Chapter VIII The World’s Rest
Indiana lay back with closed eyes. Lord Canning’s deep, well-modulated voice, soothing her alert faculties into a dream of consciousness. He looked at her as he concluded. The innocence of her face, with its closed eyelids, appealed to him. She looked very childish, lying at the foot of the giant rock. Without any comment, she looked out on the lake. He lit a cigar and smoked it in silence. Both were thinking of the weaver.
“Did you feel that icy breath from the rock, Miss Stillwater?”
Indiana laughed. “We come for that on hot days, and lie in the shade and read. It’s always cool here.”
“Who is ’we’—may I ask?”
“Glen and I.”
“Glen again,” thought Lord Canning. “I have an absurd feeling against another having been here with her—another, who is only twenty-four and handsome as a picture—”
Indiana commenced to row.
“Going? Perhaps you are right—this is a dangerous spot.”
“People are not so carried away with the Adirondacks at first,” ventured Indiana. “But they grow on them after a while.”
“Yes,” said Lord Canning, studying her attentively. “I find a great many things grow on me in this part of the world. Why do you laugh, Miss Stillwater? Have I said anything amusing? I should like to learn how to laugh like that. Will you teach me?”
Indiana laughed again.
“May I have the first lesson now?”
“Oh, I can’t give you any lessons—you must just listen, that’s all.”
“I see—just listen. It is shallow again—what a beautiful white, sandy bed—how restlessly the minnows dart—here and there—backwards and forwards. They symbolize the activity of your nation, Miss Stillwater. Oh, what a cunning little stair-case cut in the rock—it looks so inviting—I should like to get off and climb it, and sit up there in the trees—may I?”
“No,” said Indiana, “there are so many other pretty places, I want to show you.”
“But I have a fancy for this—obduracy itself. Well, will you promise to take me here again another day—do promise!”
“I promise,” said Indiana.
The sun was long past its meridian, when they reached home. Mrs. Bunker, her daughter and Lord Stafford, were watching from the boat-house balcony. Lord Canning was rowing, without a coat, bareheaded. Indiana, comfortably ensconced in pillows opposite, was employed in spattering water over his face, regardless of his laughing remonstrances. Their voices—Indiana’s high-pitched but sweet, mingled with Lord Canning’s deep tones—were carried by the clear air over the water.
“Allow me to thank you for a delightful morning, Miss Stillwater,” said Lord Canning, ceremoniously, as he helped her from the boat. He stood looking looking back on the lake.
“Are you coming, Lord Canning?” asked Indiana, her foot on the little rustic staircase leading from the dock up into the boat-house.
“One moment, if you please,” said Lord Canning, still looking at the lake. “I want to fix firmly in my mind all the details of this delightful morning.”
“How slow these Englishmen are,” thought Indiana, “and yet—”
“You naughty child,” said Mrs. Bunker, beaming on Indiana. “Do you know it’s almost two o’clock! Lord Stafford is starving.”
“And your mamma is ‘worried to death about you,’” said Lord Stafford. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! How am I getting on, Mrs. Bunker?”
“Bravo, Lord Stafford, you are an apt pupil.”
“Blame Lord Canning,” said Indiana. “He does not like to hurry.”
“No, indeed,” added Lord Canning in an injured tone.
“He would insist on going in and out all the nooks along the shore.”
“Yes, indeed,” asserted Lord Canning.
“He persisted in exploring everything. He has such a thirst for information—”
“Naturally,” interrupted Lord Canning.
“And of course, when he took the oars, I was powerless. I’m thankful we’re home this early.”
They all climbed slowly up to the camp.
“Won’t you take my arm, Mrs. Stillwater? Your daughter has forbidden me to wear a hat, and has been throwing water on me in the sun, as she wishes me to acquire a certain reddish shade of tan, which prevails here, and which your two guides possess to an enviable degree. She was quite impervious to all my scolding.”
“Oh, Indiana always has her own way, Lord Canning.”
“Evidently. I was almost obliged to take the oars by force. She wished to row the entire morning, and I thought that was entirely too much.”
“Indiana will never give in that she’s tired. When she was a child she was the same. She’d play until she dropped asleep on the ground from sheer exhaustion.”
