The Hindu adept sometimes suspends before the eyes of his subject a bright ball of carnelian or crystal, in the steady contemplation of which the sensitive swims off into the realms of subjectivity—that mysterious bourn from whence no traveler brings anything back. J. Bedford Cornish was Mr. Elkins’s glittering ball; his psychic subject was the world in general and Lattimore in particular. Scientific principles, confirmed by experience, led us to the conclusion that the attitude of fixed contemplation carried with it some nervous strain, ought to be of limited duration, and hence that Mr. Cornish should remove from our midst the glittering mystery of his presence, lest familiarity should breed contempt. So in about ten days he went away, giving to the Herald a parting interview, in which he expressed unbounded delight with Lattimore, and hinted that he might return for a longer stay. Editorially, the Herald expressed the hope that this characteristically veiled allusion to a longer sojourn might mean that Mr. Cornish had some idea of becoming a citizen of Lattimore. This would denote, the editorial continued, that men like Mr. Cornish, accustomed to the mighty world-pulse of New York, could find objects of pursuit equally worthy in Lattimore.
“Which is mixed metaphor,” Mr. Giddings admitted in confidence; “but,” he continued, “if metaphors, like drinks, happen to be more potent mixed, the Herald proposes to mix ’em.”
All these things consumed time, and still our life was one devoted to business exclusively. At last Mr. Elkins himself, urged, I feel sure, by Antonia Hinckley, gave evidence of weariness.
“Al,” said he one day, “don’t you think it’s about time to go ashore for a carouse?”
“Unless something in the way of a let-up comes soon,” said I, “the position of lieutenant, or first mate, or whatever my job is piratically termed, will become vacant. The pace is pretty rapid. Last night I dreamed that the new Hotel Elkins was founded on my chest; and I have had troubles enough of the same kind before to show me that my nervous system is slowly ravelling out.”
“I have arrangements made, in my mind, for a sort of al fresco function, to come off about the time Cornish gets back with our London visitor,” he replied, “which ought to knit up the ravelled sleeve better than new. I’m going to dedicate Lynhurst Park to the nymphs and deities of sport—which wrinkled care derides.”
“I hadn’t heard of Lynhurst Park,” I was forced to say. “I’m curious to know, first, who named it, and, second, where it is.”
“Didn’t I show you those blueprints?” he asked. “An oversight I assure you. As for the scheme, you suggested it yourself that night we first drove out to Trescott’s. Don’t you remember saying something about ‘breathing space for the populace’? Well, I had the surveys made at once; contracted for the land, all but what Bill owns of it, which we’ll have to get later; and had a landscapist out from Chicago to direct us as to what we ought to admire in improving the place. As for the name, I’m indebted to kind nature, which planted the valley in basswood, and to Josie, who contributed the philological knowledge and the taste. That’s the street-car line,” said he, unrolling an elaborate plat and pointing. “We may throw it over to the west to develop section seven, if we close for it. Otherwise, that line is the very thing.”
Our street-railway franchise had been granted by the Lattimore city council—they would have granted the public square, had we asked for it in the potent name of “progress”—and Cornish was even now making arrangements for placing our bonds. The impossible of less than a year ago was now included in the next season’s program, as an inconsiderable feature of a great project for a street-railway system, and the “development” of hundreds of acres of land.
The place so to be named Lynhurst Park was most agreeably reached by a walk up Brushy Creek from Lattimore. Such a stroll took one into the gorge, where the rocks shelved toward each other, until their crowning fringes of cedar almost interlocked, like the eyelashes of drowsiness. Down there in the twilight one felt a sense of being defrauded, in contemplation of the fact that the stream was troutless: it was such an ideal place for trout. The quiet and mellow gloom made the gorge a favorite trysting-place, and perhaps the cool-blooded stream-folk had fled from the presence of the more fervid dwellers on the banks. In the crevices of the rocks were the nests of the village pigeons. The combined effects of all these causes was to make this a spot devoted to billing and cooing.