Have I told you that there is a deep ravine on one side of the house? The veranda overhangs it and I often stand and stare down into that wild tangle of fallen trees and rocks and ferns. The sides are broken and steep and under the shade of many trees, straggling up into complete darkness. The torrent is almost dry, but in winter and spring it is broad and noisy and all the ferns are covered and show green and lace-like under the water. It is the outlet of the lake and it goes far down into the valley where it tumbles over a fall into another and wider stream. Up this rocky steep mountain brook, over the cascade, the trout climb in their thirst for the cold springs of the higher lakes. No other fish can make that perilous journey, so Chipmunk is one of the stars of the Adirondacks. The trout have no minnows or other small fish to feed on, and rise to the fly with little coaxing. I am become so learned in mountain lore! But I feel as if I had discovered this wonderful country, and as happy as a poet in the nervous languor of creation.
You remember I wrote you of Mrs. Coward—and, by the way she says she met you at Homburg and in Scotland two years ago—I have concluded that I do not like her quite as well as the others, not because she is insatiable in her desire for admiration and has several times flattered Mr. N. right out of the room and on to the lake—how can men be so weak?—when he is palpably devoted to me and therefore in common decency she should let him alone. Unless she mends her ways I shall turn my batteries on Mr. Carlisle, a dashing young millionaire who distinguished himself in the late war, is a master of hounds, drives a Tally-ho, is a champion at golf, never misses the two deer a season the government permits him to shoot, and is altogether very jolly and charming. I could cut her out if I chose and without flattering the animal either. That is a trick of the mind to cover up the defects of nature.
But what I started to say was that the real reason I dislike her is that I have discovered more of the snob in her than in most of these Americans, aspiring as they are—with the possible exception of Mrs. Laurence. Yesterday morning I “dropped” into Mrs. Grant’s lodge, and while the servant went for Mrs. Coward—Mrs. Grant had a headache—I picked up a framed photograph of a very good-looking young man in the uniform of the United States. I still held it when Mrs. Coward came stepping down the stairs like the duchess in the play, a red poppy in her dark hair, a soft cream-white morning gown clinging to herself and the floor—the morning was chilly. She had a bunch of poppies in her belt and altogether looked rather well.
“Is this your brother?” I asked. “I fancy I see a resemblance.”
“Yes,” she replied, “it is my soldier-brother. He made a brilliant charge at Santiago and I am very proud of him. Sit there, dear Lady Helen, where the light falls full on you. You are so radiant, bathed in sunlight—and you can stand it. I always feel in the presence of poetry—a blue and gold edition of all the poets—when I can sit and look at you like this. Poetry is really elevating, don’t you think so?—I always maintain that, positively. It is like pure air and the rural beauties of the country. But about my brave brother: it is only fondness that makes me proud of him, for there never has been a generation in our family where we have not given at least one soldier to the country. Of course you will appreciate that. Very few American families can say that for seven generations its men have distinguished themselves in the field and added to the honour of the name.”
Her low silken shallow voice paused that I might comment, but I only stared at the portrait—now restored to the table—trying in vain to frame a phrase that would express my awe of the seven generations. Finally, I said desperately:
“He looks—really—as if the entire Spanish army could not terrify him.”
This extravagance served the purpose of diversion. “Nothing could terrify him,” she exclaimed. “He only needs another war to become really famous. I am quite positive our unfortunate acquisitions will let us in for another war before long—the Chinese question—don’t you think so? I think it so delightful that American women are now beginning to take as much interest in politics as English women do. You really have been our superiors in that—as in many other—respects. I heard you discussing the great questions of the day with Mr. Nugent and Mr. Carlisle last night and I quite envied you—I am just beginning, and you seem to have learned politics with your alphabet. I am so glad you have such influence with Mr. Nugent, because I am convinced that he has the making of a statesman in him and that it is his duty to go into high politics. I have always maintained,” she added weightily, “that it is a man’s duty to cultivate his gifts. If he feels an irresistible impulse to write he should do so—or to paint—or to model. Politics are of equal importance to the development of civilisation—the right sort. Do not you agree with me, Lady Helen?”
“I have always maintained that white is white, and that the sun gives light when there are not too many clouds,” I said, firmly. “How wonderfully becoming those poppies are to you. I envy any one who can wear red, it is a colour so full of life, but it does not suit me at all.”
For a second she had looked puzzled, but she is too thorough a woman of the world to hang out her emotions, and she replied with her usual suavity: