on" again next morning, but we are always pretty soon resigned to being
in a car again, you know! I feel so deliciously irresponsible the minute
I start off, like a parcel being sent to some nice destination by post.
I can't understand any one _not_ feeling that a motor is as
companionable as a horse, can you? It has so many interesting moods, and
one's relation with the dear thing--if it belongs to one--gets to be so
perfect!
Besides the joy of the car, we found the Green Mountains particularly
lovable, not large, but of endearing shapes. We should have liked to
have them for pets. Yet the pet aspect is only one of many. They have
grand aspects, too. They've inspired poets, and given courage to
soldiers. Yesterday we had thought Vermont all made of gardens. To-day
it was made of mountains, mountains everywhere the eyes turned. And
wherever there was a place to nestle an exquisite farmhouse did nestle.
I used to think that England had the monopoly of beautiful farmhouses,
but these Vermont ones, though as different as a birch from an oak, are
just as perfect. Even Jack, whose every drop of blood is English and
Scottish, admitted this.
They're white and of simple lines, with a rich green background of
woods. In front there are lawns with lots of flowers growing as they
please, and ferns left to do as they like if they don't interfere with
other people; on both sides generous meadows stretching far away. Jack
said: "What a warm glow the thought of such a home must bring to the
heart of a boy when he's out for the battle of life! And what a place to
come back to at Christmas!"
"Or Thanksgiving," said I. But "Thanksgiving" suggests no picture to
Jack as it does to you and me. Our cranberry sauce in England is always
a failure, not thick or sweet enough; and the poor fellow has _never
tasted pumpkin pie_! If one of them came into his life, he would
probably address it as it is spelt; and what self-respecting pumpkin pie
would be luscious unless it were pronounced "punkin?"
"Anyhow, I give Vermont a star," he murmured, with the look of pinning a
V. C. onto a mountain's breast. And he did that just in time, for the
mountains were receding into the background, taking hands in a ring
round wide woodlands.
By way of the pretty toy town Arlington we came to Bennington, which is
the heart of history for Vermont. The man for whom it was named was
granted the first township in the wild lands known as "the Wilderness"
then. But it must have been a beautiful wilderness, for the British
soldiers of those pre-Revolutionary days used to fall in love with it as
they marched through, and promise themselves that they would come back
and build homes. They did come back and build the homes, and the
"promised land" was so attractive that New York wanted to take it away
by writ of ejectment. The Vermonters decided to fight for their rights
under Ethan Allen, and thus "The Green Mountain Boys" came into
existence as a famous band. The bronze catamount which still grins
defiance toward New York from the top of its tall pedestal makes that
day seem yesterday!
There's a great monument also, to the battle which made Bennington's
glory, but the most _humanly_ interesting thing in town--for us--was the
old Robinson house. Such a darling house, with a heavenly door and
scalloped white picket fence. You would love it! And it's turned itself
into a kind of glorified curiosity shop, as so many of the charming old
houses of New England have done. You feel you must go in to see what
these lovely houses are like inside; and the first thing you know, you
are buying Queen Anne mirrors, japanned trays, braided mats, and even
serpentine fronted bureaux, which you don't know what to do with but die
rather than do without!
Everything else that we saw was a "star" place after that, for we were
coming back into Massachusetts, and to the Berkshire Hills which Thoreau
loved, and Hawthorne, and Longfellow, and Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Williamstown is as celebrated in its smaller way as Harvard or Yale, for
a university's fame needn't consist in size, I suppose! I hardly ever
saw a place where every building was so perfectly suited to every other
building, without one jarring note; and though it's more important than
a village now, the lovely description Hawthorne wrote suits the town as
well as ever. He said: "I had a view of Williamstown from Greylock
summit: a white village and a steeple in a gradual hollow, with huge
mountain swells heaving up, like immense subsiding waves far and near
around it."
Do you remember "Ethan Brand" and "The Unpardonable Sin?" I hadn't
realized till Jack reminded me, as we looked up to "Old Greylock," that
the lime kiln was there. I'm going to read Hawthorne all over again
now--when I have time!
"Greylock" was the translated name of a brave Indian chief who used to
fight with the French against the English. I wonder what he would say
nowadays when they are Allies? If he were as intelligent as his mountain
is beautiful, he'd be glad.
