XI

Philip was always welcome at his uncle's house in Rivervale. It was, of

course, his home during his college life, and since then he was always

expected for his yearly holiday. The women of the house made much of

him, waited on him, deferred to him, petted him, with a flattering

mingling of tenderness to a little boy and the respect due to a man who

had gone into the world. Even Mr. Maitland condescended to a sort of

equality in engaging Philip in conversation about the state of the

country and the prospects of business in New York.

It was July. When Philip went to sleep at night--he was in the front

chamber reserved for guests--the loud murmur of the Deerfield was in his

ears, like a current bearing him away into sweet sleep and dreams in a

land of pleasant adventures. Only in youth come such dreams. Later on

the sophisticated mind, left to its own guidance in the night, wanders

amid the complexities of life, calling up in confusion scenes long

forgotten or repented of, images only registered by a sub-conscious

process, dreams to perplex, irritate, and excite.

In the morning the same continuous murmur seemed to awake him into a

peaceful world. Through the open window came in the scents of summer,

the freshness of a new day. How sweet and light was the air! It was

indeed the height of summer. The corn, not yet tasseled, stood in green

flexible ranks, moved by the early breeze. In the river-meadows haying

had just begun. Fields of timothy and clover, yellowing to ripeness,

took on a fresh bloom from the dew, and there was an odor of new-mown

grass from the sections where the scythes had been. He heard the call

of the crow from the hill, the melody of the bobolink along the

meadow-brook; indeed, the birds of all sorts were astir, skimming along

the ground or rising to the sky, keeping watch especially over the garden

and the fruit-trees, carrying food to their nests, or teaching their

young broods to fly and to chirp the songs of summer. And from the

woodshed the shrill note of the scythe under the action of the

grindstone. No such vivid realization of summer as that.

Philip stole out the unused front door without disturbing the family.

Whither? Where would a boy be likely to go the first thing? To the

barn, the great cavernous barn, its huge doors now wide open, the stalls

vacant, the mows empty, the sunlight sifting in through the high shadowy

spaces. How much his life had been in that barn! How he had stifled and

scrambled mowing hay in those lofts! On the floor he had hulled heaps of

corn, thrashed oats with a flail--a noble occupation--and many a rainy

day had played there with girls and boys who could not now exactly

describe the games or well recall what exciting fun they were. There

were the racks where he put the fodder for cattle and horses, and there

was the cutting-machine for the hay and straw and for slicing the frozen

turnips on cold winter mornings.

In the barn-yard were the hens, just as usual, walking with measured

step, scratching and picking in the muck, darting suddenly to one side

with an elevated wing, clucking, chattering, jabbering endlessly about

nothing. They did not seem to mind him as he stood in the open door.

But the rooster, in his oriental iridescent plumage, jumped upon a

fence-post and crowed defiantly, in warning that this was his preserve.

They seemed like the same hens, yet Philip knew they were all strangers;

all the hens and flaunting roosters he knew had long ago gone to

Thanksgiving. The hen is, or should be, an annual. It is never made a

pet. It forms no attachments. Man is no better acquainted with the hen,

as a being, than he was when the first chicken was hatched. Its business

is to live a brief chicken life, lay, and be eaten. And this reminded

Philip that his real occupation was hunting hens' eggs. And this he did,

in the mows, in the stalls, under the floor-planks, in every hidden nook.

The hen's instinct is to be orderly, and have a secluded nest of her own,

and bring up a family. But in such a communistic body it is a wise hen

who knows her own chicken. Nobody denies to the hen maternal instincts or

domestic proclivities, but what an ill example is a hen community!

And then Philip climbed up the hill, through the old grass-plot and the

orchard, to the rocks and the forest edge, and the great view.

It had more meaning to him than when he was a boy, and it was more

beautiful. In a certain peaceful charm, he had seen nothing anywhere in

the world like it. Partly this was because his boyish impressions,

the first fresh impressions of the visible world, came back to him; but

surely it was very beautiful. More experienced travelers than Philip

felt its unique charm.

When he descended, Alice was waiting to breakfast with him. Mrs.

Maitland declared, with an approving smile on her placid, aging face,

that he was the same good-for-nothing boy. But Alice said, as she sat

down to the little table with Philip, "It is different, mother, with us

city folks." They were in the middle room, and the windows opened to the

west upon the river-meadows and the wooded hills beyond, and through one

a tall rose-bush was trying to thrust its fragrant bloom.

