We had another look at the Winooski River, which we saw first at Burlington, and the day after our visit to Montpelier we followed Wait’s River, which ought to have a prettier name, from its infancy, in the shape of a tiny crack on a hillside, through its gradual growth to a rarely beautiful stream, and its final plunge into the Connecticut. We forgot the rain in studying the life of a river.
In one little hotel the dining-room was like a green-house; plants in every corner, in the windows, on the top of the stove, and in seven chairs. The air was redolent of tuberoses instead of fried meats, and we were reminded of the wish expressed by a friend in the Newport package of letters, that we might live on perfumes.
At another hotel in Vermont we did not at first quite like the clerk, and we think he was not favorably impressed with us, for he conducted us past several pleasant unoccupied rooms, through a narrow passage way to a small back room with one gas jet over the wash-stand. We accepted the quarters without comment, except asking to have some garments removed, as we do not follow Dr. Mary Walker’s style of dress. We then improved our appearance so far as possible and went to supper. When we came out of the dining-room, we very politely asked the clerk if he could give us a room with better light, as we had some writing to do. He looked at us a moment and then said he would see what he could do. We followed him by all these rooms, which would have been perfectly satisfactory, until, in another part of the house, he ushered us into what must be the bridal suite—an elegantly furnished apartment, with dressing-room and bath, a chandelier, piano, sofa and every luxury. We expressed not the least surprise, but quietly thanked him, saying, “This is much more like.”
We stayed over a half-day at one place, to rest Jerry, and as we were sitting with our books under a tree in the yard, a traveling doctor, who was staying at the same house, came rather abruptly upon us, asking many questions. We do not know his name or his “hame,” nor does he know nearly as much of us as he would if our civil answers had contained more information. Evidently he was leading up to something, and after he had tried to find out whether we were married or single, where we lived, what we should do if we were attacked on the road, or if a wheel should get “set,” as his did the other day, etc., etc., etc., out it came: “Well, what do you take with you for medicine?” The “nothing but mind-cure,” which spoke itself as quick as thought, was a cruel blow, and too much for his patience. The hasty gesture which waived the whole subject and a gruff “you ought to have something” was followed by the opportune dinner bell, and we never saw him more. He fasted until we were off.
As we journeyed south we found we should be just in time to take in the last Sunday of the grove meeting at Weirs, and we thought Lake Champlain, the St. Lawrence River, Lake Memphremagog and Lake Winnipiseogee would make an interesting water outline for our trip. This little plan was, however, delightfully frustrated, for as we drove along Saturday morning on our way to Plymouth, we saw our Great Barrington friend sitting at the window of her New Hampshire home, and in less than five minutes Jerry was in the barn and we were captured for a Sunday conference at Quincy. There was only one thing to regret, the delay in getting to Plymouth for our mail, and it was suggested one of us might go down on a train between five and six, and there would be just time to go to the post office before the return train. There was a terrific thunder shower early in the afternoon, but it had passed, and so we decided to go, although we confess it did seem more of an undertaking than the trip to Canada. Our courage nearly failed when we stood on the platform of the little station and saw, as we looked up the valley, that another shower was coming and seemed likely to burst in fury upon us before we could get on board the train. We should have given it up, but while waiting we had discovered another Mayflower relative going farther south, and we faced it together. Repentance came in earnest when the conductor said there would not be time to go to the post office. Being in the habit of reckoning time by the fractions of minutes, we took out our watch and asked for time-table figures; but do our best we could not extort from him the exact time the train was due to return. We kept ahead of the shower the six or seven miles to Plymouth, and before we got to the station he came to say that by getting off at the crossing, and going up a back street, there might be time. A young man got off at the same place, and said, as we hastened up the street, “the shower will get there before you do!” We distanced the elements, however, but imagine our dismay at sight of the delivery window closed. It was an urgent case, and we ventured to tap on the glass. No answer, and we tapped again, trembling with the double fear of the liberty taken, and of losing the train. A young man with a pleasant face—how fortunate it was not the deaf old man we once battled with for our mail, for taps would have been wasted on him—lifted the window a crack, and with overwhelming thanks we took the letters. By this time the office was full of people who had sought shelter from the shower, which had got there in dreadful fury. Water-proof and umbrella were about as much protection as they would be in the ocean. Like a maniac, we ran through the streets, and smiled audibly as we waded rubberless, to the station under the Pemigewasset House. If we had dropped right out of the clouds upon that platform, alive with men, we should not have been received with more open-eyed amazement. Out of breath and drenched, we asked if the train had gone to Quincy. “No, and I guess it won’t yet awhile, if it rains like this!” Washouts and probable detentions danced through our mind, as the lightning flashed and the thunder roared as if the end had come. In course of time it came out that the “return” train was a freight, which would start after two other trains had gone. The conductor came along and said, “It is too bad, but the office will be closed now.” “Oh, I have been, and have my letters too.”
The freight “time” was announced, and the car was reached by a jump down three feet from the platform into water as many inches deep, and a climb on the other side. Every face was strange but one, that of the “drummer” who breakfasted at our table that morning, and who liked the little hotel so much that he was going back to spend Sunday, as we were informed by the waitress. We do not think he mistrusted that the bedraggled passenger was one of the carriage tourists. We wrung out the dress skirt, hung up the waterproof to drain, and then were ready to enjoy the luxury,—the caboose. When we reached Quincy the sun was setting in bright clouds, as if it had never heard of rain.
The prodigal himself was not more gladly welcomed. Our outer self was hung up to dry, and in borrowed plumage we spent a very social evening, with the many friends who had come to us by mail, through tribulation, to swell the company.
We went to Vermont to begin our journey, and we may as well end it in New Hampshire. We must tell you first, however, that this journey has opened the way for many trips that have seemed among the impossible, but which we now hope to enjoy before Jerry is overtaken by old age or the phaeton shares the fate of the proverbial chaise.
CHAPTER XI.
OUTINGS IN MASSACHUSETTS.