Part 17 (1/2)
Mountains seemed to reach toward each other across the s.h.i.+ning river, and then to open out into a long corridor, dark walled and paved with silver. There was a lake with an island and a pavilion: Iona Island--too beautiful to pa.s.s as we did pa.s.s; a bridge over a steep rocky gorge, and a river-glimpse mysterious as the backgrounds of old Italian pictures.
But we turned away from it into woods--deep forests of cedars fragrant as smoking incense, and at last--rather late because of side wanderings--we came to Highland Falls.
I remember your telling me that your first love was a West Point cadet, who proposed to you on your sixteenth birthday in ”Flirtation Walk.”
Lucky you! But this was my first glimpse of the place as we drove through gates from Highland Falls into the Government Reservation. We meant to arrive, shed the dust at our hotel, and then saunter forth for dress parade, but instead of that we had to see the great sight of the day sitting in our motors. The poor Hippopotamus did look antediluvian among all the smart cars and carriages a.s.sembled! But the rest of us weren't so bad, even after a day's run, and, anyhow, we had no time to think of ourselves, there was too much else to think of.
I wonder if the place has changed much since that sixteenth birthday of my Mercedes? Of course it's only a _very_ few years ago! Not being Aunt Mary, I won't make any remark about the number. But if you haven't quite forgotten that first love, doesn't it make your heart beat to think of those great terraced, castellated buildings of gray stone ma.s.sed against the cliffsides above the sparkling river, almost Walhalla-like in grandeur, of the gracious elms and the prim soldierly barracks draped with ivy, of the vast parade ground and the wonderful grouping of mountains whose shapes lie reflected far down under the crystal water, Cro' Nest, haunted by the ”Culprit Fay,” and Storm King; and little Const.i.tution Island which tried its best to stop the British s.h.i.+ps.
I wish a cadet had fallen in love with me! I wish one would do it now! I adored them all as I sat in the motor watching the ranks of white-clad figures moving to music and looking, in the late suns.h.i.+ne against their green background, like hundreds of marble statues come alive. When they stood to ”attention” they were like snow men. Oh, and what music it was, to which they moved! Jack said there couldn't be a scene of its kind half so fine and picturesque anywhere else in the world. I felt quite proud to have been born an American as I looked at it, and so, judging from their expressions, did crowds of pretty girls who gazed adoringly at all those soldiers in the making. It worried me a little, just when the music was at its n.o.blest, that a man in a motor _char-a-bancs_ or something huge and touristy should be telling his victims how West Point had been ”the key to the Hudson,” and what a fatal blow would have been dealt to hopes of independence if Benedict Arnold could have handed it over to the British. I thought he glared at Jack as he delivered this lecture, guessing perhaps by the shape of his particularly nice nose that he's a Britisher. But just then the sunset gun was fired, echoing again and again among the mountains. All the female victims squeaked and stopped their ears, and the man jumped, so that Jack was saved.
You, who have happy memories of Flirtation Walk, will pity Pat when I tell you that her sensitive conscience made her consent to walk there with Ed Caspian after dinner, Jack and Peter Storm and I following at a respectful distance. Peter could hardly bear it. I suppose the moonlight on the water glinting far under the high cliff walk and the bitter-sweet scent of the ferns went to his head. He forgot that we'd all planned together this way of disgusting Pat with what she thought her duty--throwing her so constantly with Caspian that she'd find out all his faults. But when Peter was leading up to some excuse for joining the pair in front, Jack reminded him that if ever the medicine could be beneficial to the poor little patient it would be in such a scene, and on such a night made for love and happiness.
Mrs. Shuster and Larry and Idonia were walking, too. I believe Larry had intended to take Idonia alone, having advised Lily to rest, but Lily pa.s.sionately refused to rest. Fancy her on Flirtation Walk!
West Point is a _witching_ place to spend a night in, even though a dance--or a ”hop,” or whatever they call it--is going on, and _you're_ not invited!
Next morning, after lingering again at Battle Point to drink in as lovely a view as the world can give, we dashed off once more. It was just the hour of ”Guard mount,” and the cadets looked too fascinating.
The girls gazed at them as if they were the heroes of a hundred battles, and so, in a way, they were and are: at least, as West Pointers they're heirs to those who fought a hundred battles. Jack read in some book that out of sixty battles in the Civil War fifty-six had for commanders men from West Point--and not all on one side! Of course, they fought in the old Mexican War as well, for West Point has been a training school ever since 1794. That seems a long time in America!
