lanes, that looked innocent enough to lead nowhere, but somehow we
managed to skip from valley to valley with a sensation almost of flying;
and if the roads were like Surrey, the colour of the earth--when a bare
place showed in a meadow--was rose-pink as Devon. Goldenrod, not yet in
bloom, might have been planted purposely, in borders, mixed with sumach.
The red barns were bigger and "homier" than those of the day before, and
the little stone farmhouses most inviting. It was quite a shock to find
ourselves suddenly in "Vienna." (What if Jack should be interned!) But
it was a miniature Vienna. Next came Hackettstown, a charming place, and
then the famous Schooley's Mountain, which dropped us down, down into
German Valley. At Morristown we lunched, and afterward went to
Washington's Headquarters, an adorable old yellow house almost as fine
as Kidd's Pines. So by Persippany and Pine Brook to Jersey City and into
New York: beauty and interest of one sort or other all the way, but our
great object not accomplished. Everything worse than ever, and Pat and
Larry each obstinately determined to be sacrificed. Oh, that Caspian
man! I wish I had the formula for becoming a _werewolf_, and I would
devour him!
Your every loving,
MOLLY.
XVI
ANGELE, PATRICIAS MAID, TO THE MARQUISE DE MONCOURT
(_Translation_)
_Kidd's Pines._
I take again the liberty of communicating with Madame la Marquise,
having as always her interests at heart.
Matters develop after a manner somewhat serious since my last letter.
The engagement of this poor charming gentleman to the altogether
undesirable Madame Shuster touches a sharp crisis. I had the highest
hopes that constant association of some days in an automobile might
force a crash, as it was but the spirit of _laissez faire_ and the
pressing need of money which led Monsieur into the ambush, as Madame la
Marquise already knows. I am not carried on these frequent and sudden
excursions which have become a family custom with us; for I was obliged
firmly to make Mademoiselle comprehend that I could not in self-respect
run myself off my feet to wait upon the numberless ladies stuffed in
fashion of sardines into these conveyances. To be the slave of half a
dozen _bourgeoises_ does not comport with the dignity of one who for
years served Madame la Marquise and indeed indirectly serves her still.
I was not therefore acquainted with the events of the tour which
followed the two betrothals, until after the return of the expedition;
and it was a great disillusion for me to find that the unfortunate
gentleman and the less than lady were still in the same relation.
As for Mademoiselle and the millionaire, they also return as they went;
but that is not of importance to Madame la Marquise, who wishes only the
future high position of her friend's daughter. That will be assured
through this marriage. The one danger is that both engagements are bound
up together by a singular entanglement. I will explain to Madame la
Marquise.
I informed myself of the situation through overhearing (by accident, of
course) a talk between Monsieur Moore and Mademoiselle. I knew already
that a ring of great magnificence brought back after a special journey
to New York by Monsieur Caspian did not please Mademoiselle. In fact she
wore it only for a few hours, and on retiring to her room that night
threw it so roughly on the _table de toilette_ that it fell on the floor
and rolled under the bed. Having engaged herself, she could not in
ordinary circumstances refuse to wear the _gage d'amour_ of her rich
fiance, even though three wild young boys, who stay here spending money
for love of her, choose to laugh at the size of the diamond and compare
it to the headlight of a locomotive. I heard them pretend to suffer pain
in the eyes from its intense brilliance, and they even went so far as to
manufacture for themselves green shades to tie over the forehead, which
gave them a ridiculous appearance and set all the world laughing. No!
Mademoiselle was obliged to have a more reasonable excuse for taking
from her finger the sign of her betrothal. But she found one without
difficulty. Myself, I heard her plead to Monsieur Caspian that for the
risks of these tours in automobile a jewel of this value was unsuitable.
She requested him to keep the ring in safety not only for a few days but
some weeks, as there was question of a longer expedition through several
eastern states.
This Monsieur Caspian wisely refused to do, realizing no doubt that if
the jewel returned to his possession a further pretext might be found
why it should remain there. There was a lively discussion outside the
door of Mademoiselle where Monsieur had pursued her, I being stationed
inside. Finally it was agreed that Monsieur Moore should place the ring
in a safe. And from this discussion all the trouble in ridding himself
of Madame Shuster has resulted.
