CHAPTER XII—TROUT FISHING.
RRIVING at the lake by a circuitous path, they found themselves on the banks of a lovely sheet of water, several hundred feet wide and perhaps a mile in length. The distinct reflection of the foliage, trees and mountains, which rose several hundred feet on the opposite side, made a double picture of enchanting loveliness.
“We have been waiting for you,” said Bertha Allen, in a flute-like voice. She was a cooing sort of a young lady, with a dainty lisp, which she evidently regarded as becoming. She embraced Louise and gave her one of her sweetest kisses, and in a half sotto voice lisped, “how beautiful you look to-day!”
Vance was presented, and Bertha honored him with one of her stateliest bows. There was no alternative, as Boast extended his hand and observed that he had met Mr. Gilder before, but to accept the situation and make the best of it.
Vance saw in Bertha Allen a young lady of about five and twenty, rather tall and slender, with a wasp-like waist. She had a small head and face, with heavy braids of dark brown hair, which corresponded with her long eyelashes of a dark hue. Her eyes never looked straight at anyone, but she continually practiced a bewitching habit of shy observation, evidently considering it fascinating. Her mouth was small, and a noticeable dimple was in her chin. There was a delicate pink upon her cheeks, which Vance noticed as the day wore on, did not come and go, but remained as one of her permanent features. There was a poetry in her movements, however, which admirably fitted her slow, soft tone of lisping-speech. Her slender form was robed in a pretty costume of pink, with black lace and ribbons. It was a costume of frills and laces, coquetishly arranged, making her graceful figure more symmetrical in arrangement. There were puffings here and there, which concealed defects, if any existed, and revealed her womanly charms to the best advantage. She talked a good deal, and called Louise her own “dear darling.” Here every sentence was a lisp, and she told Cousin Arthur he was “simply horrid to kill the poor worms in baiting the hooks.”
Vance noticed that Roast was ready at any time to neglect his stylish cousin to engage in conversation with Louise. He found himself interpreting Bertha Allen’s attempts to entertain and interest him, as the act of an accomplice, to enable Boast to have a tete-a-tete with Louise. There was consolation, however, in the fact that he did not believe Louise favored Arthur Boast’s attentions.
“How Arthur and Louise are enjoying themselves!” lisped Bertha Allen, in a sweet, confiding way, to Vance.
“Do you think their enjoyment is superior to ours?” asked Vance.
“No more than mine,” she replied demurely, “but possibly more than yours.” This was followed by a silvery little laugh.
“I fear I am not very entertaining,” said Vance.
"On the contrary, Mr. Gilder,” replied Bertha, “I think you are a very charming companion. Are you from Virginia?” she asked.
“No; my people were from Virginia. I was born and reared in New York City.”
“The Bonifields are Virginians. They seem to think,” continued Bertha, “that all good people come from Virginia or Baltimore. I sometimes wish I had been born in Virginia.”
"I never noticed that peculiarity,” replied Vance, “in either Colonel Bonifield or his daughter.”
“Oh, I don’t mean, Mr. Gilder, they are affected. Don’t you think I am horrid to go on talking this way to you? But really, is not Louise one of the sweetest little darlings in the world?”
Vance was bored, but turning toward Bertha Allen and smiling at her pretty up-turned face, replied:
“You ask me so many questions, Miss Allen, that I do not know which to answer first.”
She looked archly at Vance, and said: “Do not answer either of them, for I know I would be dissatisfied with your reply. Is not that a beautiful botanical specimen? Really, Mr. Gilder,” she continued, “I sometimes do not know what I am saying. I know you will think me awfully stupid.”
The well modulated and lisping voice of Bertha Allen possessed a charm of its own, and Vance found himself interested in studying the difference between the sweet, simple, unaffected Louise, and the affected, calculating Miss Allen.
“Don’t you think, Mr. Gilder, that Louise has great individuality?”
“I believe her to be a most exemplary young lady,” replied Vance, “and possessed of a good mind.”
“Oh, you think that, do you?” said Bertha, lisping and laughing like the silvery tones of a flute. “You are not the only one, Mr. Gilder, that thinks that way. I mean Cousin Arthur. Oh, he’s awfully smitten.”
“Indeed!” replied Vance.
“What a beautiful picture,” said Bertha presently. “The waters mirror the trees and the mountains so distinctly. Let us look over the bank at our own reflections.”
“Permit me to hold your hand,” said Vance, “and I will prevent your falling. There—can you see yourself?”
“Oh, just splendidly!” lisped Bertha, “it is clear as a French plate mirror. Shall I support you, Mr. Gilder, while you look?”
“No, thank you,” replied Vance, “I am not fond of looking at homeliness. I would rather look at you.”
“Oh, Mr. Gilder, you men are such flatterers! I thought better things of you.”
“And why of me?” asked Vance, teasingly.
“Louise has spoken of you so many’ times,” she replied, “and in such flattering terms, that I was very anxious to meet you. Indeed, I had quite made up my mind that you were different from other men. Let us turn down this way, Mr. Gilder. Let me see—what was I saying? I thought you must be different; but I guess men are all about alike.”
“I feel highly honored,” replied Vance, “to think that Miss Bonifield should have spoken of me at all.”
Bertha stopped and looked at Vance for a moment in silence, and then said:
“Men are so conceited. There is no sentiment, I assure you, in Louise.”
“Your frankness is quite charming, Miss Allen.”
“Oh, do you think so?” said Bertha, with a sweet lisp.
