part I

’m rather keen on Bryan getting in. I want to see a real democracy. What you’ve got now is neither one thing nor the other. Say what you like you have an enormously large aristocratic class, a class which is always looking round for somebody to snub and which holds itself immeasurably above the masses. You’ll be a monarchy yet with every title that ever was heard of, and American inventions to boot. The result of your Trust system will be two classes--the wealthy and the helpless poor. The hour the wealthy class feels that it is strong enough it will make for a court and a nobility. And a nice mess you’ll make of it.”

“Well,” said Mr. Rogers, laughing, “it will be infinitely preferable to Populism, and it certainly will be all in the law of progress. Every American, even the Populist, wants to be rich, and as soon as he is rich he wants to be cultivated beyond his original condition. After that stage democracy is a retrogression and there is nothing to do but go on and become an aristocrat. As you say, when there are enough of them, monarchy is only a step further.”

And there the conversation ended.

I think this letter is thick enough to go--don’t you?

Ever yours,

HELEN.

P. S. The evening post came just after I had finished, and brought me a welcome letter from you. I open this for a few lines of answer. Freddy must be _mad_. I hope to God, V. R. will keep his head. Can’t you persuade him to go to South Africa? As long as you have made up your mind not to see him till all is over, I should think it would be a positive relief to have him where you _can’t_ see him. And if there is danger--do pack him off. Who do you suppose can be putting Freddy up to such devilment?--that creature? She may see revenge in it. Do be careful. If you came a cropper now--I read your letter to Bertie and he says he wishes you would chuck the whole thing and come over here to us, and wait patiently for Freddy’s several diseases to finish him. But I told him he never had been deeply in love--and he said he was jolly glad he hadn’t. Well, I’ll say a prayer for you, out in the forest--although I don’t believe it does a bit of good to pray for any one but yourself. My theory is that by the intense absorption, concentration, and faith of prayer, you put yourself into magnetic communication with the great Divine Force pervading the Universe and draw some of its strength into yourself. Sometimes the strength is physical, or rather is directed to physical ends, as when one prays a pain out; and at others one draws strength enough to endure and overcome anything--but not without that intense concentration. The mere babbling of a petition does no good. There you have the result of my inner observations. Try it for yourself.

Letter IV

_From the Lady_ HELEN POLE _to the Countess of_ EDGE _and_ ROSS.

_Boulder Lake_, July 2d

The people have been here several days now, and the lake looks very gay. When the men are not fishing the boats are filled with the children, ducky little things in white pinnys and bright ribbons. I am going to have them all over by themselves for luncheon some day, for, so far, I like them better than their “mommers.” The men are a well turned-out lot, but look tired, and--anæmic. So far, I have seen little of them, as Mr. Rogers has delayed bringing them over to call--possibly until the mountain air has made them feel a little more fit. New York is said to be unbearably hot, and, you know, the rich men in this country work as hard as the poor ones. Did I tell you that they all dine at the Club House? This cottage would have been impracticable for us did not Mr. Rogers have an invalid mother who could not leave the house--which is quite apart from the others--for days at a time. Therefore, we have here a complete kitchen, pantry, etc., and are quite independent of what would be to us all a detestable arrangement, even if Bertie were well. He is quite fit again, by the way, and has several times been fishing with Mr. Rogers. He has met a number of the men and says he likes most of them, but has taken a violent dislike to an author that this admiring circle has made a fool of, and longs to be well enough to kick him. He likes the women as little as I do.

They have all called on us. They came singly and in battalions. I have a general impression of thin carefully modulated voices, fluffy well-groomed hair, delicate features, light eyes, a discontented expression--which is reflected in their voices--an unbounded self-confidence, an annoying and persistent self-consciousness, and the most perfect gowns imaginable. In the morning they wear the triggest serge or tweed costumes, on hot days linen of various colours, in the afternoon they flit about in pretty lawns, and in the evening they are very smart indeed--several of them called after dinner.

As they will doubtless flit in and out of my letters very often I will do my poor best to introduce several of them to you that you may see some sort of object behind the names.

The four that have impressed me most so far are Mrs. Chenoweth, the wife of a “great” editor; Mrs. Hammond, the wife of a “great” art publisher; Mrs. Laurence, a “wonderfully successful” authoress, and Miss Simpson, the editor of a “great” woman’s magazine; her name is Margaret E. Simpson. She left a card!

Mrs. Chenoweth is the least objectionable of the four, because in spite of her sleepy self-content and air of gentle superiority, there is something sweet and domestic about her, and occasionally her eyes seem to fill up with sympathy; and there is a placid note in her voice, unique in her “set.” She talked about her husband most of the time, and left me wondering how the universe had room for two magazines. But if she did not show so plainly that she was used to flattery and adulation I’d like her rather.

Mrs. Hammond sits forward on the edge of the chair and talks all the time. Her small expensively dressed figure looks as if her eager soul might burst through it at any moment, every nerve seems to be on the jump at once; and as for her face I followed its play of expression bewildered. She is what is vulgarly and aptly called a “gusher.” She gushed steadily for three quarters of an hour about literature and art. Art is her passion; she almost faints before a great painting, and etching gives her thrills which she can express in French only, so inadequate is our commonplace language. She told me with great pride that foreigners always took her for a French woman, so perfect was her mastery of the language; and when I told her it was a relief to meet an American who was not proud of being one, she looked embarrassed and said of course she wouldn’t really be anything else. She then leaped into the midst of literature, but somewhat to my surprise had little to say about American. I was given to understand how deeply read the ambitious active little lady was in English, French, Russian, German, Norwegian, Danish, Italian, and even Spanish classics, old and new, but her only reference to those of her own country was at the end of the homily, when she gushed out eulogies of Mrs. Laurence, and Mr. Henry Walker Rolfs.

“Mrs. Laurence is quite the most brilliant woman in America,” she assured me. “Of course you know her novels--they sell immensely--so full of style and brilliant pictures and illusiveness and delicate satire and purity of thought; but she is even more fascinating herself. I don’t believe there is a woman living who can say so many clever things in the course of an hour, and she is quite a beauty, and dresses deliciously--superlatively--even for New York. And Mr. Rolfs! Of course you love his work--he has the immense sales he deserves to have--such style, such word-painting, such spiritual insight--real interpretation of God. He is so great I involuntarily lower my voice to speak to him, and I think the two most wonderful sights I ever have witnessed are Henry Walker Rolfs _fishing_ and _eating_. It seems incredible that he can do anything just like other men. But indeed he spends most of his time in the woods alone--thinking, thinking, interpreting Nature and God. Oh, I know, dear Lady Helen, you will be perfectly delighted with all our friends, and find us _very_ different from those exaggerated Americans who are constantly bombarding London Society with their vulgar millions.”

“You _are_ different,” I thought. “I never dreamed of anything in Heaven or on Earth like you.”

Now, as it happens, Mrs. Laurence’s and Mr. Rolfs’ books are Bertie’s and my pet abominations. We think the former trivial, thin, and insincere to a degree that her pretty manner in no way compensates for, and Mr. Rolfs equally insincere and anæmic, and laboured and dull in the bargain. His style certainly is polished to an unusual degree, even for an American, and he _engraves_--never paints--quite wonderful pictures. But his characters never come to life for a moment and there is no atmosphere or perspective in his work--it is flat against the canvas--like the paintings of the Chinese. Read ---- ---- ----[A] and ---- ----[A] and see if you do not agree with me. By the way, he is the man Bertie wants to kick.

I will describe Miss Simpson next, for as Mrs. Laurence is always the last to arrive or to call on a new-comer, I will reserve for her the _éclat_ she covets. Miss Simpson is extremely handsome, tall, massive, with brown strong-looking hair, grey eyes with an expression of haughty surprise--as if lesser mortals were in the habit of taking liberties with her--a goodish complexion, a rather thick round profile, and a small hard mouth with a downward bend. Success is emblazoned upon her, as well as gratified power and ambition. She began life, I am informed by one of her enthusiastic admirers, as a clerk in a bank “out West,” but soon--feeling that her education and gifts fitted her for the higher life--“came East” and engaged in journalism. I cannot express the pride with which--Mrs. Chenoweth, I think it was--told me that Miss Simpson had never brushed her skirts against yellow journalism; although she came here quite unknown and from that hybrid region known as the “West,” it appears that her instincts were aristocratic from the first. She made herself invaluable on one of the “very best papers,” gradually wedged her way--I fear that expression is my own--into conservative circles, dropping such acquaintances as were detrimental, and finally graduated as a full-fledged editor of a woman’s magazine, capitalised by an eccentric but appreciative millionairess. It was only a year or so ago, however, that she “arrived” in this upper and rarefied stratum, and is here not as a member, but as the guest of Mrs. Chenoweth. It must be a jolly sensation to have striven for something so high above your reach and finally achieved it. What contempt for those left below, what constant self-gratulation. Miss Simpson quite chilled me with the silent hauteur of her manner, the level dissecting rays of her fine eyes. She holds herself aloft, as it were, with the rigid spine of the traditional queen; but let me confide to you, Polly dear, she looks like a successful business woman, _tout même_, not at all like what I fancy she wishes to resemble. And if she is a success as a business person I will venture to say she is a failure as a woman. Her ambition has been so positive, so undeviating, so remorseless (I have listened to six biographies of her), that the human attributes have withered up just as unused muscles do. I asked Bertie what he thought of her, and he said he had more respect for a harlot, as women had been created for two offices only--mothers and strumpets. “If a woman fills neither of these offices she is a failure and had better be dead.” That is a nice primitive view and I’d enjoy hearing it exploded in the midst of this select camp. They exult in Miss Simpson’s virtue--it is monumental--and has flourished like a green bay tree in spite of New York and its mysterious temptations. Personally, I should say her virtue was purely a negative quality due to absence of temptation, within and without. So far, she is rather in this well-uniformed set than of it; she speaks with a slight twang and expresses herself in rather shoppy language. But she is ambitious and determined, and no doubt will adapt herself in time.

Mrs. Laurence! She was of those who called after dinner. She was in full evening dress--black--and came into the room with a rustling of skirts I never have known equalled. I should say that her train had at least six inner silk flounces and it switched about on the bare floor like an angry tiger’s tail. I think she changed her seat seven times and always with that portentous rustling. I noticed that this occurred whenever some one else had spoken consecutively for five minutes. She is a pretty woman, and the old word “elegant” exactly expresses her; our grandmothers would have called her “most genteel.” She has a cloud of cendré hair, softly curled, and the pretty contrast of baby blue eyes, although they, as well as her red thin lips, are petulant in expression. Her features are delicate to the vanishing point and her figure very graceful. She is, undoubtedly, an old hand at aristocracy, for her voice, in spite of its fretful note, is exquisitely trained, her language polished in the extreme, with every comma and semicolon in its proper place; and her manner quite that of the grande dame of the American novel. She mentioned eighteen people of title she had met in England--among them Milly Seton--and alluded, with a fretful sigh, to her many visits in England’s “enchanting homes.”