The Berkshire Hills are the small brothers of the Green Mountains, for
they are all of the same family, but they have their own
characteristics. It seems as if the men who engineered the wonderful
roads must have loved the hills and planned each mile of the way so as
to show off some favourite feature. For instance, you could never for a
minute miss Greylock's long, dove-coloured streak which justifies his
name!
If Williamstown is the gate of the Berkshires, Pittsfield is their
heart; and so it's right that the place should be the literary landmark
it is. Longfellow came on his honeymoon to the "hill city," and wrote
the "Old Clock on the Stairs" in the very house where the clock was--and
is now. South Mountain is close by, where "Elsie Venner" scenes were
laid; and "Elsie's" author lived for years at a place between Pittsfield
and Lenox. It's still there, and is called "Holmesdale."
[Illustration: "We found the Green Mountains particularly lovable"]
We spoke of staying at Pittsfield all night, just because it's
lovely; but we arrived so early that Caspian and Mrs. Shuster wanted to
go on to Great Barrington, where we had planned to stop. They said they
expected letters. "Shall we thwart them?" Jack asked me mischievously. I
murmured that it was a "toss up," so we did go on--which was a good
thing, as it turned out.
Pittsfield _ought_ to have been stopped in, for it is a dream of beauty,
and so is Lenox. Stockbridge seemed just as charming--almost more to me,
for Hawthorne lived there, in a "little red house with green shutters,"
on the shore of Stockbridge Bowl. We had followed him about from place
to place, but there we had to leave him at last, writing "The House of
the Seven Gables."
Then, always running along the most perfect road, we came to Great
Barrington, Bryant's home. We couldn't escape the romancers and the
poets if we'd wished, for it was _their_ country. It was late by this
time, and we were hungry and dusty. I didn't expect letters, and felt
inclined to wish we had lingered farther back. Here there would be a
rush to bathe and dress before a decent dinner hour: and it looked such
a smart hotel!
"I believe, now I come to think of it, that I asked to have letters
forwarded to me from Kidd's Pines," remarked Larry, as we all walked
into the big hall. "They'll be the first I've had--if there are any. I
put them off till the last minute! I didn't want the beastly things to
look forward to on getting home."
I hardly listened. The hotel seemed full, and I was wondering if Jack
could get me a room with a bath. Pat and I and the Goodrich goddesses
grouped together, waiting to hear our luck as to quarters, when Larry
came to us, looking rather dazed. He had some letters in his hand, and
an open telegram.
"This has been waiting for me all day," he said in a queer voice, and
held out the telegram to Pat. I felt a little frightened. But nobody we
loved could be dead!
"Oh, Molly!" the girl cried. "Kidd's Pines has had a fire. It is partly
burnt down. All the people have had to go away. That means my life is
over!"
The last words broke from her in such a tone of despair that I was
startled. It was grievous that damage should have come to the dear old
house. But why should she say her "life was over?" I asked myself the
question; but suddenly the answer seemed to come, like a whisper in my
ear:
"She thinks it means ruin. If she hoped to break off with Caspian in
spite of everything, and marry Peter, she feels that hope is over."
There was no chance of a private word with Pat then or afterward. The
news ran like wildfire. All the men came and crowded round us, consoling
or giving advice. Jack was the most sensible.
"Let's see when the next train starts," he said. "You and I, Molly, will
go with Moore and Pat; and they must stop with us at Awepesha. The
others, of course, can do as they like."
It ended in the whole party taking the train, for every one was anxious
for one reason or other. The bride and bridegroom and the Goodriches had
left things they valued at Kidd's Pines. Caspian and Mrs. Shuster felt
that where the Moores went, there they ought to go also. As for the
Boys, they would have followed Pat to the death.
[Illustration: map]*
Well, we got off, at the cost of dinner. But most of us had forgotten
that we were hungry. The cars were simply abandoned for the time being,
in garage. They were to be "sent for," like boys and girls at a
children's dance.
You can imagine that, by the time we had got to New York, and from New
York to Long Island, it was a witching hour of the night! Nobody cared,
however. All our thoughts were centred at Kidd's Pines. I kept Pat close
to me in the train, and once in a while Peter hovered near, as if he
longed for a chance to say something. But Pat could not or would not
talk, either to him or me. She had a headache, and sat with her eyes
shut, looking pitifully pale. Larry, on the contrary, was all
excitement, and never stopped jabbering with one person or another till
the end of the journey. I could have boxed his ears.