“Yes: and as to Miss Bonifield, I beg to differ from you. She certainly possesses in a high degree that sentiment peculiar to the children of nature. She loves all that is natural, and in the tenderness of her heart, pities the assumed.”
"How unfortunate, Mr. Gilder,” said Bertha, “that love is not reciprocal.”
Before Vance could reply, Louise called to them and soon after she and Boast came up, declaring the day had been a great success. Arthur and Vance divided the catch equally, and soon with their baskets swinging from their shoulders, they started for home. Bertha was profuse in her invitations to Mr. Gilder to call, and he promised to do so. He was quite glad, however, when they finally separated and he had Louise all to himself.
“I hope you have enjoyed the day as much as you anticipated, Mr. Gilder,” said Louise.
“If I am anything,” replied Vance, “I am frank; and therefore confess I would have enjoyed it far more without Boast and his pretty cousin.”
“I knew you would think her pretty,” said Louise; “everyone does.”
“And do you think she is pretty?” asked Vance.
“Yes, indeed,” replied Louise, “I have seen no one, even in your great city of New York, half so handsome as Bertha.”
“You are certainly generous in your compliments,” said Vance.
“Bertha has such a sweet way about her, and she always makes one feel so at his ease.”
Before Vance had time to reply, Colonel Bonifield waved his pipe and blew out a cloud of smoke as an act of welcome to the returning fishermen. Vance displayed his long string of speckled beauties, and the Colonel assured him they had made a great success. “I have been thinkin’ of yo’ all day,” he continued, “and had half a mind, upon my honor I did, suh, to come oveh and help yo’ out.” Soon after. Vance took leave of the Bonifields, and started for the hotel. His respect for generous-hearted Louise was increasing. “Yes,” said Vance to himself, “she is a child of nature. She does not know how to dissemble, and her heart is too pure to be resentful.” His pleasant reverie was broken by encountering Boast at the hotel, who had arrived a little before him.
His shoes had been exchanged for polished ones, yet he complained about his negligee appearance, and stooped to brush the least speck of dust or cigar ashes that might have found lodgment on his trousers or coat sleeves, and kept assuring Vance that he knew he “looked rougher than a miner.”
As a matter of fact, he was spotlessly at-attired, as was his custom. Even in his office at Waterville, he seemed backward about doing any business, for fear of soiling his hands in ink, or getting his desk out of order. Stepping into the bar-room of the hotel, they found seats near an open door, and Vance determined to gain as much information as he could from what Boast might have to say. As they seated themselves, Vance said:
“I met Mr. Grim this morning.”
“Oh. did you?” replied Boast. “There is a man,” he continued, “that ought to be hung. He’s a robber!”
“A robber?” asked Vance.
“Yes. Fifteen years ago,” continued Boast, “my father was the richest man in this part of Idaho. He was engaged then as now in the cattle and horse ranching business. He owns a very large ranch three miles from here down the valley. Grim came to the mining camp without a dollar in his pocket and worked by the day. An opportunity presented itself for him to steal from his associates. He not only stole everything in sight, but by fraud and misrepresentation secured possession of the Peacock.
“He is an ignorant old boor.
“Ten years ago he married my aunt, the widow Allen, who is fully fifteen years his senior. He wanted a position in society and a home. My aunt is a stickler on all that’s polite, but notwithstanding her training and all of old Grim’s wealth, she has been unable to gild him over with even an appearance of culture, learning or decency. I never call at his house. They own perhaps the finest residence in the state of Idaho. If you will talk with Rufus Grim half an hour, it will be a wonder if he does not tell you that I am the biggest scoundrel outside the penitentiary; and it is all because my cousin Bertha is my friend. Sometimes I think he is afraid I will marry her. I believe he is in love with Bertha himself, and is only waiting for my aunt to die. It may be unwise for me to talk so plainly, Mr. Gilder, but when I think of that old reprobate, I become desperate.”
There was certainly no half insinuation in this statement, but rather a fiendish denunciation of the rich miner.
“I think,” said Boast, “we’d better have something to drink. I have a bottle in my pocket, but you are not very sociable, and I don’t presume you will drink with me.”
“No,” said Vance, “I am just as much obliged, but I do not feel the need of any stimulant this evening.”
"I have abstained all day,” said Boast, “out of respect for the ladies.” His voice began to sound piping, and his restless eyes no longer looked squarely at Vance, but confined themselves to side-long glances, as if he were trying to discover what his feelings were toward his cousin and Miss Louise. “They are pretty fair specimens, eh, for the mountains? The ladies, I mean; the ladies.”
Vance answered in the affirmative.
“My cousin is terribly taken with you, Mr. Gilder; if she was not my cousin I would feel jealous of you.” As Vance made no reply, Boast continued: “I know I am going down hill at a pretty rapid rate, all on account of this red liquor.” Tipping up the bottle, he took a swallow, coughed immoderately afterward, and made wry faces, as if he were mentally damning all the “red liquor” to perdition.
“There’s only one thing that will ever save Bertha Allen, and that is for old Grim to die. My aunt would inherit the wealth, and of course, in that event, Bertha would be an heiress. At present, she is entirely dependent upon his generosity. I understand,” continued Boast, “Colonel Bonifield has about reached the 300 foot level. If I have one hope greater than another, it is that he will strike it ten times richer than old Grim ever did. In that event,” he continued, while he furtively glanced at Vance, “there will be another heiress in Gold Bluff.”
That night, after Vance found the seclusion of his room, he worked far into the early hours of morning, finishing a letter to the Banner, a letter full of decided opinions.