“I wish I could marry an Englishman,” she said, with her little pout, “I have had so many offers from my own countrymen but not one from an Englishman--I think it is too bad! Of course I shall marry again, I’m so feminine and I hate work--I always am so amused when the critics rave over my quick brilliant style and verbal felicities; I grind out every sentence and hate the very sight of the paper. I want to marry a rich man who will pet me and leave me nothing to do but to be charming and to dress exquisitely. That is all a woman ever was made for, not to write tiresome books that other people think clever. Of course, I am glad I am such a success; but I’m sure I’d a great deal rather be you. You look the real thing, and we are all just creditable imitations. I am sure I was English once--in a former state--I feel so _at home_ when I am in one of your old castles, surrounded by people who are all that I should like to be, and I am such a success with them; I could not be more so if I were to the manor born; I am sure I cannot understand why some flower of nobility has not fairly flung himself and his hereditary acres at my feet.”

All this before Bertie, and it reads like the most engaging candour; but as she fairly breathes insincerity and self-consciousness one does not believe _anything_ she says, and I think she knows it. When she left, I asked Bertie if she was feminine enough to suit him, and he said that she was a cat, whose proper place was in a fancy basket in the drawing-room; no English Tom, at least, would ever invite her on to the roof. Bertie is coarse at times, but nobody can deny that he is expressive.

Polly, are these people merely snobs? What do you make of them? You write me, you dear thing, that my letters are profoundly interesting to you and that I pop the people I meet right into your imagination. I am so glad, for they certainly interest me. It is like living in a novel--an American one, it is true, but fresh and new, and full of unsolved problems to the mere outsider. They certainly are not snobs in the old meaning of the word, not in the least like those of their country who work so hard to be taken up by us, and imitate our manners and pronunciation. No, they are either snobs and something more, or not snobs at all, but a different manifestation of the struggle for the Ideal. That sounds better, at all events; let them go at that.

Mr. Rogers told me that they all admired me very much, but found me rather “cold and haughty.” I could not help laughing aloud, and of course Mr. Rogers understands. You know how shy and frightened of strangers I am, a failing I never shall get over. I suppose that makes me sit cold and rigid when, in reality, I would give a good deal to talk as fast as they do--and as I can when I know and like people well enough. I did feel myself growing stiffer and stiffer as Mrs. Hammond gushed, but that was quite natural, it seems to me. Agatha was rather bewildered at first by their facile and unrestrained speech, but she likes them all, dear soul. She takes them on their face value, and they each gave her material to admire without looking for it.

July 4th.

Yesterday I went to the Club House to dinner; Mr. Rogers rowed me over and back. The dining-room is rather pretty, with three long tables. Mr. Rogers sits at the head of the middle table and I sat on his right. Mrs. Laurence was very “brilliant.” Every time she began to speak, and that was usually, everybody stopped talking and leaned forward. “I would not miss a word,” whispered my neighbour. “Her wit _lives_ on the tip of her tongue and never sleeps.” I cannot transcribe her brilliancy, Polly dear, because it is of the quality known as elusive, not the old-fashioned kind that you repeat and hand down to your grand-children. She delivered her witticisms, too, at the rate of one every three minutes, and I should like to know _who_ could keep track of them. I wondered if her fascinating, fretful, spoilt-darling voice has not something to do with the belief that she is witty and unique. For, Polly, I must admit it, she bored me to death, and at times I felt like protesting. But I scarcely opened my mouth; and I don’t doubt they think I am stupid and have a typical English lack of the sense of humour. But I do not blame Mrs. Laurence, and do not dislike her as much as I did, for she is merely a hot-house product, forced into an abnormal artificial growth by these foolish people, who must have their lion, or the times would be out of joint.

The great Mr. Rolfs sat opposite me, but he does not go in for brilliancy; to amuse, he doubtless holds, is beneath the dignity of a great mind. He ate his excellent dinner in a ponderous and solemn manner, oblivious of the admiring eyes riveted upon him when Mrs. Laurence was not speaking; his vision introspective, as if he still pondered the last of the Almighty’s confidences, and, when spoken to, responding with a sweet but absent graciousness. I wanted to throw my ice-cream at him--only it was very good ice-cream, made of crushed strawberries, and would have been wasted on such a muff.

In the fine large cosy living-room afterward they _played intellectual games_. My dear, I thought I should die. I could not leave in common decency before ten o’clock, and for a mortal hour I listened to the brilliant Mrs. Laurence exhibit the most wonderful fertility, ingenuity, and resource, switching her noisy tail round the polished floor till it hissed like a harassed snake. She was in white embroidered mousseline de soie and silk--Oh, much and noisy silk--and she wore turquoises, and altogether looked like an advertisement for the calling of letters. Her rival, Mr. Rolfs, had retreated from the field--probably to the roof--and I don’t exaggerate when I say that the others never took their eyes off her, with the exception of some of the men, who went to sleep. Finally, I could stand it no longer, and I went over and sat down by Miss Simpson, who seemed to be as much out of it as I was, and who, since she had failed to catch the spirit of the thing, was endeavouring to look superior to contemptible frivolities.

“A very brilliant woman,” I said, beginning with the obvious.

“I guess there’s not much use disputing that fact,” she answered with an expression which conveyed to me that this remark was intended as grim humour. “And if she were not, she’s clever enough to make people think so.”

“Do you admire that particular form of brilliancy?” I asked, longing to hear her say what I thought; but she answered emphatically:

“I admire success. When you strive for that and get it you’re entitled to all the applause there is, whether it is the brand some one else would strike out for or not. I have succeeded in my way and she acknowledges it and me; therefore, I take off my hat to her. I have aimed for something more solid; but because I prefer to spend my money on oil paintings there is no law against my patting the dainty water-colourist on the back. And I do--every time. So long as a person does not get in my way he can have a whole road to himself and welcome.”

Here was genuine frankness, no doubt of that. She prided herself upon it and was quite aware that she was impressing me, but it was the sort of insolent frankness that compels belief. I asked her if she was not the author of ----[A] which I had read recently, and she thawed perceptibly and even gave me a very charming smile. To draw her on I praised the novel highly--it was clever but sketchy and betrayed no knowledge of the world whatever--and she thanked me very pleasantly and admitted that she hoped to make an even greater success with her second one.

“I have had some very fortunate experiences since I wrote that,” she said. “I have watched a love affair progress right under my nose, and I was visiting a friend of mine when her husband was accidentally killed. She was a wonderful psychological study in her grief!” and she set her mouth, as if overcome by the responsibility of her own brain.

“Good God!” I exclaimed.

She turned slowly and gave me a look of such haughty inquiry that I almost wilted.

“I beg your pardon,” I said meekly, “but it seemed to me rather a shocking advantage to take. Really--how _could_ you?”

“Of course, as you don’t write you don’t know that a true artist sees copy in everything, that human nature was made to be studied, and that when a palpitating leaf is torn out and flung into an author’s lap he would be seven different kinds of fool if he didn’t read it.”

“I can understand now why your literature is heartless,” I retorted, “for you kill your own heart before you write it. But, if you go in for brain-picking to that extent, why do you so persistently ignore the motive power of human life--sex?”

“Oh,” she said with an accent of contempt and disgust. “_We_ don’t want any of that. We leave that to the decadent civilisations. It’s not the fashion in this country. _We’re_ healthy.”

“I think you are decidedly unhealthy,” I made bold to retort--“and if you don’t take care the water in your blood will prevent you from attaining full growth. Well, at all events you will escape decadency,” I added lightly. “Good night.”

I crossed the room toward Mr. Rogers, determined upon retreat, but was intercepted by Mrs. Chenoweth. She gave me so sweet a smile that I was obliged to pause.

“Do sit and talk to me a moment,” she said. “I have been longing to see more of you. I am glad you were so kind to Miss Simpson. I think she is a type that should be encouraged and I am doing all I can for her. Of course she is what is called self-made, she has no family tree, but, as Junot said, ‘Some of us must be ancestors’--you remember that is quoted in the Rémusat Memoirs; delightful reading, whether they are authentic or not. I thought I would tell you just how Miss Simpson stands, lest you should wonder a little at her accent and stiffness; but she is so estimable and capable and altogether superior--and bound to go so far--I am sure you will think I am right to take her up.”

“I don’t see any reason in the world why you shouldn’t,” I replied, “and it certainly has interested me very much to meet her. I really must go, if you don’t mind. I am so very tired.”

On the way back I told Mr. Rogers of my conversation with Miss Simpson and of my disgust. He smiled good naturedly.

“Oh, that is only the zeal of the amateur,” he said. “They get less shoppy every year.”

“But don’t they lose a good deal meanwhile?” I asked.

“Well, perhaps,” he admitted.

The children are making such a racket with firecrackers I can scarcely think, but I send you much love and sympathy.

HELEN.

Letter V

_From the Lady_ HELEN POLE _to the Countess of_ EDGE _and_ ROSS.

_Boulder Lake_, July 10th

Do not imagine, Polly, that I have given up my solitary ramblings in the forest. I enjoy them more than ever; and their _soundlessness_ after the eternal babble which pervades the lake--I am afraid I am not grateful for all the kind attentions I receive--is simply delicious. Leaves, green leaves everywhere, rioting to my knees and hanging in the air. You never notice the slender branches, only the delicate fairy curtain they hang between the dark stems of the trees. And the ferns, and the ground pine, and the green stars of that moss that covers ground and rock, and the rich velvet moss, shading from a dark green to one that is almost white, that covers the fallen trees, and the incomparable solitude. Best of all I have discovered a gorge, sloping gently on one side, the other a huge boulder covered with moss; in the bottom of the gorge a brook pushing its tortuous way over rocks; and alders and ferns close to the banks. Overhead there is a rift of sky, and the sunlight flickers about generously, and the woods I have come through look so dark and impenetrable. There is a fine dry rock with the alders meeting like an arbour above it, and I sit there by the hour and wonder why the forest ever made me feel over-civilised. Beside these people I feel a pure child of Nature. They have reached a pitch of correctness I never can hope to attain. They never use slang, they punctuate their sentences so beautifully, they would not drop a final g in our careless fashion for worlds; they pronounce all their syllables so distinctly! Oh, this is “culture,” Polly mine. If poor dear Matthew Arnold could only come back and live among them! Perhaps he does in spirit and that is his idea of Heaven. (It would be mine of Hell). And we have so misjudged the Americans, believing them to be crass and exaggerated. I assure you there is nothing exaggerated about the true aristocrats except their virtues; those are superlative, but in all other things they aim at simple perfection only, and from their enunciation to their boots--they have the dearest little feet--I can tell you, Polly, they have attained it. I feel so crude--and so happy. I come out here to my brook--I am writing to you with its baby roar and lap in my ears--and I say all sorts of dreadful things quite loud. I forget that I ever have sizzled in London drawing-rooms, proud and happy in my court and interested in nothing in life but gowns and conquests. I forget the whole atmosphere of flirtation and intrigue and gay recklessness and heartbreak. I can tell you, Polly, that when you have stood as close to death as I have done during the last two years, with your heart-strings on the rack and the tears never far from your eyes, you are well prepared to retreat into the arms of Nature and cower there. I have no desire left to return to the world, and if Bertie can live comfortably here I should be glad and happy to remain for an indefinite number of years. My prince can find me here as well as anywhere. He is not Mr. Rogers, charming as he is. He never could stir up my great emotions--and I have them! I wonder if these people ever have suffered as I have, or if they ever have loved passionately? I cannot imagine it. They are too well-regulated, and that discontent which gently agitates them is merely the result of living in a country where nothing is unattainable, and, consequently, where ambition never sleeps, even when it takes no form.