Well, when at last we arrived, the damage wasn't as bad as we expected,
for the fire had started by day. Wasn't it sickening, a woman (one of
Kidd's Pines' "paying guests") had upset a lot of alcohol from a spirit
lamp. That was the way it began. And she didn't give the alarm at first:
she was afraid of the consequences to herself, and she and her maid
tried to put the fire out. Of course the room got thoroughly alight
before anything was properly done. One wing of the house is half in
ruins. Nothing else is hurt much, except by water. But, as the telegram
said, every one cleared out, as rats leaving a sinking ship. And would
you believe it, there is _no_ insurance! How _like_ Larry!
I've been trying to forget my worries for a while, writing this long
letter to you, and leaving the worst for the last. But really, I don't
know what is to be done about Larry and Pat. If it weren't for what
Peter Storm told me at Wenham in Aunt Mary's garret, I--oh, I mustn't
tread on _that_ ground, though! I forgot that the time limit isn't up.
Pat and Larry wouldn't come to stay with us after all. Their rooms were
not hurt, and they wanted to stop at home. Caspian and Mrs. S. are
there, too. I wish they weren't. But I hear that C---- is soon starting
for New York on business. I hope to goodness it's true! Peter also had
to go there this morning, by the earliest train--a milk train or an egg
train or something, and there won't be any news worth having until
to-morrow, I suppose. This is only the morning after our night rush from
Great Barrington. I hardly slept, and neither did Jack, but we are both
keyed up with excitement, guessing why Peter Storm is in New York. I
don't know just when he can get back, or whether he'll come here, or go
straight to Kidd's Pines--or to his lodgings. But Jack and I shall motor
over early in the old car this afternoon to see how dear Patsey gets on.
I'll post this, and write you again the minute I have something to tell.
Ever Your MOLLY.
XXX
EDWARD CASPIAN TO DANIEL WINTERTON
_Great Barrington, Mass._
SIR:
I thank you for your telegram and letter which I have just found, and am
answering in haste, as I am starting almost at once for Long Island by
train. News has come by wire that there has been a fire at Kidd's Pines,
causing considerable destruction, and the trip ends suddenly a couple of
days sooner than it should have _done_. I am much interested in your
news and the information you have picked up. No doubt I shall want the
person you mention who knows Moncourt Junior to come to Kidd's Pines
within the next few days, as soon as things are more settled there. I
will then manage to have "Storm" on the spot, as you suggest, and we
shall see the effect of the surprise. If an arrest can follow, so much
the better. Men of his stamp are enemies of society. You have my full
permission to communicate with the regular police, who will be glad of
this chance put into their way, whether they choose to give us credit or
not. Suspicion was hushed up by the family and the doctors, but it was
certainly suggested that young Moncourt caused the death of my distant
cousin Stanislaws, and robbed him of valuables which he was known to
keep in his bedroom. There was no account of these things when I
inherited; but as I could get nobody to come forward and swear to their
existence, much less give a description, I let the matter drop.
I have resolved to buy the Stanislaws house on Long Island, as to which
I hesitated when I wrote you last. Another communication has informed me
that I must give an answer at once, or the place will pass into other
hands. My fiancee, Miss Moore, admired the house when our party spent
several nights there some time ago, and I may decide to give her the
place as a wedding present. I must go to New York from Kidd's Pines
to-morrow morning, and fix this business up. I will call on you at your
office at five o'clock P. M. for a consultation, and should be glad if
you would secure the presence of Stanislaws' old valet whom you have
discovered. I should like to talk to him before he comes with me to
Kidd's Pines.
Yours truly,
E. CASPIAN.
XXXI
MOLLY WINSTON TO MERCEDES LANE
_Awepesha._
DEAREST:
I promised to write again soon, but there isn't yet the news I hoped to
tell. Indeed, I'm a little depressed and worried, though I've nailed my
flag of faith to the mast of the "Stormy Petrel!"
You shall know just what has happened.
I think I wrote you that Peter went to New York early the morning after
our night rush from Great Barrington to Long Island. I took it for
granted that his business there concerned the revelation he made to me
in Aunt Mary's garret; but he had no time, and perhaps no inclination,
to enter into details. He just said, "I'm off, and I hope everything
will go well. I shall get back to my 'diggings,' and see you either at
Awepesha or Kidd's Pines the minute I can finish up."
