CHAPTER IX
IN OTHER CLIMES
Never was there a gayer party than this that was walking from the hotel towards the shores of Lake George, on a brilliant and blue-skied October morning. Perhaps the most demure – or the most professedly demure – was Miss Carry Hodson herself, who affected to walk apart a little; and swung carelessly the fur cape she carried in her hand; and refused all kinds of attentions from a tall, lank, long-haired young man who humbly followed her; and pretended that she was wholly engrossed with the air of
'I'm in love, sweet Mistress Prue,
Sooth I can't conceal it;
My poor heart is broke in two —
You alone can heal it.'
As for the others of this light-hearted and laughing group of young folk, they were these: Miss Kerfoot, a fresh-coloured, plump, pleasant-looking girl, wearing much elaborate head-gear rather out of proportion to her stature; her married sister, Mrs. Lalor, a grass-widow who was kind enough to play chaperon to the young people, but whose effective black eyes had a little trick of roving on their own account – perhaps merely in quest of a joke; Dr. Thomas P. Tilley, an adolescent practitioner, who might have inspired a little more confidence in his patients had he condescended to powder his profuse chestnut-brown hair; and, finally, the long and lank gentleman who waited so humbly on Miss Hodson, and who was Mr. J. C. Huysen, of the Chicago Citizen. Miss Carry had at length – and after abundant meek intercession and explanations and expressions of remorse – pardoned the repentant editor for his treatment of Ronald. It was none of his doing, he vowed and declared. It was some young jackass whom the proprietors of the paper had introduced to him. The article had slipped in without his having seen it first. If only her Scotch friend would write something more, he would undertake that the Chicago Citizen would treat it with the greatest respect. And so forth. Miss Carry was for a long time obdurate, and affected to think that it was poetical jealousy on his part (for the lank-haired editor had himself in former days written and published sentimental verse – a fact which was not forgotten by one or two of the wicked young men on the staff of the N. Y. Sun when Mr. Huysen adventured into the stormy arena of politics); but in the end she restored him to favour, and found him more submissive than ever. And in truth there was substantial reason for his submission. The Chicago Citizen paid well enough, no doubt; but the editor of that journal had large views; and Miss Hodson's husband – if all stories were true – would find himself in a very enviable position indeed.
'Mayn't I carry your cape for you, Miss Hodson?' the tall editor said, in the most pleading way in the world.
'No, I thank you,' she answered, civilly enough; but she did not turn her head; and she made believe that her mind was wholly set on
'I'm in love, sweet Mistress Prue,
Sooth I can't conceal it.'
This timid prayer and its repulse had not escaped the sharp observation of Miss Kerfoot.
'Oh,' said she, 'there's no doing anything with Carry, ever since we came to Fort George. Nothing's good enough for her; the hills are not high enough; and the place is not wild enough; and there's no catching of salmon in drenching rain – so there's no amusement for her. Amusement? I know where the trouble is; I know what amusement she wants; I know what makes her grumble at the big hotels, and the decent clothes that people prefer to wear, and the rattlesnakes, and all the rest. Of course this lake can't be like the Scotch lake; there isn't a handsome young gamekeeper here for her to flirt with. Flirtation, was it? Well, I suppose it was, and no more. I don't understand the manners and customs of savage nations. Look at her now. Look at that thing on her head. I've heard of girls wearing true-love knots, and rings, and things of that kind, to remind them of their sweethearts; but I never heard of their going about wearing a yellow Tam-o'-Shanter.'
Miss Carry smiled a superior smile; she would pay no heed to these ribald remarks; apparently she was wholly engrossed with
'I'm in love, sweet Mistress Prue.'
'It isn't fair of you to tell tales out of school, Em,' the young matron said.
'But I wasn't there. If I had been, there would have been a little better behaviour. Why, I never! Do you know how they teach girls to use a salmon-rod in that country?'
The question was addressed to Mr. Huysen; but Miss Kerfoot's eyes were fixed on Miss Carry.
'No, I don't,' he answered.
'Oh, you don't know,' she said. 'You don't know. Really. Well, I'll tell you. The gamekeeper – and the handsomer the better – stands overlooking the girl's shoulder; and she holds the rod; and he grips her hand and the rod at the same time.'
'But I know how,' the young Doctor interposed. 'See here – give me your hand – I'll show you in a minute.'