“Indeed,” said Lord Canning. “Then I was quite right. But we had a very exciting argument—it almost caused a quarrel—and I rather congratulated myself we were in such an isolated spot. I don’t wish to convey that Miss Stillwater actually lost her temper—”
“Indiana,” interrupted Mrs. Stillwater, reprovingly.
“What do you young folks propose to do this afternoon?” inquired Mrs. Bunker.
“Lord Canning is very anxious to see the Notch,” said Indiana. “I thought I’d drive you all over there.”
“Your daughter has been describing certain falls, Mrs. Stillwater, whose tremendous power have worn a gorge in the rock, and which supply water-power for this entire region. Most interesting—”
“Oh, a very picturesque spot.” said Mrs. Bunker. “Lord Stafford, I’m sure you’ll be charmed with it. We must start immediately after lunch—it’s a long drive.”
“And if Miss Stillwater is to drive, I’m afraid she will be taxing herself too much, after rowing the greater part of the morning.”
“Oh, Indiana likes to be always on the go,” said Mrs. Stillwater. “I’m afraid she’ll wear herself out some day.”
“Nonsense, Mary,” exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, sharply, “she’s as strong as a horse.”
“Your granddaughter is athletic,” said Lord Canning, “but of a very slender build. It is her nervous activity that keeps her up, rather than strength. On the whole, I prescribe rest this afternoon.”
“Then, Indiana,” said Mrs. Bunker mildly, “you could show Lord Canning that cunning little brook in the woods, back there—”
“I dearly love little brooks in the woods,” said Lord Canning.
“Oh, I can show him that any time,” said Indiana, “before breakfast.”
“Shall we say to-morrow, before breakfast—can I depend on that?”
“Yes. And this afternoon we’ll drive to the High Falls,” replied Indiana.
They were still at the table when Haller presented himself. “Be yer goin’ ter drive ter the Notch this afternoon? If ye be, it’s nigh on ter three o’clock. Yer can’t get back fore dark. William’s waitin’ at the landin’.” Mrs. Bunker rose precipitately.
“Get ready, Indiana!”
“I insist on Miss Stillwater resting for ten minutes at least. Don’t you agree with me, Mrs. Stillwater?”
“Yes, indeed, Lord Canning. But I can never force Indiana to lie down.”
“Well, I will endeavor to see what I can do.”
“You will be accomplishing wonders if you can persuade Indiana to do any thing against her will.”
“Come, Miss Stillwater. There’s a hammock out on the balcony—waiting for you.”
“But I must get ready for the drive, Lord Canning.”
“Now let me have my way, Miss Stillwater. Ten minutes, more or less, does not count. I don’t approve of this rush after meals. This is a wonderful hammock—so comfortable—different from most hammocks. I tried it this morning—simply a piece of canvas stretched flat. I shall take it in my head to sleep out here one fine night. Are you comfortable? Now, Miss Stillwater, you have been very good to take this rest, and I am deeply indebted to you. I shall be still more so if you will try to forget the fact that you are going anywhere. Simply make your mind blank; now, don’t raise your head and look at me like that. I mean it—make your mind a blank. Is it impossible for you to keep your eyes shut, Miss Stillwater? Not even for ten minutes—in truth, only eight now. I have a pocket Tennyson—I will read you a few extracts; I always carry some literature about me. In travelling among so many shifting scenes, a thought now and then from a great mind goes largely toward establishing one’s equilibrium. By the way, I had this Tennyson with me this morning. I might have read to you on the lake. Still, we did not feel the want of it, did we? Time passed so quickly—almost too quickly. Dear me! ‘In Memoriam’ is my favorite poem—which is yours, Miss Stillwater?”
“Mine,” said Indiana, dreamily. “Let me see—‘Evangeline’ is very beautiful.”
“A charming pastoral—I suppose it would be the favorite poem of a young girl who knows nothing of life—”
Indiana sat up suddenly in the hammock.