What a dainty breakfast! Alice flushed with pleasure. It was so good of

him to come to them. Had he slept well? Did it seem like home at all?

Philip's face showed that it was home without the need of saying so.

Such coffee-yes, a real aroma of the berry! Just a little more, would he

have? And as Alice raised the silver pitcher, there was a deep dimple in

her sweet cheek. How happy she was! And then the butter, so fresh and

cool, and the delicious eggs--by the way, he had left a hatful in the

kitchen as he came in. Alice explained that she did not make the eggs.

And then there was the journey, the heat in the city, the grateful

sight of the Deerfield, the splendid morning, the old barn, the

watering-trough, the view from the hill everything just as it used to be.

"Dear Phil, it is so nice to have you here," and there were tears in

Alice's eyes, she was so happy.

After breakfast Philip strolled down the country road through the

village. How familiar was every step of the way!--the old houses jutting

out at the turns in the road; the glimpse of the river beyond the little

meadow where Captain Rice was killed; the spring under the ledge over

which the snap-dragon grew; the dilapidated ranks of fence smothered in

vines and fireweeds; the cottages, with flower-pots in front; the stores,

with low verandas ornamented with boxes and barrels; the academy in its

green on the hill; the old bridge over which the circus elephant dared

not walk; the new and the old churches, with rival steeples; and, not

familiar, the new inn.

And he knew everybody, young and old, at doorways, in the fields or

gardens, and had for every one a hail and a greeting. How he enjoyed it

all, and his self-consciousness added to his pleasure, as he swung along

in his well-fitting city clothes, broad-shouldered and erect--it is

astonishing how much a tailor can do for a man who responds to his

efforts. It is a pleasure to come across such a hero as this in real

life, and not have to invent him, as the saying is, out of the whole

cloth. Philip enjoyed the world, and he enjoyed himself, because it was

not quite his old self, the farmer's boy going on an errand. There must

be knowledge all along the street that he was in the great law office of

Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle. And, besides, Philip's name must be known to all

the readers of magazines in the town as a writer, a name in more than one

list of "contributors." That was fame. Translated, however, into

country comprehension it was something like this, if he could have heard

the comments after he had passed by:

"Yes, that's Phil Burnett, sure enough; but I'd hardly know him; spruced

up mightily. I wonder what he's at?"

"I heard he was down in New York trying to law it. I heard he's been

writin' some for newspapers. Accordin' to his looks, must pay a durn

sight better'n farmin'."

"Well, I always said that boy wa'n't no skeezics."

Almost the first question Philip asked Alice on his return was about the

new inn, the Peacock Inn.

"There seemed a good deal of stir about it as I passed."

"Why, I forgot to tell you about it. It's the great excitement.

Rivervale is getting known. The Mavicks are there. I hear they've taken

pretty much the whole of it."

"The Mavicks?

"Yes, the New York Mavicks, that you wrote us about, that were in the

paper."

"How long have they been there?"

"A week. There is Mrs. Mavick and her daughter, and the governess, and

two maids, and a young fellow in uniform--yes, livery--and a coachman in

the same, and a stableful of horses and carriages. It upset the village

like a circus. And they say there's a French chef in white cap and

apron, who comes to the side-door and jabbers to the small boys like

fireworks."

"How did it come about?"

"Naturally, I guess; a city family wanting a quiet place for summer in

the country. But you will laugh. Patience first discovered it. One

day, sitting at the window, she saw a two-horse buggy driven by the

landlord of the Peacock, and a gentleman by his side. 'Well, I wonder

who that is-city man certainly. And wherever is he going? May be a

railroad man. But there is nothing the matter with the railroad.

Shouldn't wonder if he is going to see the tunnel. If it was just that,

the landlord wouldn't drive him; he'd send a man. And they keep stopping

and pointing and looking round. No, it isn't the railroad, it's scenery.

And what can a man like that want with scenery?

"He does look like a railroad man. It may be tunnel, but it isn't all

tunnel. When the team came back in the afternoon, Patience was again at

the window; she had heard meantime from Jabez that a city man was

stopping at the Peacock. There he goes, and looking round more than

ever. They've stopped by the bridge and the landlord is pointing out.