Now I arrive at the conversation overheard by me, after the short tour
of three days from which I had hoped much for the unselfish interests of
Madame la Marquise. I was in the wardrobe of Mademoiselle on the night
of the return--one of the strange wardrobes which in this country they
dig into the wall instead of placing against it. I was engaged in
hanging up the dresses which Mademoiselle had taken with her (shockingly
wrinkled!) when she came--I might say bounced like a young panther--into
the room with Monsieur her father. The wardrobe door was open, but
rather than interrupt them at such a crisis, by showing myself, I very
discreetly and without sound closed it to a certain extent.
This poor Monsieur was in great trouble. Money is for him but something
to be exchanged for pleasures of one kind or another. He is not a man to
study mean economies, and it is for that he is of an attraction so great
for all the world, especially for women. What more could be asked of
him for the good of his child than to consent that so beautiful an old
property should be vulgarized as an hotel? Money comes in, much money, I
believe, but there are great debts. Monsieur had become bankrupt. A
percentage must, in honour, be paid to those who trusted him. Alas!
however, that was not quite all. Madame la Marquise will remember the
last visit of Monsieur Moore to France, and how he persuaded her by
telegram to go with friends and see him win great sums at Monte Carlo.
Unfortunately after she obeyed, the winnings ceased, and there was
nothing agreeable to see. On the contrary! Well, it appears that in New
York there are several of these establishments. Monsieur had very good
luck before our arrival from France. He tested it too often, however. At
these places are men who watch the tables and lend money to players.
They demand outrageous interest, and they must be paid soon, or there
are anxieties. Knowing the good income from the scheme of the hotel, one
of these birds of prey took advantage of Monsieur Moore's impulsive
nature. The results were disastrous.
The conversation which so accidentally reached me could not have been
the first on the subject. At least one other I had missed, or I should
not have neglected reporting to Madame la Marquise. In speaking the
father and daughter referred to matters not only already discussed but
arranged. I learned that in desperation, through these ignoble
creditors, Monsieur Moore had placed the ring not in the safe but in the
Mont de Piete, which here is called the pawnbroker, or uncle.
Mademoiselle had evidently regretted it, fearing that the procedure was
not honest, but Monsieur had convinced her that, as the jewel was her
property, she had a legal right to dispose of it. And indeed, for all I
can tell to the contrary, the thing had been done before she was
consulted.
No doubt Monsieur was right in his assertion about legality, if the
engagement continued. But I learned as I hung up the dresses that both
Mademoiselle and her father had reached the point of high exasperation
with the fiance and fiancee. They both wished to break. Yet what was to
be done? Mademoiselle could not give back the ring to Monsieur Caspian.
Monsieur Moore, who had still other debts not yet settled by the uncle,
could not burst the bond which--being known to outsiders--procures him a
certain indulgence. Madame Shuster is rich!
They now all start off once more in automobiles; but short of murder or
suicide I do not see how Monsieur Moore is to escape his _ennuis_. I do
not venture to suggest any action to Madame la Marquise, but I have
again faithfully represented to her the situation of her friend. And I
am as always her devoted servant,
ANGELE.
XVII
PETER STORM TO JAMES STRICKLAND
DEAR STRICKLAND:
These few hasty lines in answer to your question, which, if I'd had my
wits about me, I should not have waited for you to ask. No apology do I
make, however, as you know as well as I do that my wits are not wool but
rose gathering.
I inquired of Moncourt before starting off again whether he had heard
anything lately from young Marcel. It was rather a delicate subject to
open with him, as you can readily believe, it having been dropped
between us by common agreement. He's extremely sensitive, and highly
nervous like _all_ great artists such as he is, but I was as tactful as
possible, and finally got out of him that he had no tidings whatever for
nearly a year. "No news was good news," he had tried to persuade
himself, and the last thing he'd heard, Marcel was doing pretty well in
the Argentine. When I'd worked up to mentioning the brilliant comet
calling itself de Moncourt which has suddenly appeared in French skies,
the old boy reflected, then gave it as his opinion that it can hardly be
_our_ Marcel who has lanced himself upon this adventure. Unless, of
course, Marcel Junior felt it his duty--or his pleasure--to give up his
personal interests and join the French Army! That suggestion (mine)
struck and rather pleased Moncourt. But in spite of it, we both agree
that, considering all things, Marcel wouldn't dare tempt Providence by
taking the bold line ascribed to the "rich new American cousin" of the
Marquise de Moncourt and her family. Besides, if he were in the army,
and on leave, Miss Moore's friend wouldn't speak of him as an American,
would she? However, write circumspectly to the man you mention in Paris
and try to make sure, as that will be best for all concerned.