I have met most of the men now and like some of them rather well. At least they talk less than the women and do not seem to fancy themselves so much. They are quite content to be just men and do the sensible things every-day men usually do without bothering about it. They say much prettier things to one than our men do, and I like it, but how much they mean I am not prepared to say. They are not in the least exaggerated or silly in their admiration, like a Frenchman or a Spaniard--will you ever forget that experience in Madrid?--for their common sense and their sense of humour never fail them. And they are all clever--no doubt of that!--but somehow their cleverness does not annoy one as the women’s does. Perhaps it is because they have not had time for the excessive “culture” of the women. Mr. Hammond, for instance, has not attempted to read everything in every language ever written, but he can talk sensibly about most things, particularly the affairs of the world. Mr. Chenoweth leaves Mrs. Chenoweth to blow his horn, and never mentions “shop;” but he does look so dyspeptic, poor man, and he has not Mr. Hammond’s pleasant air of repose. He likes to play with his children, however, and I love him for that.

Then there is an “author” who writes the poorest short stories I ever read--I have only a magazine knowledge of his work--but he belongs to the “set.” Mr. Chenoweth is his intimate friend and his wealth enables him to give his chosen circle such entertainment as quite reconciles them to the poverty of his literary dower. Still, I cannot quite see why the public should be inflicted with him. He is quite bright to talk to, a very agreeable dinner companion, I fancy. I should like him rather if he were more honest with himself--and did not make epigrams.

Take them all in all they are as distinguished-looking--or should I have said “refined?”--as they feel it their duty to be, and quite as agreeable as I would have them--which is more to the point.

There is a Mr. Nugent, a guest, at the Club House, of Mr. Rogers, who rather interests me the most. I think on the whole I must tell you a little experience. He is about forty and a “brilliantly successful” lawyer. He has argued famous cases before the Supreme Court, amassed a fortune, and his admirers--not this set--want him to go into politics. He is very striking in appearance, tall, thin, nervous, with a lean, clever, hard, mobile face, an eye that burns and penetrates, a mouth that looks as if it had conquered everything but his passions, and a quick nervous grip of the hand which suggests that what he does he does quickly and wastes no time arguing about. Next to Mr. Rogers Bertie likes him better than any one up here, and I must confess he rather fascinates me. I am wicked enough to want to see a man like that go off his head about me. But I fancy I’d have my hands full if he ever did let go. Mr. Rogers--he is getting rather devoted, my dear--I always could manage, because he would be so afraid of making himself ridiculous that he hardly would allow his voice to tremble unless I almost proposed to him. He burst out one day: “You white English rose!” I fear I used my eyelashes rather wickedly, and my upper lip, for he drew a step nearer and the colour came into his grey face. Then I felt my eyes twinkle and he recovered himself in a manner that would have done credit to a woman of the world in her fourteenth flirtation; men are usually so clumsy about these things; he smiled quickly and added in the light tone of any man complimenting any woman: “You are really unique here, you know, Lady Helen. Perhaps lily is rather your prototype in the floral world than rose. You make my countrywomen seem like hot-house flowers--if there were a floral heaven they would all be beautiful orchids in the next world.”

But to return to Mr. Nugent. One warm evening when he was calling on us and we were sitting on the piazza I asked him if he intended to go into politics. It is very difficult to make him talk of anything consecutively, by the way, and that makes him resemble us in one particular, at least. There are no semi-colons in _his_ conversation, mostly dashes.

“I have not made up my mind, Lady Helen. It is an alluring prospect in one way, but I should be obliged to give up--those are wonderful clouds.”

They were, Polly. Above the mountain behind the Club House were two enormous masses of cloud that looked like colossal blue dishes piled to the heavens with whipped cream. They were almost alike and you cannot imagine anything more perfect than that cream whipped into form by a giant hand. I thought out loud and Mr. Nugent said hastily:

“Oh, call it sea foam, not cream.”

“But sea foam looks like yeast,” I objected. “I don’t think you are a bit more poetical than I am.”

He laughed heartily (these Americans can flatter so with their laugh). “I am quite discomfited,” he said, “and I can only add that I have far more reason to be poetical than yourself.”

“Very neat,” said Bertie. I can imagine my beloved brother thinking it worth while to say the charming things these men do.

“Now tell me some more of your politics,” I persisted. “Mr. Rogers thinks politics are not respectable, but if the stables can be cleaned in one country they can in another.”

“Exactly, but if I went in for cleaning, in other words for reform--I should sacrifice a great deal. I am lawyer for one of the greatest Trusts in the United States, and as I could not consistently as a reformer--in the present exaggerated state of public opinion--remain in such a position,--that would mean the sacrifice of a large slice of my income.”

“I must say I admire your frankness, but _how_ can you be counsel for a Trust?”

“Why not?--so long as I have not taken a stand.”

“How can an honest lawyer work for dishonest men?”

“The word dishonest, dear Lady Helen, is usually applied to Trusts by men who are not in them. Trusts are an evolution, nothing more, a combination effected that some may live rather than that all shall die. I am not going into sordid details, but I will add that the question never arose that did not have two sides, and that one side is as entitled to able legal counsel as the other. There is no reason in the world why this particular Trust, which is open and above board, should not have the best it can pay for, and as it has done me the honour to select me, I in return have given it the very best of my ability--which should salve any conscience. I feel the same way when defending a man against the combined prejudices of the community. He is entitled to the best defence he can command, and being a human being, is as worthy of it as his more approved opponent.”

This was the longest speech I had ever heard him make, and I understood it as a defence of himself out of deference to me. So, I smiled at him in appreciation of the compliment, but replied:

“Still, I don’t see why you value the money more than the public honour you might win.”

“Money is a very good thing, Lady Helen, to a man with expensive tastes and a passion for travelling. If I went into politics I should not touch its money bags, for political money is invariably dirty; moreover, I should be obliged to sacrifice more or less of my general practice--and the result would be that I should be a comparatively poor man once more.”

“Are you self-made?” I asked eagerly.

Once more he laughed heartily, and his remarkable eyes expressed that I might say anything I chose.

“In a way, yes, in another, no. My father was a prominent lawyer, but given to speculation in Wall Street.--He left little or nothing--I went into his office as soon as I left college--and although I was helped in the beginning I have made my own way--Ah! we are going to have a thunder-storm. Not in our whipped cream. That has been eaten by the gods. This cloud is full of energy and would interfere with the most immortal digestion. May I sit it out, or must I run?”

“Stay,” said Bertie quickly, “I can’t sleep in that infernal racket. Have some Scotch whiskey? Do you take it neat, or with soda? Nell, ring the bell, that’s a good girl.”

They refreshed themselves, and then we concluded to watch the storm till the rain came. The great cloud was a long time approaching and the thunder only a distant angry rumble. But the lightning? It never seemed to play on the surface, but leapt constantly from the deep caverns of the purple cloud, flashing into relief tortuous convolutions that looked heavy and flat when the fire played elsewhere. Sometimes it was only that volcanic flame, at other times the cloud seemed torn asunder, and down the rift ran the zig-zag thunder bolt. Now and again the forked lightning assumed strange shapes, like the fiery skeleton of a man’s hand or of a gigantic leaf. Sometimes it leaped from peak to peak of that moving mountain, then suddenly darted hissing down a gorge as if in search of prey. What nervous impatient terrible energy, and what a tyrannical perversion of beauty!

I suddenly became aware that Mr. Nugent was watching me instead of the storm, and as I felt embarrassed I told him hurriedly what I had been thinking. Bertie had gone inside, as the lightning hurt his eyes.

“In a way that thunder cloud reminds me of you,” I added, rather naughtily. “I don’t mean that you are beautiful, but you seem full of that same nervous energy and you suggest that you might direct it rather cruelly.”

“I don’t think I should strike at random,” he replied, still with his eyes on my face. “And at present I am in far more danger of being hit first.”

It seemed to me that I felt something vibrate. Perhaps it was only the electricity in the air. At all events, I replied as placidly as if my breath had not shortened. “One of the rules of prize-fighting is to strike first, and the weaker should always keep that in mind, don’t you think so?”

“Will you kindly tell me whom you consider the weaker?”

“Well--the woman--naturally.”

“I should sleep much easier if I thought you did not know your power.”

“Oh, sometimes my sex----”

“I am not talking of your sex but yourself.”

The lightning flashed just then and I saw more than his eyes. His whole face was eager and set. I could not help going a little further.

“I used to fancy I had some power over men--at least a good many seemed to love me--but during the last two years I have got out of practice rather. Positively I have not had the tiniest flirtation.”

“No wonder you are so distractingly complete--I am afraid your life has been a sad one these two years,” he added hurriedly, and, actually, his nervous peremptory voice softened. “Tell me something of it--But--pardon me--let me lift your shawl. The wind is coming and it will be very strong.” He folded the shawl about me, and at the same time I heard Agatha reading to Bertie so I felt off duty for the present. And, Polly, I actually talked to him as I never talked to any but the oldest and dearest friend before. But he drew it out of me. I could no more resist that determined concentrated force beside me in the dark than I could push the electric carnival over the mountain. The man seemed magnetism incarnate, and every time the lightning flashed across his face I could see that sympathy which comes not from a soft heart but an intense personal interest. But perhaps that interest is the most highly prized of all by women, and whatever the mainspring, it was sweet to me, after all these months of terrible anxiety and suffering. I never talk things over with Agatha; I have avoided exchanging a glance of alarm with her; that would be too dreadful; and until now I never have felt sufficiently free from care to become interested enough in any one for confidences. But--and I am not the least bit in love with him, Polly--I felt that I could talk to this man all night. The thunder cloud moved down the lake, carrying its rain with it, and I sat there for an hour and talked to him, while Bertie slept on a sofa just beyond the open window and Agatha read on.

“I don’t think you like listening,” I said breaking off abruptly. “I don’t believe you ever listened so long to any one before.”

“That is quite true. I am not a patient man and I am usually thinking about several things at once--But--I am not going to pay you any idle compliments. I will only say that I have great powers of realisation and that I have absolutely understood all you have felt and suffered during the last two years. I have felt it all so keenly that I wish I could do something to help you. I _am_ going to be your friend,” he added in his quick peremptory tones. “I will be your best friend in this country which must be so strange to you. I don’t care a hang about Rogers’ rights of priority. He isn’t capable of understanding you as I do.”

He took my hand suddenly in his warm magnetic clasp, and I had an odd feeling that he never intended to let it go. “This is only by way of pledging friendship,” he said. “I am not going to disturb you by making love to you--not yet. I make no promises for the future. You have roused and bewildered and enthralled me. Whether it is love or not I don’t know. Nor do I know what I can rouse in you. There is heaven and madness for some man. I am sure of that--but I--well, let all that go for the present. In the mean time I am your friend, remember that, and Rogers is to take a back seat.”