“You make a great mistake, Lord Canning. I have travelled all over the United States. I have come in contact with the world. I have a very shrewd idea of life—”
“Lie down, Miss Stillwater, please. That was a very unhappy remark of mine. So you have a very shrewd idea of life. I’m obliged to take your word for it—but, pardon me, you look very young for a person who has such a profound knowledge of the world. Now, don’t talk back at me—remember, you are resting. Please shut your eyes—shut them—it’s only three minutes now. I forbid you to open them again. Returning to our original subject—‘In Memoriam’ embodies a philosophy which appeals to me. We must read it together. I suppose you have not given it especial study?”
“No.”
“I think such a poem should be read with someone else. I am very familiar with it. I may be able to throw a light on passages that may appear obscure to you, and, perhaps, ultimately succeed in imbuing you with my own love for it. This—
‘Oh, yet we trust that somehow good,
Will be the final goal of all—’”
“Indiana,” called Mrs. Bunker.
She sprung from the hammock.
“Dear me! it isn’t—yes, it is—eleven minutes and a half.” “Provoking,” thought Lord Canning, as Indiana disappeared. “I don’t seem to have any time alone with her.”
He very soon found himself in the little naptha launch, ‘Indiana,’ with the rest of the party.
“Isn’t this jolly?” said Lord Stafford. “We seem to be always on the go, here.”
“Indeed, I’m not going to let you stagnate,” replied Mrs. Bunker. “There’s a different place to see every day, and when you’ve seen everything the hunting will commence.”
“We couldn’t have a nicer day for a drive,” remarked Mrs. Stillwater. “It has rained all night, and there won’t be any dust.”
“Oh, if a storm don’t come up while we’re out,” said Mrs. Bunker. “You never can tell what’s behind these mountains. They’re always brewing something. Don’t you ever let Indiana get you out in that sail-boat—while I think of it, Lord Canning.”
“No, Mrs. Bunker, I will not let her get me out in that sail-boat. There, I put my foot down.”
“Yes, you will,” said Indiana, propping her chin on her hand, “won’t you?”
Lord Canning smiled back into her eyes. “Well, perhaps,” he said.
“There!” exclaimed Mrs. Bunker. “Indiana makes everyone do as she wishes.”
“Have you your Tennyson here, Lord Canning? I should like to look through it.”
He gave it to her, and then two heads were soon bent, in a discussion, over the book. Lord Canning started, when they reached their destination, and Haller gave a spring to the dock.
“Already,” closing the book, “this has been most interesting, Miss Stillwater. You have a very clear and fresh conception. It’s a great pleasure to read with you.”
“Oh, Indiana has always distinguished herself in her studies,” said Mrs. Stillwater.
“I can believe that,” said Lord Canning.
As the ponies sped along with their swift, firm trot, Indiana explained to him the different points of interest in the country.
“Why, Indiana, you’re taking the old road—that’s the longest,” as she made a sudden turn from the highway.
“And the prettiest, Grandma Chazy.”
“Well, do as you like. We’ll never get home.”
“Thinking of home already, Mrs. Bunker. We’re just started. This is awfully jolly.”
“Well, we’ll see how jolly you’ll think it, Lord Stafford, when you’re kept till nearly nine for your dinner.”
“Dear me, is it so serious as that?”
“We follow this all the way,” said Indiana, pointing to the narrow stream on whose banks they were driving.
“Charming to hear, that delightful gurgle. I am so fond of the sound of water!”
“A very narrow path,” said Lord Stafford, peering over the banks. “One lurch to the right, and we’re over.”
“The banks are propped with logs,” explained Mrs. Bunker. “That is done every spring. The force of the water in winter breaks them down. They’re none too safe now, I believe. But Indiana would take this old road!”
“I am so glad you did,” murmured Lord Canning. “The continuous perspective of this winding stream is charming.”
As they drove on they were surprised now and then by little green islands, very small, sometimes merely clumps of trees.
“Mysterious little islands,” said Lord Canning. “So lonely, set here and there in the stream, like little green shrines, for those who wish to pray.”
“You have more imagination than many would credit you with, Lord Canning.”
“I am not understood by many—I would not care to be—”
“Do be careful, Indiana,” said Mrs. Stillwater, as they bounded over a frail bridge built on logs.
“Have no fear, Mrs. Stillwater. Your daughter is managing these ponies admirably—” he added to Indiana—“with those small hands. May I relieve you presently?”
“Thank you—I am not tired. I should fear to trust you. One must know the roads.”
