Part 14 (1/2)
Monday morning Mr. Conant went down the mountain road, valise in hand, and met Bill Coombs the stage-driver at the foot of the descent, having made this arrangement to save time and expense. Peter had pa.s.sed most of his two days' vacation in fis.h.i.+ng and had been so successful that he promised Aunt Hannah he would surely return the following Friday. He had instructed Bub to ”take good care of the womenfolks” during his absence, but no thought of danger occurred to any of them. The Morrisons had occupied the Lodge for years and had never been molested in any way. It was a somewhat isolated place but the country people in the neighborhood were thoroughly honest and trustworthy.
”There isn't much for us to do here,” said Mary Louise when the three were left alone, ”except to read, to eat and to sleep--lazy occupations all. I climbed the mountain a little way yesterday, but the view from the Lodge is the best of all and if you leave the road you tear your dress to shreds in the scrub.”
”Well, to read, to eat and to sleep is the very best way to enjoy a vacation,” a.s.serted Aunt Hannah. ”Let us all take it easy and have a good time.”
Irene's box of books which Mr. Conant had purchased for her in New York had been placed in the den, where she could select the volumes as she chose, and the chair-girl found the t.i.tles so alluring that she promised herself many hours of enjoyment while delving among them. They were all old and secondhand--perhaps fourth-hand or fifth-hand--as the lawyer had stated, and the covers were many of them worn to tatters; but ”books is books,” said Irene cheerily, and she believed they would not prove the less interesting in contents because of their condition.
Mostly they were old romances, historical essays and novels, with a sprinkling of fairy tales and books of verse--just the subjects Irene most loved.
”Being exiles, if not regular hermits,” observed the crippled girl, sunning herself on the small porch outside the den, book in hand, ”we may loaf and dream to our hearts' content, and without danger of reproach.”
But not for long were they to remain wholly secluded. On Thursday afternoon they were surprised by a visitor, who suddenly appeared from among the trees that lined the roadway and approached the two girls who were occupying a bench at the edge of the bluff.
The new arrival was a lady of singularly striking appearance, beautiful and in the full flush of womanhood, being perhaps thirty years of age.
She wore a smart walking-suit that fitted her rounded form perfectly, and a small hat with a single feather was jauntily perched upon her well-set head. Hair and eyes, almost black, contrasted finely with the bloom on her cheeks. In her ungloved hand she held a small walking-stick.
Advancing with grace and perfect self-possession, she smiled and nodded to the two young girls and then, as Mary Louise rose to greet her, she said:
”I am your nearest neighbor, and so I have climbed up here to get acquainted. I am Agatha Lord, but of course you do not know me, because I came from Boston, whereas you came from--from--”
”Dorfield,” said Mary Louise. ”Pray be seated. Let me present Irene Macfarlane; and I am Mary Louise Burrows. You are welcome, Miss Lord--or should I say Mrs. Lord?”
”Miss is correct,” replied their visitor with a pleasant laugh, which brought an answering smile to the other faces; ”but you must not address me except as 'Agatha.' For here in the wilderness formalities seem ridiculous. Now let us have a cosy chat together.”
”Won't you come into the Lodge and meet Mrs. Conant?”
”Not just yet. You may imagine how that climb winded me, although they say it is only half a mile. I've taken the Bigbee house, just below you, you know, and I arrived there last night to get a good rest after a rather strenuous social career at home. Ever since Easter I've been on the 'go' every minute and I'm really worn to a frazzle.”
She did not look it, thought Mary Louise. Indeed, she seemed the very picture of health.
”Ah,” said she, fixing her eyes on Irene's book, ”you are very fortunate. The one thing I forgot to bring with me was a supply of books, and there is not a volume--not even a prayer-book--in the Bigbee house. I shall go mad in these solitudes if I cannot read.”
”You may use my library,” promised Irene, sympathizing with Miss Lord's desire. ”Uncle Peter brought a great box of books for me to read and you are welcome to share their delights with me, I believe there are fifty of them, at the least; but many were published ages ago and perhaps,” with a glance at the dainty hands, ”you won't care to handle secondhand books.”
”This ozonic air will fumigate them,” said Agatha Lord carelessly. ”We don't absorb bindings, Irene, but merely the thoughts of the authors.
Books are the one banquet-table whereat we may feast without destroying the delicacy or flavor of the dishes presented. As long as the pages hold together and the type is legible a book is as good as when new.”
”I like pretty bindings, though,” declared Irene, ”for they dress pretty thoughts in fitting attire. An ill-looking book, whatever its contents, resembles the ugly girl whose only redeeming feature is her good heart. To be beautiful without and within must have been the desire of G.o.d in all things.”
Agatha gave her a quick look of comprehension. There was an unconsciously wistful tone in the girl's voice. Her face, though pallid, was lovely to view; her dress was dainty and arranged with care; she earnestly sought to be as beautiful ”without and within” as was possible, yet the twisted limbs forbade her attaining the perfection she craved.
They sat together for an hour in desultory conversation and Agatha Lord certainly interested the two younger girls very much. She was decidedly worldly in much of her gossip but quick to perceive when she infringed the susceptibilities of her less sophisticated companions and was able to turn the subject cleverly to more agreeable channels.
”I've brought my automobile with me,” she said, ”and, unless you have a car of your own, we will take some rides through the valley together. I mean to drive to Millbank every day for mail.”
”There's a car here, which belongs to Mr. Morrison,” replied Mary Louise, ”but as none of us understands driving it we will gladly accept your invitations to ride. Do you drive your own car?”
”Yes, indeed; that is the joy of motoring; and I care for my car, too, because the hired chauffeurs are so stupid. I didn't wish the bother of servants while taking my 'rest cure,' and so my maid and I are all alone at the Bigbee place.”