I will admit, Polly, that I lay awake a long time that night thinking of him and reliving that peculiar sense of being encircled with warm magnetism. After all, I suppose that what we women want more than anything else is sympathy and a feeling of belonging to some one exclusively. And when a man has the passion to stir and warm and blind us how easily we can persuade ourselves that we are in love. But the _grande passion_--that is another thing. Of course you are in the throes of that and I rather envy you. Good night.

HELEN.

Letter VI

_From the Lady_ HELEN POLE _to the Countess of_ EDGE _and_ ROSS.

_Boulder Lake_, July 17th

_Dear Polly_:

This afternoon I went over to Mrs. Laurence’s “camp” for tea. She wrote me the most graceful little note with two witticisms in it, and as I had no excuse to offer, I went. Agatha and Bertie were also invited but A. had a headache and B. went fishing, saying the most uncomplimentary things about teas. Mr. Rogers and Mr. Nugent, who went with him, attempted no defence.

Mrs. Laurence has quite the most attractive camp. It is exactly like a doll’s house, tiny but perfect, with two verandas, and it is full of dainty crétonnes and frills and bric-à-brac that no one could have selected but herself. She writes every morning in a doll’s study, fitted up much like a boudoir, in blue the exact shade of her eyes; but in the afternoon she is always rustling about, and you hear her petulant voice and swishing skirts, with only short intervals of relief till bed-time.

She received us in a little clearing between the leafy maples on the right of her camp, and wore the most fetching gown of grass green lawn with a flopping white leghorn trimmed with green feathers. The others were all in the most charming white and flowered muslins and I was glad I had put on a soft white mull myself--Henriette has made me some charming hot weather frocks since we came--and by chance I too have a white leghorn, which I wore. It was trimmed with blue flowers, and my frock with blue ribbons. I did not look as original as Mrs. Laurence but--now I am going to say something nasty--I can stand a strong light and she cannot. To tell you the truth most of these women look rather passée in the sun. Their skins are so very thin and delicate that they line quickly, and so many of them have grey in their hair. However, they made a very charming picture under the trees and I must say for them that they appear to get on together delightfully.

They all greeted me with the utmost cordiality, but Mrs. Laurence rose from behind the tea table and offered me her cold hand with rather a forced smile.

“Please forgive me, dear Lady Helen, if I am thoroughly unamiable for a few moments,” she pouted. “But I have been _so_ annoyed.” She swept her hand dramatically in the direction of a newspaper which evidently had been flung into the bushes. I recognised the New York ----.[A]

“_That_ has a picture of me, a large libellous photograph, procured, heaven knows how, certainly not from a friend! _Why_ should they use my picture? _Why_ should they mention my name? What possible interest can their readers--their million vulgar sensational readers--take in _me_? I don’t suppose they ever heard my name before. It _is_ hard when you have striven to belong to the aristocracy of letters to be flung into a cowshed.”

I could not resist the temptation, although I trembled at my temerity: “I read the ----[A] every morning,” I said. “Now, had I not met you, I should have been quite keen on seeing your picture.”

“How sweet of you--but--Lady Helen--you don’t read the ----.[A] You surely don’t take it?”

I nodded, perfectly delighted at the twelve expressions of shocked amazement. “How is a stranger to master all your subtle distinctions at once? It seems to me very jolly and interesting. My brother is quite devoted to it.”

“Well, I don’t suppose it will do you any actual harm,” said Mrs. Hammond, with an anxious expression, “but I assure you that if you were an American you never would admit that you read it--would not, indeed, have the least desire to read it--and I should really rejoice if you would reprove them by writing and withdrawing your subscription.”

“Oh, I couldn’t think of doing that,” I said lightly. “My brother and I are studying your country, and you have nothing more representative.”

“Representative?” Those carefully modulated voices were quite shrill.

I was in misery and my knees were shaking, but I determined to stand my ground.

“Do not you call a newspaper that a million people read every day, representative?” I answered. “What is it if not representative?”

“Of a certain class--yes,” said Mrs. Chenoweth disgustedly. “But what a class!”

“A million people are not to be despised anywhere.” I longed to ask Mrs. Laurence if she would prohibit--if she could--the ----’s[A] million readers from buying her books, but I didn’t dare. I changed the subject instead by asking for a cup of tea.

But that conversation was nothing to one I took part in later.

I have not told you of Miss Shephard, for she did not come up with the others. She is the editor of a literary monthly magazine, issued by Mr. Rogers’ publishing house. It is charmingly got up and quite a smart readable affair, but, Bertie and I had agreed, rather light and vague in criticism--although very pretentious--as compared with our literary weeklies; in fact, not to be taken seriously as criticism at all. The half dozen numbers Mr. Rogers sent us left no impression on my mind whatever beyond a great many pages of clever writing by people who fancied their own opinions mightily. But when Mrs. Hammond told me that Miss Shephard was expected, she added that she was the brilliant editor of The ----,[A] and that probably no one living had a more exact knowledge of what constituted literature, including matter, form, style and perfect English than Miss Shephard. I cannot say that I was very keen to meet her, I am so tired of perfection, but when I saw her I was rather interested, for she does not appear to be more than one--or two-and-thirty. When I expressed some surprise at the position accorded her, I was assured that she had “genius” for criticism, and had, moreover, enjoyed the rare advantage of being the daughter of a Harvard professor and scholar who had been intimate with all the great literary lights of his time. She is a tall thin girl with dark hair, mal coiffée, thoughtful grey eyes, a _very_ refined nose and a thin ascetic mouth. Her skin looks worn, and there is an affected--so it strikes me--severity about her dress. But she has a thin sweet voice, and a very nice, if too serene, manner.

She did not sit near me during the tea, which was quite lively. Mrs. Laurence was brilliant as usual and moved about a good deal, particularly after Mr. Rolfs “dropped in” unexpectedly and some of his admirers showed a disposition to hang upon the words which a large piece of cake made even more weighty. Finally he did talk--to make her more jealous, I think--and gave them quite a lecture on celestial botany, as it were. Mrs. Laurence could only get the better of him by capping his melodious paragraphs with scintillating epigrams, which annoyed him excessively. I sincerely wish they would murder each other. Finally I became so bored that I wandered down to the edge of the lake, and in a moment Miss Shephard joined me.

“Like all great writers,” she said apologetically, “he puts his best in his books, and sometimes lacks magnetism and fresh thought in talking.”

For some reason Miss S. antagonises me. Perhaps it is a certain air of omniscience, the result of being a factor in the destinies of so many great and brilliant authors. So I answered with some pleasure:

“I think Mr. Rolfs’ books as dull as his speech. He has his points, but he is not a _born_ author, therefore you see the little glittering implements and smell the oil all the time, and of course his stories do not _go_.”

“There is some truth in what you say,” she answered sweetly, “but then don’t you think that a man with so great and beautiful a mind should be above being a good story-teller?”

“Shakespeare was not.”

“True, dear Lady Helen, but I need not remind you that we are in neither the times nor the country of Shakespeare. Have you observed how non-imitative, how independent we are? There was a time, of course, when American writers slavishly imitated, and in consequence burlesqued, English literature; the only exceptions were Hawthorne and Poe, and, later, Mark Twain and Bret Harte; but the literature of the last twenty years, which includes so many illustrious names--surely there never has been anything like it in the world.”

“There never has! I suppose I am old-fashioned but it wearies and irritates me--I do not wish to be rude--but--really--I like to read about men and women with human passions.”

“Oh, a discussion without frankness is a poor affair. I am sure that yours is merely a first impression and that our literature will fascinate you in time. Will you permit me a brief explanation? It is our object to produce a literature which shall demonstrate in what ways we are different from all other nations--those differences, peculiarities and so forth which our new and in all things unique country has evolved. Why should we demonstrate--and encourage--the worn out passions that are common to all countries? The refined of ours prefer to forget that such things exist. All well-brought up American girls are taught to ignore this lamentable side of human nature, and never voluntarily to think of it. Without boasting I think I can say that this is the most _refined_ country the world has ever known, and that our literature proves it.”

“But occasionally you develop an author of irrepressible virility who gives the world to understand that a certain percentage at least of the United States are very much like the old accepted idea of human nature.”

“They do not count,” she said emphatically, “because we will not admit them to the ranks of literature, and they _must_ go to the wall in time. The literary pages of the high-class newspapers, and the weekly and monthly bulletins never paragraph them, never refer to them, except in the reviews which advertising exigencies compel. Then we kill them by sneers, not abuse--which always excites a lamentable current in human nature. They are quietly brushed aside, and the real jewels of American literature forced into even greater prominence.”

“Suppose one of these outsiders equals the elect in literary quality?”

“He cannot, because matter and manner are really one. They are too _strong_, too bold and unpleasant, therefore they shatter and deface that fine exquisite thing called style.”

“Your style. Cannot you conceive the possibility of any other standard being as correct?”

“Certainly not. It is a subject to which we have given years of earnest and analytical thought.”

“What of the very different standards of England, France, Germany, Russia? The novels of all countries seem to be issued by your American firms--and, presumably, read.”

“Oh, we are quite willing that each country should have its own standard. Those old states, indeed, could not imitate us, for they have not the same material. Therefore when a successful European novel treats of things that no well-bred American will discuss, we are generous enough not to be hyper-critical of a race which differs from us in every particular. The older nations are naturally coarse, and allowance should be made for them. But there is not one of our elected authors who would dare or care to treat a subject in the same way. And why _should_ he deal with nasty passion? He has the brilliant kaleidoscopic surface of American life to treat.”

“And you cannot conceive of a day when the standard will change?”

“Certainly not.”

“The minority of one generation is usually the majority of the next,” I said, now warmed to the theme. “Your people of the world--and I know that you have that class--have chosen as their favourites the very authors you have tabooed, and whose works do not reach, I am told, the great public you instruct. As these few authors set their faces against emasculation they offend your aristocratic middle-class, and as they are not erotic your unspeakable sub-stratum will have none of them; but they deal truthfully with that world which those of your country who have enjoyed superior advantages can stand reading about.”

I had hit her at last. She coloured and drew herself up. “I do not understand your term ‘aristocratic middle-class,’” she said icily. “And I can only assert definitely that we who give our brains and time and culture to the subject are setting and maintaining a standard that always will prevail.”

I turned to go and say good-bye to Mrs. Laurence, but I could not forbear a parting shot. I waved my hand at the company.

“I wonder they marry,” I said. “And I think it positively indecent of them to have children.”

