in honour. I cannot now give the ring back."
I asked no more questions, but I guessed. Larry had had some big bill
presented to him. Pat did not wish to wear the ring. What good was it to
any one, then? Why should it not be "up the spout," instead of in a
jewel-box? Larry would have argued.
While I was having my talk with Pat, Larry was confiding in Jack. He
told him about the ring. I had guessed right. He had "acted
impulsively." Mrs. Shuster was a more trying proposition than he had
imagined, but he would have to "stick to it now," or he should never
have money enough to redeem Pat's ring. Jack offered to lend the sum,
but Larry wouldn't hear of that--was quite hurt; had only wanted
sympathy. He has the quaintest code of honour! We had both to promise
not to tell, and so we can't pass the news on to Peter. But sufficient
to yesterday is the evil thereof!
I don't suppose Pat had slept; but luckily faces are being worn small
and white this year, with eyes too big for them, and she looked as young
next morning as if she had spent her night in paradise instead of _far_
below that level. I felt horribly worried, because the plot wasn't
working a bit, and I couldn't eat my breakfast (if this keeps up, I
shall get so thin my veils won't fit!), but all the same I _couldn't_
help enjoying the day. It was so nice, in spite of all, proving to Jack
that you can _never_ exhaust the beauties of my country: there are
always more to come! He had prophesied that after the Water Gap the rest
of the trip would be an anticlimax. But he needn't have feared. The
first stage of the way beyond gave us a new sensation. It seems the road
is known to be one of the most exquisite in America; and indeed it was
as well worth coming from Europe for as the Water Gap itself--worth even
the risk of being torpedoed. Our procession seemed to pass through a
painted and tapestried corridor, so pink and purple and azure and gold
were the rocks that lined our way, with millions of delicate wild
flowers. And oh, the retrospect view! It was wonderful, too, crossing by
ferry, and looking back. Albertson's ferry we chose, and one car at a
time rolled sedately on to a flatboat to be rowed to the opposite side
of the river by a very young Charon in a very large straw hat.