Gradually the low musical gurgle of the stream deepened into a more significant undertone. Indiana made a sudden cut to the left and turned out, after crossing a bridge, on another narrow road overlooking a deep ravine. From its depths they still heard the voice of the stream, growing into an angry murmur. After a while, on the right, rose a high, craggy mountain-wall, with sparse foliage growing in its crannies.
Lord Stafford peered down into the ravine. “What a wicked looking place. We’re quite on the edge, Miss Stillwater. Our lives are in your hands—and that terrible mountain on the right.”
“It shadows us like fate,” said Lord Canning.
“There is a mysterious voice warning us from the ravine. Remember, that was once the low cooing murmur of a placid stream.”
“There’s a lesson in that,” said Mrs. Bunker. “Never trust a woman with a soft cooing voice.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha! Quite so, Mrs. Bunker.”
“What a sudden change,” remarked Lord Canning, “from a fairy pastoral to this mysterious wilderness. Are these sudden changes common to the country?”
“Common to the country—and the women,” replied Indiana, laughing.
“Quite so, Miss Stillwater,” said Lord Stafford. “You know Pope’s familiar couplet—
Women like variegated tulips show,
’Tis to their changes, half their charms they owe.’”
“Do you echo that sentiment, Lord Stafford,” asked Mrs. Bunker, archly.
“Well, really, that’s a difficult question, Mrs. Bunker. One is bored by monotony, of course—but sometimes these sudden changes can be deucedly unpleasant—ha, ha, ha, ha!”
“There is the river,” explained Indiana, pointing to a black rushing current, murmuring angrily below them. They watched it for a mile, sometimes writhing slowly in its rocky bed, like a long black snake, while the angry murmur grew faint and then rose again as the water rushed on with renewed power, frothing madly over the holders and rocks which barred its progress. Suddenly before them rose the blue, distant peak of one of the giant mountains.
“You wish to climb all the mountains?” inquired Indiana. “This will be the first—it is the nearest. I have climbed it.” Lord Canning surveyed it with interest.
“And will you climb it with me again?”
“I suppose so. I climb it every year. It’s only four miles from our camp to the trail.”
“Always driving with this blue peak before us,” remarked Lord Canning, after a while, “reminds me of the high aims we set for ourselves, and which we never seem to reach—the ideal of the true artist which he despairs of ever attaining—but, still, his eyes fixed on that pale blue peak of perfection in the sky, he forgets the bitter materialisms of life.”
Indiana bent down and gazed at the dark current.
“Do not look down, Miss Stillwater. That is the river of Biting Reality. Close your ears to its threatening murmur—gaze with me before us. I am under the delusion that I have discovered this region. Naturally, I wish to christen everything myself. I would make that distant peak—”
“It is called—”
“Now, Miss Stillwater, I do not wish to know—I will christen it—humor me—I am one of those harmlessly insane people with one delusion. I name that peak the Mount of Perfection. You said you would climb it with me. It is a very arduous ascent, and you are young and ‘frail.’” He looked down into the laughing eyes. “But when two climb together the stronger helps the weaker. All I ask—”
“Yes,” said Indiana.
“Is that once in awhile you will smile up at me—as we climb—in order that I shall know you are not tired.”
“I will smile,” said Indiana. “That is not much to ask—”
“Ah, but will you smile brightly, so that I may know you have not lost courage; will you smile trustfully, so that I may feel you have implicit faith in any way I choose to lead—will you? Ah, well, I won’t say any more—”
“Listen,” interrupted Indiana. Far away he heard a faint roar. “The Falls.”
“I will christen them later. That distant sound is very fascinating. I really cannot say yet what it conveys to me. But these falls are the culmination of the river—they typify some crisis in life—some great emotion into which all others are submerged.”
He leaned back, with folded arms, watching the dense woods which had replaced the craggy mountain-wall, and listening to the growing roar of the falls. The air here was laden with balsam. Sometimes an icy breath from the deep woods, into which no sun could penetrate, fanned their faces.
“I have not yet named the lake on which we spent this forenoon. I hereby christen it Lake Dangerous, as a warning to those who might be deceived by its apparent harmlessness. All ye unwary ones, take heed of sudden storms, deceiving shallows, unfathomable depths, and certain rocky places, where supernatural powers are at work to steal the precious secret of the soul!”