20th July

I am very much alone these days. Bertie is so much better that he spends the entire day fishing or at the Club House, and frequently dines and spends the evening there as well. Agatha has discovered at least twenty neglected correspondents and writes as hard as Mrs. Laurence or Mr. Rolfs, all the morning. I do not mind that, for it keeps her in the house and I can receive any of the men who care to call; but _every_ afternoon, Polly, she goes to Mrs. Chenoweth’s and plays whist, and I either have to shut myself up like a nun or walk in the wood alone. Of course I could defy the dear old soul, but that would be the end of an ideal domestic harmony, and as for Bertie he would be furious. Mr. Rogers is the only person privileged to walk alone with me, and I do not know whether he is flattered or not. I had heard a good deal about the liberty of American girls, but Mrs. Chenoweth assures me that that is all a mistake as far as the upper classes are concerned. Still, I have had a good many conversations with Mr. Nugent, and some day perhaps I’ll relate them to you. He calls in the evening and we wander off the veranda to the edge of the lake and stand there for an hour or so admiring the sunset, and once or twice we have met quite accidentally in the forest. After all, I do not own the trail down the mountain even if it is my favourite one. He certainly is interesting, Polly, although in so different a way from all the men I have ever known or read about that I really do not know whether I like him or not. He fascinates me, but that is his magnetism, the concentration of his preternaturally clever mind upon myself, the brilliant and unexpected things he says, and the truly delightful little attentions he pays me, when I know that he is full of restlessness and hardness, and ambition and nervous contempt of the details of life. But the moment he comes near me I feel protected and surrounded; I am possessed immediately to drop my shawl or handkerchief or worry about the punkies--dreadful little beasts that he keeps off very effectively with a fan or his hat. Once I made him go down on his knees and tie my shoe, merely because I wanted him to see that my foot was as small as any of his countrywomen’s, in spite of my five ft. seven, and much better shod. On another day I had a headache, and instead of remaining in bed I had Henriette arrange me luxuriously on a divan in the living-room, and received him when he called. I had an uncontrollable desire to see how he would act when I was ill. He was charming, in an abrupt, sincere, and wholly tactless way. I think if I had known others like him or had known him about five years I should almost fall in love with him; but how we cling to our ideals! Independence of thought! We are all creatures of traditions.

I may just as well tell you first as last, Polly, that I am sure both Mr. Rogers and Mr. Nugent have made up their minds to marry me. Agatha is blind and Bertie amused, for he cannot imagine me falling in love with anything un-English and new. You see, I _look_ so--well, traditional, few know or suspect that I am impetuous and full of curiosity and love of novelty _inside_. Of course, as I said, I am in a way as traditional as I look, but in another I’m not. I don’t know if I have expressed myself clearly.

I am sure that Mr. Rogers and all of them think that he has the better chance, because he is so cold and calm and correct. He really is charming in his way and I think I might have had rather a jolly little flirtation with him if Mr. Nugent had not happened to be a guest of the Club. But _he_ talks to me about things that interest me so much more, and he has made me talk to him about myself as I never talked before--even to you. If I could remember all of the nonsense we have talked I’d write it to you, but you know I never did have any memory.

The other day a year-old doe mysteriously appeared in our ice-house with my name printed on a card lying on its chest. I _know_ that either Mr. R. or Mr. N. shot it for me, but I do not dare thank one or the other or even hint the subject: the game laws are so severe that it would be like a breach of confidence. But it has made all other meat insipid and we enjoyed it quite enough to compensate the offender for the risk he ran. It was one evening when both were calling that I regretted being obliged to wait till September for the game I like best.

Mr. N’s first name is Luke.

22nd July

Well, I will tell you of one conversation at least between Mr. Nugent and myself. A very celebrated--you may be sure he is in the superlative class--lung specialist came up the other day to visit the Chenoweths. Although Bertie is apparently so much better, the moment this doctor appeared I felt that I must have a verdict. At first I thought of appealing to Mr. Rogers, but finally concluded that as I had talked so much to Mr. Nugent it would be positively unkind to pass him over; besides it is so much easier to speak to him about _anything_. The _one_ thing that keeps me from feeling the _perfect_ freedom of friendship when I am alone with him is the fear that he suddenly will lose his head and take me in his arms and kiss me. He looks passion incarnate and I know that if he ever did let go he would be like one of these alarming electrical storms that visit us every two or three days. However, I have managed him rather well, so far.

Well, I confided in him, and he engaged to persuade Dr. Soulé and Bertie to meet for examination, and pledged himself to get the truth out of the doctor and tell me every word of it. It was finally agreed--Bertie was a long time being persuaded--that they were to meet this morning in Mr. Nugent’s room and that at four this afternoon Mr. N. and I would meet at a certain spot in the forest, where I should hear the fateful truth--I thought the appointment was justifiable in the circumstances.

By three I was so nervous that I could not stay in the house and I plunged into the forest, praying that I would meet no one else. Fortunately our camp is alone on our side of the lake and the others prefer the trails behind the Club House and at the north end. I walked far down the mountain to quiet my nerves a little, then returned to the place where we had agreed to meet. It was the rocky brook I told you of, but some distance below the boulder. The opposite bank sloped up gently, its gloom hung with scattered leaves and sun-flecks. I sat down on a rock among the alders, still nervous, my hand, indeed, pressed against my heart, but--what strange tricks the mind plays us--my terrible anxiety crossed by imaginings of what Mr. N. would do and say should he bring me the worst. In a moment, too, my mind was diverted by the dearest sight. A chipmunk--a tiny thing no longer than my finger with a snow white breast and reddish brown back striped with grey and ivory--sat on his hind legs on a stone opposite me eating a nut which he held in his front paws. His black restless eyes never left my face as he tore that nut apart with teeth and nail, and he seemed to have made up his little mind that I was quite stationary--he did seem to enjoy that nut so much. His bushy tail stood straight up behind and curled back from his head. It was quite an inch longer than himself, and not a bit of him moved but those tight little arms and those crunching teeth. He ate the entire nut, and when he had finished and dropped the shell, he still sat there on his hind legs, glancing about, his eyes never wandering far from my face, and absorbing my attention so completely that I quite forgot the apprehension that had torn me for the past four hours. But our mutual interest was shattered by a footstep. I sprang to my feet and he scampered into the ferns.

The moment I saw Mr. N.’s face I knew that I was not to hear the worst, at all events; and then, for the life of me, I could not let the subject be broached. I hurriedly commenced to tell him about the chipmunk and he sat down on the stone it had deserted and listened as if he never had heard of a chipmunk before.

“I’ll try and get you one,” he said. “I think one might be tamed.”

“Oh, I should love it!” I exclaimed. “It would be company for hours at a time. I am sure it has intelligence.”

“I am afraid you have many lonely hours,” he said. “I think you do not like our people here.”

“No,” I said, “they fidget me. I really admire them and I never in all my life believed that so many clever people could be got together in one place. But--that is it--they are not my own sort.”

“No, they are not, and I have a plan to propose to you, that I think might be carried out now that your brother is so much better. I have a number of friends at another lake about ten miles from here. They are very different from these--far more like what you have been used to. They belong to one of the worldly sets in New York, and, while they are quite as clever as our friends here, cleverness is not their métier and they are not so self-conscious about it. They bought Chipmunk Lake and built cottages there that they might go into camp whenever they felt that they needed rest more than Europe or Newport--Should you like to visit there?”

“Yes, but how?”

“I should have said that my married sister is there and that I have written to her about you. She would be delighted if you would pay her a visit. Of course Lady Agatha will go with you, and the Duke can transfer himself to the Club House for a time.”

“He is there always, anyhow,” I said, and I suspect I pouted. At all events he smiled sympathetically and said,

“I am afraid you have learned already something of the selfishness and ingratitude of man.”

“It is a good preparation for matrimony,” I remarked drily.

“Are you contemplating matrimony?” It is interesting rather to bring some colour into the face of an American.

“I am always afraid I might marry some time when I am unusually bored.”

“It is not so great a risk to bore you, then?”

“Oh, I mean by Circumstances. I should expect the man to descend suddenly into them with the wings of an archangel and bear me off.”

“Are you very much bored here? Have I come too soon?”

“I never have enjoyed myself so much.”

“Nevertheless you are not averse to a change.”

“Oh, as my time is short in the United States and as human nature is the most interesting study in the world, I want to meet as many of your interesting types as possible.”

“Your stay may be longer than you think. Soulé says that the Duke must not think of leaving the Adirondacks for two years.”

He had me at last. “Two years!” I gasped. “Must we stay up here for two years?” The place has lost some of its charm since these people came.

“Not here, for you would be snowed in in winter and uncomfortable in every way. I have suggested to the Duke that he endeavour at once to lease a house at Lake Placid. There you would be close to an express train to New York--which you could visit frequently--and undoubtedly could find a house with golf links, tennis court, etc., to say nothing of good trails where you could have daily rides. I know you are longing to be on a horse again.”

“Oh, I am! How did you guess it? That does not sound so hopeless. I suppose our friends would visit us occasionally.”

“I can assert positively that some of them would come as often as they were asked.”

“It would be charity, of course. How kind you and Mr. Rogers have been to think of everything for us.”

Again I had managed to bring the colour into his face. “Rogers is a kind fatherly soul,” he said, tartly. “I don’t pretend to be philanthropic.”

Here I was afraid he would propose to me so I said hurriedly:

“We have forgotten all about Chipmunk Lake. I should like to see some other lakes and some other people. But it is a great deal to ask of your sister.”

“My sister is undoubtedly pining for a new acquaintance. There are only four families at the lake and they soon get talked out. Will you go? I may as well confess that I have already written to and heard from her. Here is her note to you.”

It was such a jolly letter, so direct and natural and unwitty. I felt at home with her at once--her name is Mrs. Van Worden, and I liked her further because she spelt Van with a capital V. I am told that Van in New York is quite an insignia of nobility and I met two of its proud possessors in London who had it printed on their cards with a small v. Considering that it is over every other shop in Holland and Belgium, this certainly is an instance of American progressiveness.

But to return to Mr. Nugent--who is delightfully free of all nonsense, bless him.

“Yes, I do want to go,” I said, “and I hope it can be arranged--if only for the pleasure of meeting Mrs. Van Worden. I _feel_ I shall get on with her.”

“Yes, you will get on, I am sure. She and her friends at the lake belong to the great world without going in for _all_ its frivolities and vulgarities. Let us go back and arrange it at once,” he said, jumping up. “There is no reason why we should not go to-morrow.”

24th

But we did not go “to-morrow,” Polly, and I have not been really hopeful of going until to-night. Agatha said quietly and impassively that, better or not, nothing would induce her to leave Bertie, that she would never sleep three yards away from him until he was quite well again. That left me without a chaperon, for although Mrs. Van Worden had written her a charming note too, she had not invited any one else at the lake, and I believe she knows several of them. Whether this omission rankled--she appears to be quite a personage--or whether they are all determined I shall marry Mr. Rogers, I don’t know, but I was invited to the Club House to luncheon next day and not less than four women attempted to dissuade me from going. The road was “frightful,” quite the worst in the Adirondacks. Life there was unbearably dull. They were worked out society women who took a sort of rest cure in the Adirondacks, eating and sleeping themselves into a condition of recuperating stupidity. There were “no men,” as the fishing was not good, and too many other drawbacks to mention. It was Mrs. Hammond who was commissioned with the final dissuasions. She walked home with me, and as we were crossing the pretty rustic bridge over the lake’s outlet, she put her hand in my arm, and said with a slight blush:

“You must not mind what I am going to say to you, dear Lady Helen, I take such an interest in you. Who could help it?--you are so beautiful and a stranger here. And of course I am nearly ten years older than yourself and a married woman. I _don’t_ want you to go to those people; they are all rather fast. Mrs. Van Worden has had several stories in circulation about her that have come very close to being scandals----.”