'Oh no, you shan't,' said she, instantly disengaging herself; 'this is a respectable country. We don't do such things in New York State. Of course, over there it's different. Oh yes; if I were there myself – and – and if the gamekeeper was handsome enough – and if he asked me to have a lesson in salmon-fishing – don't you think I would go? Why, I should smile!'
But here Miss Carry burst out laughing; for her friend had been caught. These two girls were in the habit of talking the direst slang between themselves (and occasionally Miss Carry practised a little of it on her papa), but this wickedness they did in secret; outsiders were not supposed to know anything of that. And now Dr. Tilley did not seem very much pleased at hearing Miss Kerfoot say 'I should smile'; and Miss Kerfoot looked self-conscious and amused and a little embarrassed; and Carry kept on laughing. However, it all blew over; for now they were down at the landing stage; and presently the Doctor was handing them into the spick and span new cat-boat that he had just had sent through from New York that autumn.
Indeed it was a right joyous party that now went sailing out on the clear lapping waters; for there was a brisk breeze blowing; and two pairs of sweethearts in one small boat's cargo make a fair proportion; and Lake George, in October, before the leaves are beginning to fall, is just about as beautiful a place as any one can want. The far low hills were all red and brown and yellow with maple and scrub oak, except where the pines and the hemlocks interposed a dark blue-green; and nearer at hand, on the silvery surface of the lake, were innumerable small wooded islands, with a line of white foam along the windward shores; and overhead a perfectly cloudless sky of intense and brilliant blue. And if these were not enough for the gay voyagers, then there were other things – laughter, sarcasm, subtle compliments, daring or stolen glances; until at last the full tide of joy burst into song. Who can tell which of them it was that started
'I'se gwine back to Dixie, no more I'se gwine to wander,
My heart's turned back to Dixie, I can't stay here no longer'?
No matter; nor was it of much consequence whether the words of the song were of a highly intellectual cast, nor whether the music was of the most distinguished character, so long as there was a chorus admirably adapted for soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. It was very speedily clear that this was not the first time these four had practised the chorus (Mrs. Lalor was allowed to come in just where she pleased), nor was there any great sadness in their interpretation of the words —
I'se gwine back to Dix-ie, I'se gwine back to
Dix-ie, I's gwine where to or-ange blos-soms grow, …
… For I hear the chil-dren call-ing, I see their sad tears
fall-ing, My heart's turn'd back to Dix-ie, And I must go.
Music fragment
It is impossible to say how often they repeated the chorus; until Mrs. Lalor asked the girls why they were so fond of singing about orange blossoms, and then presently they turned to something else.
All this time they were beating up against a stiff but steady head-wind; the Doctor at the tiller; the lank editor standing by the mast at the bow; the girls and their chaperon snugly ensconced in the capacious cockpit, but still having to dodge the enormously long boom when the boat was put about. The women-folk, of course, paid no attention to the sailing; they never do; they were quite happy in leaving the whole responsibility on the owner of the craft; and were entirely wrapped up in their own petty affairs. Nay, so recklessly inconsiderate were they that they began to be angry because Dr. Tilley would not get out his banjo – which was in the tiny cabin, or rather locker, at the bow. They wanted to sing 'Dancing in the Barn,' they said. What was the use of that without a banjo to play the dance music?
'Very well,' said the complaisant Doctor, 'we'll run into some quiet creek in one of the islands; and then I'll see what I can do for you.'
No, no, they said; they wanted to sing sailing; they did not wish to go ashore, or near the shore. Well, the amiable Doctor scarce knew how to please them, for he could not steer the boat and play the banjo at the same time; and he was not sure about entrusting the safety of so precious a cargo to the uncertain seamanship of the editor. However, they were now a long way from Fort George; they might as well take a run back in that direction; and so – the boat having been let away from the wind and put on a fair course for the distant landing-stage – Mr. Huysen was called down from the bow and directed as to how he should steer; and then the Doctor went forward and got out the banjo.
Now this 'Dancing in the Barn' (the words are idiotic enough) has a very catching air; and no sooner had the Doctor – who was standing up on the bit of a deck forward, where Jack Huysen had been – begun the tinkling prelude than the girls showed little movements of hands and feet, as if they were performing an imaginary 'cake-walk.'