At this dramatic proclamation Indiana gave vent to a ringing peal of laughter.
“What’s the joke, Indiana?” called Mrs. Bunker.
“Oh, Lord Canning is talking the greatest amount of nonsense.”
“Your nephew isn’t near as serious as when I met him at Cannes,” observed Mrs. Bunker. “Indiana brightens everybody up.”
“Quite so, Mrs. Bunker. Now hadn’t you better use your arts to brighten me up?”
“What have I been doing all this time? Wasting my sweetness, I see.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha! yes, Mrs. Bunker. You had better commence all over again.”
As they drove on the sound of the falls grew into a loud roar. Miniature rapids could be seen, now and then, as the river emptied itself into small rocky basins, then plunged onward. Finally, Indiana slackened pace at a rustic bridge, where they alighted. This bridge led by short flights of steps to other ascending bridges spanning the falls.
“I’ll sit down by the water,” said Mrs. Stillwater. “I don’t like to cross the falls. They make me giddy.”
They saw her comfortably installed on a large boulder beneath a tree, near a spot where the river wandered off in a placid mood. Then they climbed the frail stairs leading to the different bridges, pausing at each to gaze closer at the fierce rush of the waters.
“What a wild, dark glen!” exclaimed Lord Canning, looking about him, as they reached the last bridge. “Those majestic pines stand like sentinels watching the falls.” He gazed down into the enormous gorge called The Notch, into which the falls dashed, with a deafening sound, sending up a blinding shower of spray. “How the water seethes and boils and bubbles! It is like a gigantic cauldron. Magnificent for witches! What poisons, what love-potions and charms they could brew down there! Just the place for a conjuration!”
“You’d say that if you saw the place by moonlight. It looks simply unearthly.”
“I should love to see it by moonlight. May I?” He looked pleadingly at Indiana.
“Well,” she said, meditatively.
“Certainly,” interrupted Mrs. Bunker. “We’ll have a moonlight picnic, just as soon as there is a moon. Probably my son will be here then.”
“My handkerchief is quite wet,” said Lord Stafford, wiping the spray from his face.
“Take mine,” offered Mrs. Bunker, holding up a wet morsel.
“Oh, my dear lady, of what use would that be?”
“I love the spray,” remarked Indiana, taking off her hat and leaning over.
“Indiana, stop that! Lord Canning, will you hold her?”
“Allow me,” said Lord Canning, putting his arms about her and bending himself to gaze down into the falls.
Their tremendous rush and power awoke a responsive chord in his own breast. He was conscious that what had been first an impulse with him was rapidly becoming a force, as wildly impetuous in its way as that upon which he was gazing.
In one part of the glen some logs had been stacked under the trees. Lord Canning secured one. “I wish to test the force of the water,” he said. It took all the strength he possessed to raise the log high in the air and fling it down into the falls. There, it was lifted and tossed by the eddying current, then whirled onward, out of sight, as though it had been a leaf. “Tremendous power! Miss Stillwater, you have gazed long enough into the witches’ cauldron.”
They ascended slowly, behind Mrs. Bunker and Lord Stafford.
“Let us rest a little while,” said Lord Canning. “I should like to sit in this mysterious glen and listen to the falls as we hear them now—on the bridge they were too deafening.”
They sat down beneath one of the immense pines, which looked down on the falls. Lord Canning closed his eyes and leaned back on the deep green moss. It was a spot where the sun seldom penetrated. “I christen these the Magic Falls,” he said, after a few moments, in which Indiana idly plucked the moss. “Listening to them one loses all sense of past or future. Here, just before we reach the falls—but in view of them, within sound of them, before we are carried away by their impetuous rush, rendered dizzy and blinded by their thunder and spray—one can rest. This is one of life’s lulls. We all deserve to rest one day in a spot like this, deeply shaded and carpeted with moss, within sound of the Magic Falls. Here the world stops, for once,—the world, with all its pros and cons, its clear and valuable logic, of which one grows very weary. The world itself must tire sometime of its plentiful stock of common sense. Then, I christen this The World’s Rest.”