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE HUDSON RIVER ”When we came into sudden sight of the river there was a magical effect: a veil of silver mist, with boats big and little moving behind it, like white swans”]
We had a gorgeous run to Tuxedo--a road that might make Europe jealous--among mountains of the Catskill family, too important and beautiful, I thought, to dismiss as foothills. What a pity Rip Van Winkle spent all his twenty years asleep in one place! _I_ should have walked in my sleep, and changed my bed from mountain to mountain every night or so. Oh, I forgot to tell you, at West Point I heard a new legend of the Catskills. At least, it's so old that it's as good as new.
Once when the Indians were just comfortably beginning to feel at home after one of those interrupting Ice Ages, there lived a fearful giant with a wife and children as terrible as himself. The only things they cared to eat were Indian babies; and after this horrid family had been vainly admonished for their ways by the Great Spirit they were suddenly, in the midst of a meal, turned into stone. Being so big, they became mountains, and as some tried to run away and escape the others' fate, they grouped themselves in a chain along the riverside. I don't quite believe this story, though! I'd rather think that a _good_ family of giants asked the Great Spirit to let them become beautiful mountains when they died, and so be remembered lovingly forever, while the world lasts.
The Ramapo Valley is a dream of loveliness all the way, with its lakes like wide-open blue eyes of dryads, and its laced silver ribbon of river. Larry has a friend at court--I mean Tuxedo Park; so he was again useful as well as ornamental--a rare thing for him! We sailed in at the queer gates as confidently as if we owned a hundred acres of land and a lake inside the magic circle. Only the Hippopotamus balked. He had tire trouble just inside the entrance to Paradise; but I think he could have crawled in if Tom, d.i.c.k, and Harry had urged him a little. They, poor boys, are under a cloud since Pat's engagement was announced, and are only going on as a sort of mute protest against its irrevocability. If it were any one else except Caspian--Peter Storm, for instance--they would bravely retire from the field with congratulations for the victor, but they have a vague idea in their nice heads that Pat isn't happy and may have to be rescued when the time comes, but they must have felt that nothing so violent could happen in a place as ”exclusive” as Tuxedo Park. By the way, don't you hate the expression ”exclusive” in connection with society? I do think it quite navely sn.o.bbish, not to say un-Christian! How much more heart-warming to speak of an _in_clusive place or entertainment! However, we humans haven't mounted to that height yet; and ”exclusive” being not only the word but the feeling at Tuxedo, the Boys felt themselves and the Hippopotamus unsuited to the occasion. Consequently they broke down outside the sacred precincts, and we glided past the gray-stone, red-gabled portals while they grouped round a tire to hide the fact that it was flat.
We spent the morning with Larry's friend for our guide, seeing one grand private place after another. His own is almost the grandest of all, and is on a lake fringed with feathery trees which weave a gold-green network across the blue. The golf course is perfectly beautiful, and made me for the first time want to learn. I never have, because it seems to me a middle-aged, pottering game; and I've always so hated staying at country houses with golf lovers who talk of nothing else. Anyhow, I don't want to have a golf complexion until I'm _forced_ to be over twenty-six.
[Ill.u.s.tration: map]*
The gardens of the Tuxedo Park dwellers are really bits of Eden, although you would have to bite a bit out of the apple before you could be sophisticated enough to make them grow like that. We lunched with Larry's friend, and should have enjoyed the feast immensely if Ed Caspian hadn't put on multimillionaire airs, and snubbed Peter Storm at the table. Pat turned crimson, and I hoped that good might come out of evil--that she might break off with the rude wretch as a punishment.
Peter behaved so well that he deserved such a reward. Jack and I were proud of him! But the engagement survived the earthquake, as an ugly house of ”reinforced” cement will stand when medieval castles fall. I found out afterward why, and I'll tell you presently. As for Mrs.
Shuster, I was rather sorry for her. She sat opposite Larry and beside her incarnate Peace Tract, Larry being at his hostess's left hand with Idonia Goodrich on his other side. The hostess is a beauty, so is Idonia, so you may well imagine that Larry would have forgotten Lily's existence if she hadn't frequently reminded him of it by screaming his Christian name across banks of pansies and orchids. J. and I hoped that jerry-built betrothal might crumble in consequence, as Larry's fastidiousness is his most prominent feature. But no! it also stood; and I will tell you the reason when I tell you about Pat.
Things were going on normally--and hatefully--when we bade Tuxedo Park farewell, and found the Boys eating sausages and drinking ginger-beer.