As for my affairs, they go vilely. Having sown dragon's teeth all my
life I now expect to reap strawberries and cream, so I suppose I can't
complain if I don't get them.
Yours ever,
P. S.
XVIII
MOLLY WINSTON TO LORD AND LADY LANE
_New London._
DEAR DUET:
I nearly said "dear people," but Aunt Mary used to impress upon me when
I was small that _two_ could not be called "people." "People" must mean
a "company or crowd"; and I used to addle my infantine brain wondering
how it could be that "two was a company," if two _couldn't_ be a crowd,
yet a company and a crowd were the same thing. Two must be spoken of as
"persons" according to Aunt M., and I can't address you as "Dear
Persons," can I?
You will judge from this prelude that I have come into Aunt Mary-zone
again. Well, I have: we have not visited her yet; but she has been to
New York on business and I know just how old I am, how many freckles I
have on my nose, that my hair is shades darker than it used to be, and
that I must have gained at least an inch round my waist since we saw
each other last. As for Jack, she wonders I let him tear about the
country the way we are doing. Her opinion is that he would be better off
in bed, though she's glad to see him of course. If only I could
retaliate in kind, couldn't I be cattish? But _noblesse oblige_!
Jack and I are as proud as Punch (and Judy) that the travel letters make
you both want to come and do likewise. Ah, if you could! But we'll do
as you ask: go on as we've begun, and so if possible carry you with us
in spirit. I say "we," because, though I do the writing, Jack has been
keeping rough, joggly notes taken down _en automobile_ for me to
incorporate in my letters to you. We were at Awepesha only a few days
after I wrote you last, because Sir George Bingham and his wife, who are
distant cousins of Jack's, arrived in New York after exciting adventures
in the East, and as they couldn't leave town we went to visit them at
their hotel. Just for the first day it was quite a relief to have
something new to think of, and not worry my gray matter constantly over
Patricia Moore's affairs, but the second day I was dying to know how
things were going at Kidd's Pines; and when the time came to join the
party (as we had promised) for the New England trip, I was all joy and
excitement at the thought of plunging into the vortex again--in spite of
the visit to Aunt Mary looming ahead. And then, I'm always happy to be
in a car. Not that I love all cars indiscriminately--I don't. I love the
one I'm in, and tolerate those that others are in when the weather's
fine. In dust and mud I loathe all except my own, and feel they have no
right to exist. Indeed, _none_ have quite the individuality they used to
have when they were a new breed of beasts; don't you find it so? Nothing
ever happens to the good ones. They never break down and sob by the
roadside and have to be petted and comforted by their mothers and
fathers, as in the dear dead days of long ago. Of course we hated to
have them break down then, and longed for the time when they should be
improved beyond that stage, but I do find them a little _too_ eugenic
now.
Well, to go back to the creatures who haven't improved--ourselves and
others.
Jack and I had our auto in New York, so we started from there, as
before, and this time met the procession at Rye. Only think, on the way,
after crossing the Bronx River we paused a few minutes to gaze at a
cottage where Edgar Allan Poe once lived. It didn't look a bit like him,
or as if he could have lived there, but we were glad to have seen it. As
for New Rochelle, it's as pretty and fresh and fashionable as a summer
bride. I always pretend to myself when I read Mrs. Cutting's stories
about those dear, human young married couples or engaged girls and boys
of hers, that they live in New Rochelle, outside the "smart" circle
which only the most ambitious ones can ever hope to enter.
We loved coming on to the old Post Road between Boston and New York, but
I've told you already how Jack and I feel about Post Roads, and wouldn't
dream of writing the words without capitals. It may be conceited (or
isn't it conceit to boast of one's husband?), but I don't believe most
of the automobilious travellers we met, evidently native-grown
Americans, knew or cared half as much about the history of every mile as
did my English Jack. You can guess pretty well by people's faces whether
they're saying to themselves, "How long will it take me to _get_ there?"
or "This used to be an Indian trail before it was a Post Road"; or "Paul
Revere rode this way"; or "Fenimore Cooper once lived at Heathcote Hill
and wrote 'The Spy'" (delicious book!); "Here, close by Mamaroneck, is a
chimney of the old house where the hero of the story was hidden; here at
Christchurch, in charming little Rye, Fenimore Cooper's eyes have gazed
on the silver chalice presented by Queen Anne." Fancy the difference
travelling with a person whose visage expresses that wild, road-pig
desire to get on at any price, and one like Jack, who has the "I want to
see and know all that's beautiful" face!