'Oh, we'll meet at the ball in the evening,
Kase I love to pass the time away'
– they were all singing at it now; they did not wait for any chorus; and Miss Carry had caught Miss Em's hand, and was holding it on high, and keeping time to the music, as if she were in reality leading her down the barn.
As we move so grace-ful-ly
We're as hap-py as can be
Den swing you partners all to-
Music fragment
ge-ther, Kase now's the time for you to larn, Ban-jos
ring-ing, Nig-gers sing-ing, And danc-ing in the barn.
music fragment
Then came in the rippling dance – played as a solo on the banjo; and so catching was it that the two girls stood up, and made believe to dance a little. You see, the boat was running free before the wind, and there was scarcely any appreciable motion, though she was going at a good speed, for her mainsail was enormously large and the breeze was brisk.
'I say, Huysen,' the Doctor called, while he was playing the dance, 'look what you're about. Never mind the singing. Keep her bow straight for the landing-stage.'
Then the next verse began —
'Den we's off to work in de morning,
Singing as we go out to de field,'
and they all went at it with a will. And then the chorus; and then the light rippling dance —
music fragment
and the two girls were on their feet again, making believe to posture a little, while the sharp clear notes of the banjo tinkled and tinkled, amid the steady swishing noise of the water along the side of the boat. But all of a sudden there was a startled cry of warning – the banjo was dropped on the deck, and the Doctor sprung aft in a vain effort to check what he had seen was coming; the next moment the great boom came heavily swinging along, accelerating its pace as it went out to leeward, until there was a frightful crash that seemed to tear the whole craft to pieces. And then, in this wild lurch, what had happened? Tilley was the first to see. There was something in the water. He tore off his coat and slipped over the boat's side – heeding nothing of the piercing screams of those he had left, but shaking the wet from his eyes and nose and mouth, and looking all around him like a Newfoundland dog. Then he caught sight of a small floating object – some dozen yards away – and he made for that: it was the yellow Tam-o'-Shanter, he could see; then he heard a half-stifled cry just behind him, and turning round was just able to catch hold of Carry Hodson before she sank a second time. However, she was quite passive – perhaps she had been stunned by a blow from the boom; and he was an excellent swimmer; and he could easily keep her afloat – if only Jack Huysen knew enough about sailing to get the boat back speedily. It was in vain to think of swimming with her to the shore; the land was too far off; and the weight of her wet clothes was increasing. He looked after the boat; it seemed a terrible distance away; but as far as he could make out – through the water that was blinding his eyes – they had got her round into the wind again and were no doubt trying to make for him.
Meanwhile, Jack Huysen had been so thunderstruck by what had occurred; when his own carelessness or an awkward gust of wind had caused the great boom to gybe, that for some seconds he seemed quite paralysed, and of course all this time the little craft was swinging along before the breeze. The shrieks of the women bewildered him, moreover. And then it occurred to him that he must get back – somehow, anyhow; and more by instinct than of knowledge he jammed down the helm, and rounded the boat into the wind, where the big sail began to flop about with the loose mainsheet dragging this way and that. And then he set about trying little experiments – and in a frantic nervousness all the same; he knew, or he discovered, that he must needs get in the mainsheet; and eventually the boat began to make uncertain progress – uncertain, because he had been terrified, and was afraid to keep proper way on her, so that she staggered up into the wind incessantly. But this at all events kept them near the course they had come; and from time to time she got ahead a bit; and the women had ceased their shrieking, and had subsided, the one into a terrified silence, the other into frantic weeping and clasping of her hands.
'Can't you – can't you look out? Why don't you look out for them?' he cried, though he scarce knew what he said, so anxious was he about the tiller and those puffs of wind that made the boat heel over whenever he allowed the sail to fill.
And then there was a cry – from Mrs. Lalor.
'Look – look – this way – you're going away from them.'
He could only judge by the direction of her gaze; he put the boat about. She began to laugh, in a hysterical fashion.
'Oh yes, yes, we are getting nearer – we are getting nearer – he sees us – Em, Em, look! – poor Carry! – Oh, quick, quick with the boat – quick, quick, quick!'
But the wringing of her hands was of little avail; and indeed when they did eventually draw cautiously close to the two people in the water, the business of getting them dragged on board proved a difficult and anxious matter, for the girl was quite unconscious and lay in their hands like a corpse. The young Doctor was very much exhausted too; but at least he preserved his senses. He sat down for a minute to recover his breath.