Caspian hung about till Peter was safely away, and then put in as much
deadly work as possible before leaving for New York. He was nice (as
nice as he knows how to be) to Larry and Pat, and bucked them up about
Kidd's Pines. That was the proper thing; but was it proper, or was it
simply Caspian-esque, to tell Patty at such a moment that he'd bought
the beautiful Stanislaws house I wrote you about, as a present for her?
Of course he mentioned the sum he was paying for it--a whacking one. He
wouldn't be Caspian if he hadn't boasted!
I happened to be at Kidd's Pines when he was making this dramatic
announcement. (I told you Jack and I were motoring over in the old car,
but we went earlier than we expected, because just as I had finished
your letter Patsey 'phoned to ask us for a "picnic luncheon in the
burnt-up house.")
Caspian was telephoning like mad when we arrived, and only finished just
as luncheon was ready, which gave him an excuse for letting his left
hand, to say nothing of both feet, know what his right hand had been
doing. I suppose he was afraid, if Jack and I were left to hear the news
from Pat, a little of the gilt might be off the gingerbread. So he
launched his own thunderbolt as we sat down at the table: Larry, Pat,
Mrs. Shuster, Jack, and I.
I was so flabbergasted that I can't remember his words. But they were
those of the noble, misunderstood hero of melodrama to his ungrateful
sweetheart and her ruined father who have never appreciated his sterling
worth. He let them jolly well know, and rubbed it in, that he would
_never_ have spent such an enormous sum on anything for himself: that
indeed, though he _ought_ to have received the Stanislaws house as an
inheritance, he had abandoned all idea of possessing it until Pat
expressed intense admiration for the place. With this incentive, the
moment they were engaged he had begun negotiations. The price asked was
so outrageous, however, that he was on the point of refusing when
misfortune fell upon Kidd's Pines. It would now be impossible to
continue living there in comfort for the present, so he (Caspian) had
spent his morning in fixing up by 'phone the business of purchase. Of
course he would have to go to New York, and see Mr. Strickland, who had
the matter in hand. Indeed, he intended to start directly after
luncheon; but he could not bear to go without relieving the family mind
of its anxieties.
Poor little Pat was scarlet, and her eyes were--I was going to say like
saucers, but I think they were more like large, expressive pansies. "Oh,
you _shouldn't_ have done that for me!" she exclaimed. "Of course, I'm
grateful, and it was ver-r-y good of you, but----"
"Didn't you say you would _love_ to live in that house?" Caspian
cross-questioned her over a pickle. (He's disgustingly fond of pickles:
makes a beast of himself on pickles!)
"Yes, I suppose I did," Patsey admitted; and got out a "but" again, but
not a word further.
"Very well. That was enough for me. I wanted to prove that I was going
to stand by you now, in every way, and I hope this is as big a proof as
a man can give," said the noble saviour of the situation. "We must marry
as soon as possible, of course. I'll get the license to-day. And then
you can have your wish. You shall live in the Stanislaws house, and when
your father and Mrs. Shuster get back from their honeymoon you can write
them to visit us, and stay as long as they like."
Pat, as pale as she had been red, stammered confused thanks for his
thoughtfulness. How _could_ the girl, when he'd just announced the
expenditure of five hundred thousand dollars for her _beaux yeux_, tell
him not by any means to get the license?
I was sickeningly sorry for her. I knew exactly how she felt. As for me,
I had rush of luncheon to the head, a frightful effect, considering that
I'd just eaten a soft-shelled crab. With the little I knew of affairs
between them I was still instinctively sure that Pat and the Stormy
Petrel had come to some sort of a vague understanding the day of rain at
Bretton Woods. I thought that the rain had melted down the wall between
the two, and Peter had prematurely said more than he meant to say,
perhaps begging her to break off with Caspian. Evidently she had refused
(for Larry's sake), but had very likely hoped that somehow Peter would
step in and save her before it was too late.
Now, all of a sudden, it _was_ too late! And Peter wasn't even near. I
could imagine the child's despair, with the present of a
five-hundred-thousand-dollar house flung at her head--a house which
would be "no use" to her fiance if it were not to be shared with her.
Even knowing what _I_ knew, I feared that the situation might become
serious, more because of Peter's absence than anything else.
