“YOUNG LOCHINVAR HAS COME OUT OF THE WEST.”
There was an expression of sullen discontent upon the handsome features of Mr. Harold Vreeland (gentleman unattached), as the inbound Hudson River train dashed along under the castled cliffs of Rhinebeck.
The afternoon was fair—the river of all rivers glittered gaily in the sun, and a dreamy peace rested on field and stream. But, the peace of this June afternoon of ’95 entered not into the young wayfarer’s soul.
The five years which the traveler from nowhere in particular had thrown away in the far wilds of the sporadic West had not yet robbed his chiseled features of the good looks which he had borne away from old Nassau.
And, though his glittering blue eye had been trained to a habitual impassiveness by much frontier poker, he had always abjured that Rocky Mountain whisky which “biteth like an adder.”
As he restlessly sought the smoking-car, after a vain struggle with the all too-evident immorality of a saucy French novel, several quickly thrilled spinsters followed his retreating form with warm glances of furtive admiration and half-suppressed sighs.
Vreeland’s stalwart figure was clearly reminiscent of well-played football and long straining at the oar. His well-set head was bravely carried, his eye was searching and even audaciously daring in its social explorations.
At twenty-seven he had not lost the fascination of his soft and perfectly modulated voice nor the winning insinuation of his too frequent smile. The chin was far too softly molded for an ascetic, and an expression of lurking insincerity flickered in the pleasure-loving curves of his handsome mouth.
But, shapely and glowing with manly vigor, he was a very “proper man-at-arms” in the battle of life, his sweeping cavalry mustache lending an air of decision to his sun-burned features.
Though he was perfectly dressed up to the memories of his never-forgotten “varsity” grade, the “wanderjahre” had given to him a little of that easy swing which is the gift of wandering on boundless prairies, long nights spent al fresco under the glittering dome of stars, and a close commune with the sighing pines of the West.