Talking of faces, I wish you could see Ed Caspian's when he motors. He's
so anxious to look as if he had done it all before, in a better car if
possible, that he's like an image of Buddha reflected in a convex
mirror. His cap is quite wrong, too. He thinks it's heather mixture, but
it's the purple of a bruise. Peter's is exactly right. As for
Pat's--well, a girl's hat should be her crowning glory, shouldn't it?
Hers is; and it is becoming to Pat to be sad and puzzled about life. But
all this is an "aside." I, too, must "get on!" And to get on, we go
through Portchester, which is like melting a map of Poland and a map of
Italy, and mixing them together, because there are so many Poles and
Italians there. We came to Portchester along a lovely, shady road, and
it's really an old place, though it looks new. We had a river to cross
named after an Indian village jokingly called "Bay Rum," but they've
decorously altered it to Byram; and on its other side we were in
Connecticut, which Jack pronounces _precisely_ as it's spelled! These
_English_!
Greenwich was our first Connecticut town, a charming introduction to a
new state: highroad and streets thickly tree-lined, and once, when we
lost ourselves at a turning, we passed exquisite houses in lovely
gardens. There was a divine smell of ozone-haunted seaweed in the air,
for Greenwich is on Long Island Sound, with gold-green sedgy shores,
and everybody is rich or richish. Surely, though, the people are not
"exclusive" in that selfish way I hate, for in this part of the world
they can prowl all over each other's lawns; they have hardly any fences.
It seems, however, that things are _very_ difficult politically. You
can't do your hair in a new way without asking permission! I simply
would, wouldn't you? and do it so prettily they couldn't fuss. Yet the
really exciting thing about Greenwich is not the way you do your hair or
moustache. It is the cottage where (apropos of moustaches) General
Israel Putnam was shaving off his when British soldiers rudely surprised
him. The cottage is on the road, a beautiful road, and it's a still more
beautiful stone cottage, with a flag and two cannons on the lawn.
Certain horrid people say he lived at another house, but probably that's
because they wanted to get the cottage cheap for themselves! You have
only to _look_ at it, to feel that General Putnam must have lived there.
As for the creatures who insist that he took a mere cowpath for his
great escape, and didn't ride down the old stone steps on the face of
the cliff, why, they wouldn't dare repeat it in front of his monument in
Putnam Hill Park, I'm sure!
When you get out of a town or village here, in a minute you might be a
hundred miles from anywhere, and living a hundred years ago--except for
motors; and you can pretend they are insects, if you like. There are
sweet, mysterious byways which it breaks your heart not to see the end
of, and ponds like the Long Island ponds, which is to say, like broken
blue panes dropped from the windows of Heaven.
We took a detour after Coscob (an Indian-named village) because the road
was being mended; and there was a little summer settlement called Sound
Beach which I should _love_ to have to play dolls in. It would be just
right for that.
The big event of our morning, however, was seeing the famous Marks
place. Every one is allowed to drive through, so we were not fortune's
favourites, yet it was a favour of fortune to have such a vision.
There's a romance about the ownership--rather a sacred and beautiful
romance of love, and perhaps that partly accounts for the
extraordinarily romantic effect of the place itself. Only a man inspired
by love could have planned those mysterious flowery openings in the
forest of hemlock which borders the lake as forests edge the lakes in
the Trossachs. Only a man so inspired could have known just how to use
his backgrounds of rock and cliff, or group his irises along the
brookside, and mass his rhododendrons in the sunlight, where they blaze
like the rose-flames of driftwood. I should hardly have been surprised
if the swans floating like great lilies on the shining lake had all
begun to sing some wonderful Wagnerian song in chorus.
We were in a dream as we sailed slowly out (yes, _slowly_, my dear,
because motoring folk are kindly asked, "Hold ye speed to two and half
leagues an hour") on to the Post Road again, under an arch of elms
characteristic of New England, and of pure architectural value.