As soon as we finished luncheon and Caspian was saying good-bye to Pat
(decorously in the presence of Larry, from whom she refused to be
detached), I asked Jack what he thought. "If only we knew where to get
at Peter in New York!" I wailed. "I'm afraid the girl will be _married_
to that creature before Peter comes back; and then nothing will be of
any use."
"We mustn't let that happen," said Jack. "Not that I believe Storm has
turned his back without thinking of every contingency. And he must know
about the sale."
"He didn't mention it when he told me the story," I said. "Not a word
about the Stanislaws house!"
"Probably it didn't strike him as important in that connection," Jack
argued; and I accepted the deduction; but I was _far_ from comfortable
and my peace of mind was not restored by a conversation I snatched with
Pat when Caspian had gone. I begged her to do nothing rash, in a moment
of generous impulse; but she exclaimed, "It is others who seem to have
the generous impulses! I cannot afford to be generous. But dear Molly, I
must be just. And now everything is against Larry and me. We must go
where the tide takes us."
She didn't use as flowery language as that, but it's difficult to quote
Patty in the vernacular.
Well, we crawled home after a while, Jack and I. And nothing more
happened that day, except that Pat 'phoned me from her ruinous home
about nine o'clock in the evening, to say "Mistaire" Caspian had come
back. He had bought the Stanislaws house and paid for it, but she had
refused to accept the gift. "It must be _his_, not mine," she said. "I
understand that he would not have bought it except for my sake, so
already I owe him a big debt of gratitude. I will not owe him more. It
is now too much."
"Did he get the license?" I tremblingly ventured to inquire.
"Yes," Pat answered. But when I hurried on to the next question, "Have
you fixed a date?" silence was my answer. She had dropped the receiver,
and I was afraid I could guess why. She couldn't bear to discuss the
sword hanging over her head. Few descendants of Damocles can!
All that was yesterday. I've waited to-day to write you in the hope of
having something new to tell. But it's now ten o'clock P. M.
and there is nothing good; rather the contrary. Pat has almost if
not quite promised to marry Ed Caspian at the end of the week, Saturday,
and Mrs. Shuster has hinted at her willingness to become Mrs. Moore on
the same day. The knots are to be tied (devil permitting) very quietly,
at home, in the water-logged drawing-room at Kidd's Pines. My pleadings
to Pat of no avail. The combination of pawned rings, debts,
five-hundred-thousand-dollar houses, etc., and _Peter's absence at the
crucial moment_ is too strong for her. As for Larry, he seems to be as
hopeless as his daughter. I fancy from a chance word which Pat
_inadvertently_ let drop that, with the prospect of a millionaire
son-in-law, Larry desperately attempted to free himself, but Mrs.
Shuster "persuaded" him to stick to his bargain. How she managed I don't
know, but there are lots of ways, and Larry with all his faults is a
gentleman. He even has a chivalrous vein which, though lying deep under
selfishness, crops up near the surface occasionally. I wish he'd been
chivalrous with his daughter, while there was time for it to do good,
instead of at the last moment with this silly middle-aged woman who
wants to get "into society" through him.
Oh, just one other thing which I nearly forgot to mention! At my urgent
suggestion Jack wrote a line to Peter Storm, in care of a man named
James Strickland, said by Caspian to have looked after the interests of
a family with whom Peter is connected. He's a well-known lawyer, so we
easily found his address in the New York directory. He has his office
there, of course, though I believe he has a house somewhere on Long
Island, I don't know where. There's just the merest chance that Peter
Storm may go to him in New York. He's going to _some_ lawyer, so why not
Strickland? Anyhow, we have no other means of getting at this extremely
Stormy Petrel until his return. May it not be put off too long!
Jack, like all other men, hated to interfere, for P. S. has never spoken
to either of us, in so many words, of his "intentions" toward Patty
Moore. But I cooked up a specious-sounding note, saying that, if Peter
didn't want Caspian to complicate matters for everybody, he had better
hurry up and come back before C---- was actually _married_.
That letter went off by special delivery this morning.
Au revoir, till I can give you the sequel!
Your battered but not yet broken
MOLLY.
XXXII
MOLLY WINSTON TO MERCEDES LANE
_Awepesha._
MERCEDES MINE:
Hurrah! There's a thing I may tell you without giving away Peter's
confidences till the cat's ready to jump from the bag.
Jack and I were restless last evening. When I finished my letter to you,
it was only half-past ten; and I felt as if I could jump up and down and
scream.