We sailed about seeing scenery for part of the afternoon--scenery of the Ramapo Valley and round Suffern, I mean--and falling more and more in love with the Ramapo River. It has cataracts and wide-open s.p.a.ces; secret, hidden mysteries; Revolution history, and enough beauty and charm of every sort to suffice three rivers instead of one. But we'd set our hearts on spending the night at the Delaware Water Gap, so we had to rush on in that irritating way which becomes a habit hard to break. It's an obsession with even the least offensive motorists--like Jack and me!
There can't be _sweeter_ country anywhere than this, which I'm trying to lure you to come and see when you and Monty can take your second honeymoon, as we are doing; but it has no look of being _undiscovered_ like some we saw the day before. Rich people, but luckily people of taste, know all about that cup of crystal, Pompton Lake, the sweet singing Wanaqua River, and lovely Pequannock Park. They have made homes for themselves, quite wonderful in beauty, and never pretentious; never a staring house or grotesquely expensive gates to shock the dear little childlike mountains and shady river. Along the winding roads, where trees trailed shadows like dragging ma.s.ses of torn Spanish lace, there were fine stone walls draped with woodbine, and among the folding hills were orchards like great flower-beds, surrounding the most lovable and livable houses. Every five minutes we would come to a picture which might have been ”composed” by an artist: a pond reflecting a quaint little church with two guardian grandfather trees, and a funny old ”gig”
with a yellow horse, waiting for some one we should never see; an ancient white house born to make a background for cedars far more ancient; a lake with s.h.i.+ning surface half hidden under red water-weeds like coral necklaces broken and scattered on a silver salver. Oh, and I mustn't forget the funny fire-alarms in front of isolated houses! A big thing like a split iron ring with a hammer to strike it. The ring vibrates better if it's split; and you could see nothing quainter in Holland. There was a very odd monument, too, which I loved. I think it was in the nice, wide-streeted village of Pompton. It might have been a t.i.tan helmet smashed by a bomb, and I should have loved to stay and find out all about it!
We'd come into northern New Jersey at Oakland, so no wonder we saw splendid cedars, for New Jersey has lots of cedars and heaps of history, and is proud of both. I hadn't realized that it would be such a beautiful state of forest-clad hills, lakes and rivers that mingle so you can't tell where they begin or end, and villages walled by woods and tied together by silver ribbons of river or brook. This is the northern part I'm talking about; the south is flat, where it becomes seacoast.
Along bowery roads to Stockholm, Franklin, Lafayette we pa.s.sed (later in the year the goldenrod must be like a sunburst there!), and motors, big and little, weave their way democratically among lazy-looking, old-fas.h.i.+oned chaises and slender ”buggies.” The ”going” was always good, and there was some delicious ”coasting” down one long, long hill almost like a mountainside. How Jack loved the cozy farmhouses and red barns which were so becoming to the black and white cattle grazing in the valleys; and the slender waving corn like fairy dancers in jewelled head-dresses! Some of the barns were so big, the houses they belonged to reminded him of little mothers who had produced giant children. The homelike effect of all these gentle hills and flowery valleys and floating blue mist wreaths appealed curiously to the heart, like minor music; yet there were grand things, too: here and there a n.o.ble limestone cliff; a gloomy wood of hemlocks where it seemed _anything_ might happen; a mossy dark ravine, as at Branchville; and all the large lakes or ”ponds,” so unexpected each time when you come in sight of them.
After a dear little town called Layton (with a river singing it to sleep) we turned off to the right for Dingman's Ferry, and then felt we were really on the way to the Delaware Water Gap. We had come to the Delaware River! From the top of a very high hill we saw it--the river, I mean; and, oh, but it looked worthy of its guardian mountains! Winding and wonderful it was in beauty as we dropped into its deep, intimate valley, down the tremendous slope. We were so excited we hardly knew the road was bad! And after all there was no old ferry answering to the name of ”Dingman,” but a wide bridge in its place. On the other side was Pennsylvania, with a barred gate to keep you out of it until you had handed over forty cents to a wee boy who ”held us up” and firmly said, ”You've got to pay!” He lived in a pet of a house, where I should love to live, myself (with Jack), and the entrance to the neighbour state was so fine as to seem dramatic.
The smooth tarred road was a relief, too, after a few hard b.u.mps: a lovely tree-shadowed road past a big yellow-painted hotel; past a delightful village high above the river bed, where a great forest made a dark, perfumed screen between our eyes and the bright glitter of water. So we dipped down by and by to a house with a garden full of flowers, and a forest of its own with the river sparkling through it.