It's not tunnel, it's scenery. I tell you, he is a city boarder.

Not that he cares about scenery; it's for his family. City families are

always trying to find a grand new place, and he has heard of Rivervale

and the Peacock Inn. Maybe the tunnel had something to do with it."

"Why, it's like second sight."

"No, Patience says it's just judgment. And she generally hits it.

At any rate, the family is here."

The explanation of their being there--it seemed to Philip providential

--was very simple. Mr. Mavick had plans about the Hoosac Tunnel that

required him to look at it. Mrs. Mavick took advantage of this to

commission him to look at a little inn in a retired village of which she

had heard, and to report on scenery and climate. Warm days and cool

nights and simplicity was her idea. Mavick reported that the place

seemed made for the family.

Evelyn was not yet out, but she was very nearly out, and after the late

notoriety Mrs. Mavick dreaded the regular Newport season. And, in the

mood of the moment, she was tired of the Newport palace. She always said

that she liked simplicity--a common failing among people who are not

compelled to observe it. Perhaps she thought she was really fond of

rural life and country ways. As she herself said,

"If you have a summer cottage at Newport or Lenox, it is necessary to go

off somewhere and rest." And then it would be good for Evelyn to live

out-of-doors and see the real country, and, as for herself, as she looked

in the mirror, "I shall drink milk and go to bed early. Henderson used

to say that a month in New Hampshire made another woman of me."

Oh, to find a spot where we could be undisturbed, alone and unknown.

That was the program. But Carmen simply could not be anywhere content if

she were unnoticed. It was not so easy to give up daily luxury, and

habits of ease at the expense of attendants, or the ostentation which had

become a second nature. Therefore the "establishment" went along with

her to Rivervale, and the shy, modest little woman, who had dropped down

into the country simplicity that she so dearly loved, greatly enjoyed the

sensation that her coming produced. It needed no effort on her part to

produce the sensation. The carriage, and coachman and footman in livery,

would have been sufficient; and then the idea of one family being rich

enough to take the whole hotel!

The liveries, the foreign cook in his queer cap and apron, and all the

goings-on at the Peacock were the inexhaustible topic of talk in every

farmhouse for ten miles around. Rivervale was a self-respecting town,

and principled against luxury and self-indulgence, and judged with a just

and severe judgment the world of fashion and of the grasping, wicked

millionaires. And now this world with all its vain show had plumped down

in the midst of them. Those who had traveled and seen the ostentation of

cities smiled a superior smile at the curiosity and wonder exhibited, but

even those who had never seen the like were cautious about letting their

surprise appear. Especially in the presence of fashion and wealth would

the independent American citizen straighten his backbone, reassuring

himself that he was as good as anybody. To be sure, people flew to

windows when the elegant equipage dashed by, and everybody found frequent

occasion to drive or walk past the Peacock Inn. It was only the novelty

of it, in a place that rather lacked novelties.

And yet there prevailed in the community a vague sense that millions were

there, and a curious expectation of some individual benefit from them.

All the young berry-pickers were unusually active, and poured berries

into the kitchen door of the inn. There was not a housewife who was not

a little more anxious about the product of her churning; not a farmer who

did not think that perhaps cord-wood would rise, that there would be a

better demand for garden "sass," and more market for chickens, and who

did not regard with more interest his promising colt. When he drove to

the village his rig was less shabby and slovenly in appearance. The

young fellows who prided themselves upon a neat buggy and a fast horse

made their turnouts shine, and dashed past the inn with a self-conscious

air. Even the stores began to "slick up" and arrange their miscellaneous

notions more attractively, and one of them boldly put in a window a

placard, "Latest New York Style." When the family went to the

Congregational church on Sunday not the slightest notice was taken of

them--though every woman could have told to the last detail what the

ladies wore--but some of the worshipers were for the first time a little

nervous about the performance of the choir, and the deacons heard the

sermon chiefly with reference to what a city visitor would think of it.

Mrs. Mavick was quite equal to the situation. In the church she was

devout, in the village she was affable and friendly. She made

acquaintances right and left, and took a simple interest in everybody and

everything. She was on easy terms with the landlord, who declared,

"There is a woman with no nonsense in her." She chatted with the farmers

who stopped at the inn door, she bought things at the stores that she did

not want, and she speedily discovered Aunt Hepsy, and loved to sit with

her in the little shop and pick up the traditions and the gossip of the

neighborhood. And she did not confine her angelic visits to the village.