“What!” I cried, “am I really to meet an American woman who has committed adultery? How much at home I shall feel! So many of my friends have, you know.”

“Lady Helen!” Never shall I forget that gasping shriek nor that poor scandalized little face. I almost relented.

“If she will only admit it,” I pursued gloomily, “but they scarcely ever will. I do know one American woman who told me the second time I met her that she had a lover, but she had lived in England fifteen years and cut all her American acquaintances. I cannot understand your reticence.”

“Lady Helen! Do you mean to insinuate that any of us----”

“Oh, dear me, no. You are all shockingly virtuous here.”

She stared at me for a moment longer, then curiosity got the better of her horror. She did not replace her hand within my arm, but she resumed her walk to my camp, evidently determined to understand me.

“Let us have this out, Lady Helen, I implore you?” she said. “Do I understand that you countenance immorality?”

“I accept the inevitable. It does not appeal to me personally, but if it does to other women and helps them to dissipate the ennui of life, that is none of my affair.”

“Ah, that is the result of having every good thing in life flung at your feet, of living an idle life of fashion that has no excitement left in it but intrigue.”

“Our lowest class is much worse than our highest, and quite open and unembarrassed about it.”

“I cannot account for it!” The poor little woman’s voice was tragic.

“Why try to account for everything? Facts are facts, that is enough.”

“I never have really believed one tenth of the scandals of fashionable life I have heard--I have trained myself to wait for divorce-court proof----”

“You have tried to dissuade me from visiting Mrs. Van Worden because she is suspected of having loved more frequently than she has married.”

“Oh, but that does not mean that I _believe_ it. I simply do not want you to be identified with a woman who has been talked about. She certainly cannot contaminate you if you hold such extraordinary views. But _do_ you, dear Lady Helen?”

“Yes,” I said impatiently. “Don’t you? Do you pretend to ignore the fact that hundreds of thousands of women have lovers.”

“I _will_ not admit it.”

“But you know it if you know anything at all. Like your literature you blink it, as you blink every other fact connected with real life.”

Again she stopped and stared at me. “You look the incarnation of maiden purity,” she exclaimed, “a tall white royal English lily, as Mr. Rogers calls you. It seems incredible that you can have such a perverted mind. You remind me of that dreadful heroine of Mallock’s----”

“I have not a perverted mind,” I exclaimed angrily, for she really was too silly, “and I have nothing in common with that filthy creature----”

“I beg your pardon,” she interrupted hurriedly, “no one on earth would ever accuse _you_ of being less stainless--really--than you look--I mean your mind--your knowledge----Oh,” she continued desperately, “I can’t make you out. I have heard of the insolent frankness of the English aristocracy--that you hold yourself above all laws--the Duke is terrifyingly coarse at times--and I suppose if you had done anything wrong you wouldn’t pay me the compliment to deny it--but--well--I give it up.”

“My mind is not perverted,” I said, “because I see life as it is. I have lived in the world now for eight years, and all my friends happen to have married long since. I should have been a fool had I not seen and heard what life meant to many people, even if I never had had any confidences made me. But it has not stained my mind in the least, because it is something I never think of when by myself--which is the result of accepting life and human nature as they are not as they ought to be. I will not pretend to say, however, that I do not sympathize with women who are carried away by passion. I do not see how a woman who has any passion----”

“Lady Helen! I cannot let you go any further. I am willing to admit that there is sin in the world, but there are certain standards of refinement in this country that I will not hear violated.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I mean that--well--that I cannot listen to a woman admit that she has passions exactly like a man.”

“Do you mean that you never heard that before?” I asked curiously.

“Never! There are certain obligations--but--Oh, don’t let us talk of it. There is one thing further I feel I must say--and I am hoping you will pardon me, for we are all hoping and longing to keep you among us--you and dear Lady Agatha, although of course we know that we must lose the clever Duke when he is well enough to go home----”

She paused, and I gave her my most encouraging smile. We were on the veranda now and she sat opposite me, leaning forward alertly.

“It is this,” she said with her anxious smile. “We all do so want you to marry our dear brilliant accomplished Mr. Rogers, and not Mr. Nugent. _He_ is not really one of us, and, I am afraid he is not too high-principled and has not led an immaculate life--like Mr. Rogers.”

“How can you tell?”

“By their faces. Look at Mr. Rogers’. It is refinement itself, almost ascetic. Mr. Nugent looks--well--of course he is a gentleman and irreproachable in society, but I _know_ he has not led a regular life.”

“I am sure he has not, and it is really none of our business.”

“I believe that men should be as pure as women,” she said setting her lips.

“Perhaps they should, but they are not; you see there are so many women who make a business of tempting them from the time they begin to take notice that it is quite unreasonable to expect them to attain the feminine standard.”

“I am not talking of bad women.”

“Oh, but they count so, you know. They count because they are the positive force. Virtue is too negative to influence any one but those who are virtuous by nature or circumstance. But as I said before, dear Mrs. Hammond, facts are facts. Why not accept them, and without so much mental wear and tear? Every man has the privilege of leading his own life, so long as he keeps within the law. And if he does not think he is doing wrong, if he does not violate his conscience, then he does himself no moral harm so long as he sins like a gentleman. Of course no one wants the coarse sensualist near one; he is repulsive and should herd with his own kind.”

“And you mean to say you extenuate--you would marry a man who had--who had--made love to many women? I am interested in your views, but I must reiterate that I think if social exigencies compel us to meet such men we should at least discourage their kind by refusing to marry them.”

She looked pale and nervous but her eyes were bright with curiosity.

“I will tell you my theory,” I said, “and I can assure you that I did not jump at it. As I told you, I have seen a good deal of the world, the best of it as well as some of its worst. This is my idea--But first: If God is incarnate in good men and the devil in bad why are bad men invariably more fascinating to women--even to pure women--than good men? I am talking of course of the devil which dwells in masculine and able men, not in the silly and ingenuous sensualist. Now the men who are wholly irresistible are those who combine both God and devil, who stimulate and intensify the soul and the imagination as well as the passions. This confounds orthodoxy, but does not to my mind deepen the mystery. Is not this combination, perhaps, the perfect man? And as man is--we believe--made in the divine image--may not God and the devil be one rounded being? Why does the ‘perfect’ man and woman invariably irritate and antagonize, even have a bad influence,--arousing the devil of perversity--when the perfection is in the least self-conscious? Is it not because we instinctively feel their failure to achieve the standard we have accepted as divine, and resent the imposition? And can such a one-sided being give happiness? Not any more than the lowest brute. Therefore, I maintain that a man to reach full stature must have room in his soul for God and the devil to jog along peacefully side by side.”

She rose, white and aghast. “I never, never heard anything to approximate that for audacity--and--and--terrible profanity. But I am too nervous to argue with you. I see Mrs. Laurence coming. Please tell her--_she_ is so brilliant, so gifted. I know she could refute----”

“Please tell her that I have not had a walk to-day! that I shall have a violent headache if I miss it! _Please_ be an angel and don’t tell her I saw her coming--” and I almost ran to the back veranda and plunged into the woods. I had screwed up my courage to the highest pitch and I knew I couldn’t do it a second time. I felt nervous, almost excited, and I wanted a walk and the solitude of the woods.

I walked rapidly down the trail for ten or fifteen minutes, then felt a sudden desire to see that precipitous magnificent avenue made by the roadway. I entered it presently and walked down the logs as rapidly as I could, for the exercise; pausing whenever I reached a ledge--in these woods you cannot walk and admire at the same time unless you care to run the risk of a broken ankle--to drink in that wild yet awesome perspective of the forest. The trees are so high, and often their branches leap across and clasp hands!--and crowding upon the heels of the advance guard is the green, fragrant, ancient army, a million strong. And every now and again the distant mountain beyond the high wild valley.

I suddenly became possessed with a desire to get closer to that mountain, to get away from my own for a little while. I knew that it could not be more than four miles off, and I could easily make the distance and return before dark. I almost felt as if I were running away, and hurried on eagerly.

I passed Mr. Rolfs sitting cross-legged on a damp boulder, communing--presumably--with God. There was a note-book beside him. He looked like an omniscient owl. As I passed he bowed gravely but did not speak. I am positive he cannot endure me.

I went down the mountain as rapidly as I could, but that is saying little. What between picking my way over logs that slipped and stones that cut and feeling for dry land through the grass by the roadside I was fully an hour reaching the valley. It was just a few moments before making the last precipitous descent, when I paused for a moment on a ledge and fanned myself that I became aware how hot and sultry it was. Almost at the same moment I heard the loud familiar rumble of the approaching storm.

It would take me longer to reach home than it had done to pick my way down that beastly road. There was nothing to do but make for the valley and the nearest house, and the sudden brief copper of the sky made me hasten on with all speed. I do not experience any sinking physical fear during a thunder-storm but I have a mental appreciation of the danger and I prefer to be within four walls with the doors and windows closed. The storm was still far off, for the intervals between the flash and the clap were quite long, and its rain was deluging some other mountain miles away.

At last I was free of the woods and stood in the great valley with its irregular masses of mountains on every side, its rivers, its wide peaceful clearings, and alas! its cows. There was no building within a mile except a dilapidated Catholic church, the most mournful object I ever saw in a landscape. Half of the roof was gone, a thousand rains had washed its last coat of paint away, the fence was but a few broken sticks, and the grass and weeds grew high over three or four poor forgotten graves. There was a French colony about here, long since.

It was not an attractive refuge, but the great thunder cloud was pushing its way across the Eastern mountain, forked and torn with fire, and roaring as if it were Hell moving up to Summer quarters.

I was therefore about to make for the ruin when I heard the sound of a sob and of running feet behind me. I turned quickly and saw, running toward me and wringing her hands, a slight pretty girl, with a mass of fluffy hair surmounted by an immense hat covered with blue feathers.

“Oh, please, wait for me,” she cried. “I’m so skaret, and I’ve been runnin’ roun’ like I was crazy. Its a mile to the nearest farm and I dassent go in that spooky church by myself. Oh, my Gawd, ain’t it awful.”

“Why, there are thunder-storms nearly every day,” I said soothingly. “There is really nothing to be afraid of. Let us go into the church, by all means.”

I was glad of her company, to tell you the truth, and led the way rapidly to the ruin. The door was locked! but we picked our way to the back, past those desolate graves, and entered where a wall had fallen in. It was not an easy task to scramble over the mouldering remains of roof and wall, but we accomplished it and ensconced ourselves in a pew in that end of the structure which was still whole enough to afford shelter, although how much of safety was doubtful.

We were none too soon. Almost immediately the rain came down with that furious energy characteristic of storms in these mountains, the thunder was really appalling, and the lightning seemed to have got beyond control of itself--the forks cut its steady blaze. My companion had possessed herself of my hand and cowered against me. Her vernacular as exhibited in a disconnected monologue quite distracted my mind from the storm.