I could tell you things about each place we glided or tore
through--treesy, yet important and city-like, like Stamford, where they
make the Yale locks that burglars all over the world have cause to
curse; elm-bowered Darien; Norwalk, once a great shipping port for
reluctantly banished oysters, managing still to be picturesque because
of its pretty common where cattle have a _legal_ right to graze; sweet
old Westport, on an inlet of the Sound, dim with elm-shadow; Fairfield,
with its beautiful old and new houses, its "village green," and its
romance of John Hancock, who risked being caught by the British in order
to meet and hastily marry Dorothy Quincy; but then, if I told you all
that Jack and I told each other, there would be no room to tell you of
ourselves. Besides, the whole thing is like a connected, serial story,
in which the Post Road itself plays a leading part. One ought to begin
with the early settlers, making the road which is so perfect now; then
the Continental armies marching along it in the days when it was
(luckily for the fighting Americans) still rough and difficult to
travel. In spite of the neat prosperity nowadays, and the sign-posts
which tell you everything you can possibly want to know about
directions, it is easy to read the faded print of that long serial
romance of generations. Old houses tell it, old trees tell it, old names
tell it, and the very modernness of the new things emphasizes the heroic
drama of the past. Think, for instance, of the boulder monument at
Fairfield, commemorating its birth in 1639 and its burning by the
British in 1779!
We crossed the river at Westport, and found the scenery even prettier
than before. Then, after Fairfield, we came out on the Post Road again,
though it called itself "Fairfield Avenue," and presently we were in a
turmoil of life at Bridgeport. There was as much noise as in New York,
but a hundred thousand people can make themselves heard in the world,
especially if they're Americans! Haven't we read in the papers about
immense buildings blowing up at Bridgeport since the war began? But we
couldn't see anything that looked blown up, or sensational, except the
heroes on posters of "movie" theatres--oh, more movie theatres than I
thought there were in the world! We tried to listen through the roar and
rumble of a big town for gorgeous distant yells of lions and trumpetings
of elephants, but perhaps the dear beasts were off on "tour." Bridgeport
is only the winter quarters of Barnum, and now we are on the way to
summer. By the by, Bridgeport people ought to enjoy themselves in
summer, judging from all the yachts and pleasure boats we saw dancing in
their sleep on the water.
After Stratford (a most lovable old town, of charming gray-shingle
houses, which, to escape loneliness, crowded close to the edge of the
elm-shaded road) we crossed the Housatonic. The shores stretched away
into mystery, so broad was the river; and the moment we were out of a
town, in the country, the scene was like a dream of Indian days, just
interrupted by waking now and then at sight of some houses grouped round
a common. There was Milford, for instance, which looked as if nothing
could happen in its pretty peacefulness, yet it was the hiding-place of
a regicide judge who ran away to America after the head of Charles the
First was off!
At New Haven, the "City of Elms," we could have turned toward Boston
along a fine road by way of Springfield, but we preferred to keep to the
charming coast road, and it goes without saying that we stopped to prowl
about among the college buildings; also we lunched. "A village of
learning and light" the place is called, but of course its village days
are outgrown, though the learning and light will remain forever, while
Yale lasts. Washington reviewed the Yale students on the Green, which is
the historic centre of New Haven, just as the college is its
ever-pulsing heart. (I wonder if the dear boys had already invented that
lovely Yale yell, and gave it in Washington's honour?) Benedict Arnold
helped also to write the romance of the Green by drawing up his company
there. The great elms which look down on it now must have seen him and
perhaps read his treacherous mind, for they say the elms of New Haven
are the most intelligent and learned anywhere in New England except at
Harvard itself; and you know that knot-holes are trees' eyes. They don't
tell this to any one save their most intimate friends, but Jack and I
know tree language. At home in the park we put our ears against their
trunks and listen in the spring, when they are most talkative and don't
mind telling their best secrets.
The brown and red Yale buildings, restful and interesting, Jack and I
loved, and we insisted on lingering to look at them, though every one
was impatient with us except Pat, Peter, and the three dear bareheaded
Boys. Peter thought the beautiful white library and its surroundings
"like a vista of Washington seen through a diminishing glass"; so
evidently he has been to Washington in his mysterious past!