On one pretense and another she made her way into every farmhouse that

took her fancy, penetrated the kitchens and dairies, and got, as she told

McDonald, into the inner life of the people.

She must see the grave of Captain Moses Rice. And on this legitimate

errand she one day carried her fluttering attractiveness and patchouly

into the Maitland house. Mrs. Maitland was civil, but no more. Alice

was civil but reserved--a great many people, she said, came to see the

graves in the old orchard. But Mrs. Mavick was not a bit abashed. She

expressed herself delighted with everything. It was such a rest, such a

perfectly lovely country, and everybody was so hospitable! And Aunt

Hepsy had so interested her in the history of the region! But it was

difficult to get her talk responded to.

However, when Miss Patience came in she made better headway. She had

heard so much of Miss Maitland's apartments. She herself was interested

in decorations. She had tried to do something in her New York home. But

there were so many ideas and theories, and it was so hard to be natural

and artificial at the same time. She had no doubt she could get some new

ideas from Miss Maitland. Would it be asking too much to see her

apartments? She really felt like a stranger nowhere in Rivervale.

Patience was only too delighted, and took her into her museum of natural

history, art, religion, and vegetation.

"She might have gone to the grave-yard without coming into the house,"

Alice remarked.

"Oh, well," said her mother, "I think she is very amusing. You shouldn't

be so exclusive, Alice."

"Mother, I do believe she paints."

With Patience, Mrs. Mavick felt on surer ground.

"How curious, how very curious and delightful it is! Such knowledge of

nature, such art in arrangement."

"Oh, I just put them up," said Patience, "as I thought they ought by

rights to be put up."

"That's it. And you have combined everything here. You have given me an

idea. In our house we have a Japan room, and an Indian room, and a

Chinese room, and an Otaheite, and I don't know what--Egyptian, Greek,

and not one American, not a really American. That is, according to

American ideas, for you have everything in these two rooms. I shall

write to Mr. Mavick." (Mr. Mavick never received the letter.)

When she came away it was with a profusion of thanks, and repeated

invitations to drop in at the inn. Alice accompanied her to the first

stone that marked the threshold of the side door, and was bowing her

away, when Mr. Philip swung over the fence by the wood-shed, with a

shot-gun on his shoulder, and swinging in his left hand a gray squirrel

by its bushy tail, and was immediately in front of the group.

"Ah!" involuntarily from Mrs. Mavick. An introduction was inevitable.

"My cousin, Mr. Burnett, Mrs. Mavick." Philip raised his cap and bowed.

"A hunter, I see."

"Hardly, madam. In vacations I like to walk in the woods with a gun."

"Then you are not--"

"No," said Philip, smiling, "unfortunately I cannot do this all the

time."

"You are of the city, then?"

"With the firm of Hunt, Sharp & Tweedle."

"Ah, my husband knows them, I believe."

"I have seen Mr. Mavick," and Philip bowed again.

"How lucky!"

Mrs. Mavick had an eye for a fine young fellow--she never denied that

--and Philip's manly figure and easy air were not lost on her. Presently

she said:

"We are here for a good part of the summer. Mr. Mavick's business keeps

him in the city and we have to poke about a good deal alone. Now, Miss

Alice, I am so glad I have met your cousin. Perhaps he will show us some

of the interesting places and the beauties of the country he knows so

well." And she looked sideways at Philip.

"Yes, he knows the country," said Alice, without committing herself.

"I am sure I shall be delighted to do what I can for you whenever you

need my services," said Philip, who had reasons for wishing to know the

Mavicks which Alice did not share.

"That's so good of you! Excursions, picnics oh, we will arrange.

You must come and help me arrange. And I hope," with a smile to Alice,

"you can persuade your cousin to join us sometimes."

Alice bowed, they all bowed, and Mrs. Mavick said au revoir, and went

swinging her parasol down the driveway. Then she turned and called back,

"This is the first long walk I have taken." And then she said to

herself, "Rather stiff, except the young man and the queer old maid. But

what a pretty girl the younger must have been ten years ago! These

country flowers!"