“Oh, my Gawd,” she would mutter; then with a violent start: “Gee whizz! Wat for did I ever come up to these mountains and I alwus so afraid of lightnin’? O-w-w! Oh, Lordy I’ll never do it agin, I vow I won’t. Oh, Joc _why_ ain’t you here? I’m skaret plum to death. I know I’ll be struck clean to kingdom come, and I ain’t so bad. I really ain’t. Oh, Joc you ain’t treaten’ me right to be safe down there in Noo York and me goin’ to be kilt for ever up on these wicked mountins.”

Fortunately, the electricity had other havoc to accomplish before its force was spent, and passed quickly, leaving only the rain behind it. She recovered herself almost as quickly and sat up and smoothed her hair, then took off her hat and regarded the feathers.

“They ain’t wet, thank heavings,” she said, then readjusted it carefully; after which she turned and regarded me with suspicion. She was a pretty dainty creature, not as common as you would expect, for the national delicacy of feature and sensitiveness of expression seem quite as impartial as democracy could demand.

“Who are you?” she asked. “I ain’t seen you before in these parts.”

“I am on the mountain, at Boulder Lake.”

A light flashed into her damp eyes. “Aw, now, you ain’t that there Lady Helen somethin’, a dook’s sister, what everybody is talkin’ about?”

I bowed in as graceful acknowledgment as I could muster and she pursued delightedly:

“You look like it and I’ve seen a lord as didn’t, but you look just like you might be the hero_ine_ of a story in the ‘Family Herald’.”

“I have not the pleasure of the ‘Family Herald’s’ acquaintance,” I said, smiling genially, for she interested me as another variety of the genus American, “but tell me something of yourself. You are not a mountain girl, I infer.”

“Cheese it!” she exclaimed scornfully. “Do I look like these here lumps that is as broad as they is long and wear their hair as slick as a rat’s tail? Naw, I’m a Noo Yorker born and bred, and I’m a sales-lady in ----[A] See?”

“You mean--a--shop girl?”

“Naw. We don’t use that there kind of language in this country. This is the United States of Ameriky and we’re all free and equal.”

“Ah,” I exclaimed eagerly. “Do _you_ really hold to that? How refreshing. Then you don’t look down on these mountain girls that usually have to work as servants?”

“Gee!” she exclaimed indignantly, “I guess I do. Servants is one thing and sales-ladies is another. And I ain’t never goin’ to the mountins agin for vacations--not while there’s cheap hotels at Asbury Park, and Ocean Grove. I ain’t used to settin at table with servants, or ‘hired help’ as they call themselves. But a lady frien’ of mine’s got an aunt up here and she giv me no peace till I come, I was that near dead with work and heat.”

If I were of an hysterical turn I probably should have succumbed. But I maintained a becoming gravity and looked at her with that concentrated interest which forces people to talk about themselves.

“But,” I said diffidently,--“as you have told me you work you won’t mind my alluding to it--suppose you had been less clever than you are or had had less influence than you did have--and had been forced to go out as a servant----”

“I’d ’a been a fluff first--naw, I don’t mean that. But I just wasn’t--that’s all. And I guess I ain’t goin’ to associate with those beneath me when I don’t have to. Wouldn’t I be a fool if I did?”

“You certainly would not be a good American. But if you call yourself ‘sales-lady’ why should not the poor servant be permitted to ease her self-respect by calling herself ‘hired help’?”

“She kin, for all of me, but it don’t make her nothin’ else. I hear somebody comin’”--her voice fell to a terrified whisper. “Oh, lordy, I hope it ain’t a tramp.”

It was Mr. Rogers. His anxious face appeared above the rubbish, and I spoke immediately.

“What a relief!” he exclaimed, as he picked his way toward us. “I heard voices and hoped you might be here.”

“It is good to see you,” I said. “How do you happen to be down in the valley?”

“It was just after the first rumble that I met Rolfs coming out of the forest. He told me you had passed him and I immediately got an umbrella, told the Duke I was going in search of you, and started off. I have been quite alarmed, and am more relieved than I can say.”

I smiled and gave him my hand, when my sales-lady remarked drily:

“Well, as three’s a crowd and it ain’t rainin’ any more I guess I’ll waltz. Pleased to meet you, Lady Helen. I kin alwus see a real flesh and blood Lady of the nobility now when I’m readin’ the ‘Herald’ or ---- ---- ----’s[A] lovely novels. Good-bye. Hope you’ll git up the mountin O. K.” And she took herself and her feathers out of the ruin.

“I think we had better start for home,” said Mr. Rogers. “Your brother and Lady Agatha will be so anxious.”

“But you must be tired----”

“Not in the least. Do you think no one can walk but the English?” This with a smile and intonation that took all abruptness out of it.

We left the church and in a few moments were climbing the mountain, a doubly difficult task now that the logs were slippery with rain. But the forest was so green and dripping, the sun-flecks glittered in the rain-drops, the depths looked so dark and wet, and full of sweet fragrant mystery! The odour of the balsam came down to us with a rush. Mr. Rogers is a pleasant companion at all times, but I like him particularly in the forest. He seems to need it so, to be so grateful for it. I fear I have only a dim inkling of what this brief dip into the wilderness means to the tired nervous practical New Yorker.

“I hear you want to leave us,” he said presently.

“Only for a few days. I am curious to see other lakes and other parts of the forest.”

“And other people? I am afraid you do not like my friends as well as I had hoped.”

“Ah! you are wrong,” I exclaimed with the warmth of insincerity. “They interest me tremendously. They are too clever for me, that is all. I don’t feel up to them.”

“You are far cleverer than any of them,” he replied, turning upon me that _approving_ expression of which I have written, and smiling a trifle of warmth into his grave face. “Many of them are beginning to admit it quite frankly. The American nature is very generous, I assure you.”

“Mrs. Laurence and Mr. Rolfs never have admitted anything of the sort, I’ll wager,” I cried gaily.

“Well--no; but you see they are rather spoiled.”

“Nor Mr. William Lee Randolph,” I said, alluding to an author who arrived two days ago. “I dreamed all last night of cutting his conceit into little bits and watching them fly together again and cohere as snugly as if nothing had happened.”

“You are a severe critic, dear Lady Helen----”

“It _is_ horrid of me to criticise your friends. And after your many-sided kindness! I feel a rude little beast.”

“If you were not frank with me about everything I should be greatly disappointed. And--I am quite willing to admit it to you--your frankness is very refreshing to me. I get very tired of all this posing and hero-worship and these everlasting fads. But they are inevitable in all circles where certain of its members have accomplished great things and others feel that their rôle is to admire extravagantly if they would keep their heads above water and feel in the swim.”

“Do _you_ think Mr. Rolfs and Mrs. Laurence and Mr. Randolph great?” I asked pointedly. “Now, you be just as frank as I am for once.”

He hesitated a moment, then said: “I believe there is no admission I would not make to you, if you only gave me sufficient encouragement. Be careful of that mud hole--these stones are better. I do wish you would wear rubbers. Frankly then I do not think that any of my authors are great, but I think it best to convince the world that they are because they are unquestionably on the right track and their success will encourage the younger talent to follow in their footsteps, crowning the achievement of to-day with the richer harvest of a more virile generation. I am quite aware that we lack virility, but when a more full-blooded generation does arrive think of the vast advantage it will have in this skeleton example of flawless art and perfect taste.”

“It seems to me more likely that there will be a violent reaction,” I said. “That they will smash your porcelain skeleton to smithereens and build a big rude lusty giant in its place.”

“Oh, I hope not,” he said anxiously, “I hope not. That _would_ be a life-time thrown away.”

It was the first time I had heard him sigh, and the momentary unconscious appeal to my sympathy touched me sharply.

“You _have_ lived for something besides self!” I exclaimed. “I believe you actually have given your best energies, and all your time and much of your fortune to building up an Art in your country that future generations may be benefited by and proud of. I do hope for your sake that it will be a success.”

He turned to me with such a glow on his face that I realized I had gone too far for once, and had a wild desire to pick up my skirts and run headlong into the forest. I must say he looked handsome and most attractive. It seemed to me that I felt something glow and leap beside me, something that I never had admitted the existence of, but which gave him a distinct fascination. I could not run, and heaven knows what might have happened next. But at that moment a turn of the road brought us face to face with Mr. Nugent.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, “Oh! _What_ a relief. I knew of course that Rogers would find you--but what might have happened before--Were you in the woods during the storm?”

“I was in the Catholic Church with a sales-lady from New York who demanded so much solace that I had no time to be frightened, myself.” I plunged at once into a description of the adventure, out of kindness to Mr. Rogers as much as to disembarrass the situation. I knew the violent reaction within him--and I hoped he was communing with his soul in good healthy swear words.

When I did not talk, Mr. Nugent did, and Mr. Rogers’ silence was well covered. Not that he did not recover himself almost immediately, and occasionally put in an apt remark.

Finally Mr. Nugent dismissed the subject of sales-ladies with his usual abruptness.

“I think I can say that I have persuaded your brother and sister to let you go to-morrow,” he said. “I demonstrated the absurdity of such slavish adherence to the conventions in this wilderness. Your maid is chaperonage enough for a few hours’ trip, to say nothing of the fact that Hunter and another man will carry your trunk behind us down the mountain and that still another man with a buckboard will meet us in the valley.”

My eyes danced. “What a lark!” I exclaimed. “To really go on a trip without Bertie or Agatha. But _will_ they consent?”

“I am sure they will. I told them that if they insisted upon it my sister would come for you, and although of course they would not hear of such a thing I think that clinched them. So be prepared to start to-morrow morning at eight.”

And, Polly, I really believe I am going! My love to you.

HELEN.

P. S. I almost apologize to Mr. Rolfs. This evening at the Club House when Mrs. Hammond was sitting forward and monopolizing the conversation, as she always does when Mrs. Laurence does not happen to be present, and delivering her entirely commonplace opinions with a vigour of enunciation and a raptness of expression which convince the unanalytical that she is quite the reverse of the little goose she is, Mr. Rolfs suddenly turned to me with such an expression of ferocious disgust that involuntarily I moved closer to him.

“_That_ is what we have to write for!” he exclaimed. “There are thousands, tens of thousands of these damned fool women that we have to write down to and pose to if we want to make our bread and butter.”

I almost gasped. “What on earth do you mean?” I asked.

“Oh, I like you. You’ve got horse sense and see through the whole blamed show. You think I’m an ass, and I am. I have to be. I nearly starved trying to be a man, so I became an emasculated backboneless poseur to please the passionless women and the timid publishers of the United States. To please the sort of American woman who makes the success of a novelist--the faddist and the gusher--you must tickle her with the idea that she is a superior being because she has no passion and that you are creating a literature which only she can appreciate--she with a refinement and a bleached and laundried set of tastes which have made her a tyrannical middle-class enthusiast for all that is unreal and petty in art!”

“Oh!” I said, “Oh!”

“I wish I had been born an Englishman,” he pursued viciously. “To be great in English literature you’ve only to be dull; but to be great in American literature you’ve got to be a eunuch.”