'Jack,' he gasped, 'put my coat round her – wrap her warm – Mrs. Lalor, get off her boots and stockings – chafe her feet and hands – quick.'
And then he rose and went to where she was lying and stooped over her.
'Yes, yes, her heart is beating – come away with that coat, man.'
But it was his own coat that Jack Huysen had quickly taken off; and when Carry Hodson was wrapped in it, and when the women were doing what they could to restore her circulation, he fetched the other coat for the young Doctor, and made him put that on, though the latter declared he was all right now. And then the Doctor took the tiller, slacked out the mainsheet, and once more they were running before the wind towards Fort George. Not a word had been said about the cause of the mishap or its possible consequences.
These at first – and to Jack Huysen's inexpressible joy – seemed to be trivial enough. Immediately she had recovered consciousness she sate up, and began to say a few words – though with some difficulty; and indeed, so brave was she, and so determined to do something to relieve the obvious anxiety of these good friends of hers, that when at length they reached the landing-stage and got ashore she declared that she was quite recovered, that she could walk to the hotel as well as any of them, that she had never felt better in her born days. Nay, she made a joke of the whole matter, and of her heavy skirts, and of the possible contents of Jack Huysen's coat-pockets; and when they did reach the hotel, and when she had changed her wet garments, she came down again looking perfectly well – if a little bit tired.
It was not until the afternoon that she began to complain of shiverings; and then again, when dinner time arrived, Mrs. Lalor came down with the message that Carry had a slight headache, and would rather remain in her room. Next morning, too, she thought she would rather not get up; she had a slight cough, and her breathing was difficult; she had most relief when she lay quite still.
'What does this mean, Tom?' Jack Huysen said – and as if he feared the answer.
'I hope it means nothing at all,' was the reply; but the young Doctor looked grave, and moved away, as if he did not wish to have any further talking.
However, there was no perceptible change for the worse that day; and Miss Carry, when she could speak at all, said that she was doing very well, and implored them to go away on their usual excursions, and leave her to herself. A servant might sit outside in the passage, she said; if she wanted her, she could ring. Of course, this only sufficed to set Emma Kerfoot into a fit of weeping and sobbing – that Carry should think them capable of any such heartlessness.
But on the following morning matters were much more serious. She could hardly speak at all; and when she did manage to utter a few panting words she said it was a pain in her chest that was troubling her – not much; no, no, not much, she said; she wished they would all go away and amuse themselves; the pain would leave; she would be all right by and by.
'Jack, look here,' said the young Doctor, when they were together; 'I'm afraid this is pneumonia – and a sharp attack too.'
'Is it dangerous?' Huysen said quickly, and with rather a pale face.
The answer to this was another question;
'She left her mother at home, didn't she?'
'Yes,' said he breathlessly. 'Do you want to send for her? But that would be no use. Her mother could not travel just now; she's too much of an invalid; why, it was she who sent Carry away on this holiday.'
'Her father, then?'
'Why, yes, he's at home just now. Shall I telegraph for him?'
'No – not yet – I don't want to frighten her. We'll see in the morning.'
But long before the morning came they discovered how things were going with her. Late that night Mrs. Lalor, who had undertaken to sit up till her sister should come to relieve her, stole noiselessly along to the room of the latter and woke her.
'Em, darling, who is Ronald?' she whispered.
'Ronald? I don't know,' was the answer – for she was still somewhat confused.
'Carry is asking that one Ronald should be sent for – do come and see her, Em – I think she's wandering a little – she says there's never any luck in the boat except when Ronald is in it – I don't understand it at all – '
'But I do – I do now,' said the girl, as she hastily got up and put a dressing-gown and some wraps around her.
'And you'll have to send for the Doctor at once, Mary – he said he would not be in bed till two. She must be in a fever – that's delirium – if she thinks she is in the Highlands again.'
And delirium it was, though of no violent kind. No, she lay quite placidly; and it was only at times that she uttered a few indistinct words; but those around her now perceived that her brain had mixed up this Lake George with that other Scotch lake they had heard of, and they guessed that it was about salmon-fishing she was thinking when she said that it was Ronald that always brought good luck to the boat.