«What do you think, Miss Mary?» he said once. «I knew a duffer in New York who claimed to like it in the summer time. Said you could keep cooler there than you could in the woods. Wasn't he an awful silly? I don't think I could breathe on Broadway after the 1st of June.»
«Mamma was thinking of going back week after next,» said Miss Mary with a lovely frown.
«But when you think of it,» said Gaines, «there are lots of jolly places in town in the summer. The roof gardens, you know, and the—er—the roof gardens.»
Deepest blue was the lake that day—the day when they had the mock tournament, and the men rode clumsy farm horses around in a glade in the woods and caught curtain rings on the end of a lance. Such fun!
Cool and dry as the finest wine came the breath of the shadowed forest. The valley below was a vision seen through an opal haze. A white mist from hidden falls blurred the green of a hand's breadth of tree tops half–way down the gorge. Youth made merry hand–in–hand with young summer. Nothing on Broadway like that.
The villagers gathered to see the city folks pursue their mad drollery. The woods rang with the laughter of pixies and naiads and sprites. Gaines caught most of the rings. His was the privilege to crown the queen of the tournament. He was the conquering knight—as far as the rings went. On his arm he wore a white scarf. Compton wore light blue. She had declared her preference for blue, but she wore white that day.
Gaines looked about for the queen to crown her. He heard her merry laugh, as if from the clouds. She had slipped away and climbed Chimney Rock, a little granite bluff, and stood there, a white fairy among the laurels, fifty feet above their heads.
Instantly he and Compton accepted the implied challenge. The bluff was easily mounted at the rear, but the front offered small hold to hand or foot. Each man quickly selected his route and began to climb, A crevice, a bush, a slight projection, a vine or tree branch—all of these were aids that counted in the race. It was all foolery—there was no stake; but there was youth in it, cross reader, and light hearts, and something else that Miss Clay writes so charmingly about.
Gaines gave a great tug at the root of a laurel and pulled himself to Miss Mary's feet. On his arm he carried the wreath of roses; and while the villagers and summer boarders screamed and applauded below he placed it on the queen's brow.
«You are a gallant knight,» said Miss Mary.
«If I could be your true knight always,» began Gaines, but Miss Mary laughed him dumb, for Compton scrambled over the edge of the rock one minute behind time.
What a twilight that was when they drove back to the hotel! The opal of the valley turned slowly to purple, the dark woods framed the lake as a mirror, the tonic air stirred the very soul in one. The first pale stars came out over the mountain tops where yet a faint glow of—
«I beg your pardon, Mr. Gaines,» said Adkins.
The man who believed New York to be the finest summer resort in the world opened his eyes and kicked over the mucilage bottle on his desk.
«I—I believe I was asleep,» he said.
«It's the heat,» said Adkins. «It's something awful in the city these»—
«Nonsense!» said the other. «The city beats the country ten to one in summer. Fools go out tramping in muddy brooks and wear themselves out trying to catch little fish as long as your finger. Stay in town and keep comfortable—that's my idea.»
«Some letters just came,» said Adkins. «I thought you might like to glance at them before you go.»
Let us look over his shoulder and read just a few lines of one of them:
My Dear, Dear Husband: Just received your letter ordering us to stay another
month … Rita's cough is almost gone … Johnny has simply gone wild like a
little Indian … Will be the making of both children … work so hard, and I know
that your business can hardly afford to keep us here so long … best man that ever
… you always pretend that you like the city in summer … trout fishing that you
used to be so fond of … and all to keep us well and happy … come to you if it
were not doing the babies so much good … I stood last evening on Chimney Rock
in exactly the same spot where I was when you put the wreath of roses on my head
… through all the world … when you said you would be my true knight … fifteen
years ago, dear, just think! … have always been that to me … ever and ever,
Mary.
The man who said he thought New York the finest summer resort in the country dropped into a café on his way home and had a glass of beer under an electric fan.
«Wonder what kind of a fly old Harding used,» he said to himself.
THE LAST LEAF
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called «places.» These «places» make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth–century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a «colony.»
At the top of a squatty, three–story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. «Johnsy» was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hote of an Eighth street «Delmonico's,» and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss–grown «places.»
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red–fisted, short–breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window–panes at the blank side of the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.
«She has one chance in—let us say, ten,» he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. «And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining–up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?»