Letter VII

_From the Lady_ HELEN POLE _to the Countess of_ EDGE _and_ ROSS.

_Chipmunk Lake_, July 27th

_Dear Polly_:

Mr. Nugent, the all conquering, arranged it, Polly dear, and here I am at a far more beautiful lake than Boulder--which seems tamely pretty in comparison. It is on top of another mountain surrounded by another dense forest which grows down into the very water; but there the resemblance ends. Although not large it is almost like four different lakes, so irregular and cut up is it. From the natural terrace on which the four camps are built you look over a small body of brown water fringed with reeds and water-lilies to two mountain peninsulas which jut so far into the lake as almost to close it. The opening is called The Narrows and just beyond and across the distance runs another high sloping mountain quite cutting off further view except of far pale peaks. It is only when you are in a boat beyond The Narrows that you see the lake’s three other parts, one end closed up with great rocks and floating logs, but with the avenue of the inlet showing beyond; everywhere else, the dense silent forest, the spruce crowding to the front, the water-lilies and their pads spreading almost to the middle of the lake. There are white lilies and yellow ones and a miniature variety with so sweet and intoxicating a fragrance that in the early morning you feel as if the boat were cutting a visible passage through it. And the mountains, mountains, everywhere.

The four cottages are made of logs, three with the bark on, the other peeled and polished. Mrs. Van Worden’s is the largest and also the most homelike. We arrived rather late. Mr. N. and I, tired of the “buckboard,” had left it and walked on ahead, arriving quite noiselessly. I never shall forget how comfy Mrs. Van Worden’s living-room looked as we peered a moment through the glass door before knocking. It is a long low room with heavy beams across the dark red paper of the ceiling, and a red brick fireplace from floor to roof--in which great logs were blazing. In one corner was a graceful staircase, and on the “sealed” gold-coloured walls were many prints and photographs of sporting life in the Adirondacks. In one corner was a divan piled with cushions and draped with silk, a lamp swinging from the canopy. Against another wall was a straight divan, on which a young man was lying, reading a book. Then there were mounted deer heads and rugs and tables and at least eight rocking-chairs--I am going to take back a “rocker” as a present for you.

Mrs. Van Worden, who was standing with her foot on the fender staring into the fire, seemed to feel our presence in a moment, for she turned about suddenly and came swiftly to the door. And then the warmth of her welcome quite dissipated the misgivings I had felt about descending in this summary fashion upon a complete stranger. I like her better than any woman I have met in the country and as we sat up talking half the night, I already know her quite well.

She is tall and thin, with no figure exquisitely dressed--though with much more simplicity than the fashion of Boulder Lake would dictate. But these women _have_ to dress so much oftener during other parts of the year that they are more disposed to a complete rest up here. Still, they can’t help dressing well. Her figure’s only “points” are the hands and feet, which are so small that I stare at them almost rudely. Nevertheless the hands look extremely determined. She is not pretty but has rather the beauty of individuality. Her complexion is dead white, almost transparent, and her nose irregular, but she has great glowing black eyes, a sensitive and beautiful mouth, and soft mahogany-brown hair charmingly arranged. She is about six-and-thirty, I should say, and when she hinted to me that she was nine-and-twenty I felt disposed to offer her my confidence without reserve. Never trust a woman who will not lie about her age after thirty. She is unwomanly and unhuman and there is no knowing what crimes she will commit.

The man on the divan--a long clean-limbed smooth faced delightful looking young fellow, with a humorous mouth, a frank eye and a fine high-bred _University_ air about him--stood up as soon as we entered and was presented as Mr. Latimer of New York. Mr. Van Worden is a banker, very business-like and absent minded, and years older than his wife.

We had the jolliest little supper in one corner of the living-room--at least four of us did, for Mr. Van Worden was on the lake, having dined--and were waited on by the lake-keeper’s wife, a woman of immense weight, but so light on her feet and so deft and swift in her movements that she might have been a fairy. More of her later. She interests me very much.

After supper, as it was blowing rather hard, we all sat about the blazing logs for two hours and Mrs. Van Worden and young Latimer rattled alternately. But they did not irritate me for a moment, they were so impersonal even when talking of themselves, so really clever without seeming to be in the least aware of it, so full of a humour that made no attempt at wit, and so interesting in what they had to say and in their manner of looking at things. I felt grateful enough to hug myself.

Mr. Latimer had recently been in the Philippines and he told some of his humorous adventures with a boyish abandon--I am told he is thirty but he seems much younger--that made me laugh heartily. Suddenly I caught Mr. Nugent’s eye and the expression of delight on his face made me blush to my hair. We were alone for a moment just before going to bed and he whispered to me eagerly:

“You like it here! I know that you do! I am so glad.”

“Oh, yes!” I exclaimed with the enthusiasm of sheer gratitude. “I do. Thank you for bringing me.” Here he looked as if nothing could prevent him from kissing me and I said hurriedly:

“What a difference! It reminds me of something the Prince is reported to have said once: ‘Bright people--yes; but no damned intellect.’” Not but what I fancy the intellect is really there, Polly, but it is reserved as a sub-stratum, from which little sparks are sent up to irradiate, not a constant conscientious blaze like an energetic thunder storm.

Mrs. Van Worden invited me into her bed-room and we muffled ourselves in warm wrappers and talked for hours while the wind howled. She really has seen the world, and is as interesting as--well, as you are. There is a woman who would sympathise with you from A to Z and never criticise. Fancy the attitude of Mrs. Laurence or Mrs. Hammond. What is Christianity, anyhow? A kind heart and a sophisticated mind?

The next morning I got up for a few moments at six and peered out of my high window. Some of the smaller trees have been cut down and I could see a little distance into the forest. It looked so quiet--so expectant. I have decided that that is the spirit of these mountain forests of the New World--expectancy, waiting. Civilisation is held in check at present by the laws of New York, which owns the greater portion of the Adirondack tract. But for how long? And they have had more than a glimpse of man, these forests, from the old dead trappers to the flowers of modern and greedy civilisation. What is it they expect? What disaster? What conquests? It seems to me sometimes as if they were holding their breath. And what are they like inside? I wish I had eyes to see? Besides the two thousand lakes there are springs, springs everywhere; there must be millions of them in the great range. From what vast subterranean flood do they burst forth? What silent potent _waiting_ tides are moving unceasingly beneath the brown lakes and the riches of the forest, have been moving since the great glaciers melted?

At eight the keeper’s wife, Mrs. Opp, came up with my breakfast--coffee, and “johnnie cake,” and fish, fresh from the lake, and I detained her for a few moments, for she interests me unaccountably. As I said, she is very fat--she must weigh not a pound less than seventeen stone--and cannot be under five feet nine. Her face is German, but the features are small and delicately cut, and her complexion is as fine of grain as an infant’s. She must be seven or eight and thirty, but her face has that virginal expression of the married woman who never has had children. Her manner is _gracious_--I cannot apply any other word to it; but even more noticeable, I think, are her teeth and nails. They are perfect and perfectly kept. And yet she is illiterate, and has, she let fall, worked all her life. When Mrs. Van Worden is here she is both cook and housekeeper. Her husband, the keeper, is a big lithe handsome man, with regular features and a white throat. In his rough costume he looks the ideal mountaineer.

“I am not going to be lazy every day,” I remarked apologetically. “But I walked nearly all the way yesterday and then sat up late.”

“No wonder yor’re tired,” she said in her crooning indulgent voice. “A mile of it jest kills me. I git het up so, and my poor legs are _that_ tired--Oh, my!” And she laughed a jolly laugh, as if, however, life were all sunshine.

“But surely you walk sometimes in these beautiful woods.”

“Not very much. I git about enough walkin’ round the house. When I go out of the woods in winter and visit hum fur a spell, well, then, I guess I do go about more. You see there’s somethin’ to go to, but up here--My! I worked in hotels mostly before I come here, so this seems kinder lonesome.”

“You don’t remain here in winter then? I don’t blame you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s that dismal! Frank, he comes in and out, but there ain’t no real need of me stayin’ here so I go home and have a real good time. I like it here. I like it here. It’s as good’s anywheres, only I’d have a hotel on the St. Lawrence if I could hev my choice. There’d be some life in that! Well, I must go down and not stand gassin’ here. Sure you got all you want? There’s lots more.”

I assured her that I had more than I could possibly eat, and she smiled graciously upon me and withdrew. She is like the policeman and Jemima and the sales-lady in her unconsciousness of caste, but with a difference. What that difference is puzzles me when I have time to think about it.

July 31st

I have been here four days, Poll, and not heard the words “aristocratic” or “refined” once. Oh, blessed relief! And--yet--they just lack unselfconsciousness. Is that the word, or is it a suggestion of reserve under all their animation and candour and naturalness, a reserve that is not so much mental and personal as racial and as--well, there is no help for it--aristocratic? I think that is the explanation, after all. They _feel_ themselves to be the true aristocrats of the country but are too well-bred to mention, or, perhaps, to think of it. There is just the faintest dearest little air of loftiness about them and it is so manifestly natural that I fancy it is as much the real thing as the “self-made” American. I have come to the conclusion that the modern interpretation of the Declaration of Independence is something like this: _I am as good as those that think themselves better and a long sight better than those who only think themselves as good._ When they are established on the top step like these people here, with no more flights to conquer, there is really nothing left to do but to slide down the banisters.

None of my Chipmunk Lake friends are of the “new-rich”; every fortune up here is at least three generations old, and Mr. Van W’s is six. Well, they are welcome to feel themselves anything they like, for I find them wholly delightful, and they have been charming to me. Mrs. Wilbur Garrison looks rather sad and tired but is always gay in manner and interested in what other people are talking about. Mrs. Reginald Grant has several pasts in the depths of her eyes which her long lashes always seem to be sweeping aside as if it were a matter of no consequence whatever. Mrs. Meredith Jones rather goes in for charities, and Mr. Nugent says she really is a hard worker as well as a devoted mother and an irresistible coquette. She has a Greek profile, a cloud of golden hair, a Juno bust and a rather cynical mouth.

I do not know what Mrs. Hammond meant by saying there were “no men.” I should say there was one apiece.

There is a young widow, a great belle, visiting Mrs. Grant--Mrs. Coward. She is very thin and not in the least beautiful, although her face lights up when she talks and has a sweet expression. But she holds herself with a calm expectancy that every man will fall at her feet, and she flatters more than any one I ever met. Then she delivers her opinions with such an air! They are usually platitudes, but you know how a manner blinds.

A Miss Page, a Southern girl, is visiting Mrs. Garrison. She has an ideal manner, is always impersonal in her conversation and seems as amiable and unselfish as possible.

The unmarried men live in the little Club House, which has a smoking-room but no dining-room. We all dine in our own camps when we are not entertaining each other, which is usually.

The children are established for the summer in other country houses, where all these people will go after their three weeks’ rest from every care. The two husbands up here are quite nice, and devoted to sport. When the fish won’t play in this lake they tramp off to others.

But enough of the people. I am going to tell you of the weirdest experience I ever had. Save it for me, Polly, for if ever I write a