In the High Valley

  CHAPTER II.

  MISS OPDYKE FROM NEW YORK.

  THE next week was a busy one. Packing had begun; and what with Mrs.Young's motherly desire to provide her children with every possibleconvenience for their new home, and Imogen's rooted conviction thatnothing could be found in Colorado worth buying, and that it wasessential to carry out all the tapes and sewing-silk and buttons andshoe-thread and shoes and stationery and court-plaster and cotton clothand medicines that she and Lionel could possibly require during the nextfive years,--it promised to be a long job.

  In vain did Lionel remonstrate, and assure his sister that every one ofthese things could be had equally well at St. Helen's, where some ofthem went almost every day, and that extra baggage cost so much on thePacific railways that the price of such commodities would be nearlydoubled before she got them safely to the High Valley.

  "Now what can be the use of taking two pounds of pins, for example?" heprotested. "Pins are as plenty as blackberries in America. And all thosespools of thread too!"

  "Reels of cotton, do you mean? I wish you would speak English, at leastwhile we are in England. I shouldn't dare go without plenty of suchthings. American cotton isn't as good as ours; I've always been toldthat."

  "Well, it's good enough, as you'll find. And do make a place forsomething pretty; a few nice tea-cups for instance, and some things tohold flowers, and some curtain stuffs for the windows, and photographs.Geoff and Mrs. Geoff have made their house awfully nice, I can tell you.Americans think a deal of that sort of thing. All this haberdashery andhardware is ridiculous, and you'll be sorry enough that you didn'tlisten to me before you are through with it."

  "Mother has packed some cups already, I believe, and I'll take thatwhite Minton jar if you like, but really I shouldn't think delicatethings like that would be at all suitable in a new place like Colorado,where people must rough it as we are going to do. You are so infatuatedabout America, Lion, that I can't trust your opinion at all."

  "I've been there, and you haven't," was all that Lionel urged in answer.It seemed an incontrovertible argument, but Imogen made no attempt tooverthrow it. She only packed on according to her own ideas, quiteunconvinced.

  It lacked only five days of their setting out when she and her brotherwalked into Bideford one afternoon for some last errands. It was Junenow, and the south of England was at its freshest and fairest. Themeadows along the margin of the Torridge wore their richest green, thehill slopes above them were a bloom of soft color. Each court yard andgarden shimmered with the gold of laburnums or the purple and white ofclustering clematis; and the scent of flowers came with every puff ofair.

  As they passed up the side street, a carriage with three strange ladiesin it drove by them. It stopped at the door of the New Inn,--as quaintin build and even older than the New Inn of Clovelly. The ladies gotout, and one of them, to Imogen's great surprise, came forward andextended her hand to Lionel.

  "Mr. Young,--it is Mr. Young, isn't it? You've quite forgotten me, Ifear,--Mrs. Page. We met at St. Helen's two years ago when I stopped tosee my son. Let me introduce you to my daughter, the Comtesse deConflans, and Miss Opdyke, of New York."

  Lionel could do no less than stop, shake hands, and present his sister,whereupon Mrs. Page urged them both to come in for a few minutes andhave a cup of tea.

  "We are here only till the evening-train," she explained,--"just to seeWestward Ho and get a glimpse of the Amyas Leigh country. And I want toask any quantity of questions about Clarence and his wife. What! youare going out to the High Valley next week, and your sister too? Oh,that makes it absolutely impossible for me to let you off. You reallymust come in. There are so many messages I should like to send, and acup of tea will be a nice rest for Miss Young after her long walk."

  "It isn't long at all," protested Imogen; but Mrs. Page could not begainsaid, and led the way upstairs to a sitting-room with a bay windowoverlooking the windings of the Torridge, which was crammed with quaintcarved furniture of all sorts. There were buffets, cabinets,secretaries, delightful old claw-footed tables and sofas, and chairswhose backs and arms were a mass of griffins and heraldic emblems. Oldoak was the specialty of the landlady of this New Inn, it seemed, asblue china was of the other. For years she had attended sales and pokedabout in farmhouses and attics, till little by little she hadaccumulated an astonishing collection. Many of the pieces were genuineantiques, but some had been constructed under her own eye from woodequally venerable,--pew-ends and fragments of rood-screens purchasedfrom a dismantled and ruined church. The effect was both picturesque andunusual.

  Mrs. Page seated her guests in two wide, high-backed chairs, rang fortea, and began to question Lionel about affairs in the High Valley,while Imogen, still under the influence of surprise at finding herselfcalling on these strangers, glanced curiously at the younger ladies ofthe party. The Comtesse de Conflans was still young, and evidently hadbeen very pretty, but she had a worn, dissatisfied air, and did not lookhappy. Imogen learned afterward that her marriage, which was considereda triumph and a grand affair when it took place, had not turned out verywell. Count Ernest de Conflans was rather a black sheep in somerespects, had a strong taste for baccarat and _rouge et noir_, and spentso much of his bride's money at these amusements during the first yearof their life together, that her friends became alarmed, and theirinterference had brought about a sort of amicable separation. CountErnest lived in Washington, receiving a specified sum out of his wife'sincome, and she was travelling indefinitely in Europe with her mother.It was no wonder that she did not look satisfied and content.

  "Miss Opdyke, of New York" was quite different and more attractive,Imogen thought. She had never seen any one in the least like her. Rathertall, with a long slender throat, a waist of fabulous smallness, andhands which, in their _gants de Suede_, did not seem more than twoinches wide, she gave the impression of being as fragile in make and asdelicately fibred as an exotic flower. She had pretty, arch, gray eyes,a skin as white as a magnolia blossom, and a fluff of wonderful palehair--artlessly looped and pinned to look as if it had blown by accidentinto its place--which yet exactly suited the face it framed. She wasrestlessly vivacious, her mobile mouth twitched with a hidden amusementevery other moment; when she smiled she revealed pearly teeth and adimple; and she smiled often. Her dress, apparently simple, was a wonderof fit and cut,--a skirt of dark fawn-brown, a blouse of ivory-whitesilk, elaborately tucked and shirred, a cape of glossy brown fur whosehigh collar set off her pale vivid face, and a "picture hat" with awreath of plumes. Imogen, whose preconceived notion of an American girlincluded diamond ear-rings sported morning, noon, and night, observedwith surprise that she wore no ornaments except one slender bangle. Shehad in her hand a great bunch of yellow roses, which exactly toned inwith the ivory and brown of her dress, and she played with these andsmelled them, as she sat on a high black-oak settle, and, consciously orunconsciously, made a picture of herself.

  She seemed as much surprised and entertained at Imogen as Imogen couldpossibly be at her.

  "I suppose you run up to London often," was her first remark.

  "N-o, not often." In fact, Imogen had been in London only once in thewhole course of her life.

  "Dear me!--don't you? Why, how can you exist without it? I shouldn'tthink there would be anything to do here that was in the leastamusing,--not a thing. How do you spend your time?"

  "I?--I don't know, I'm sure. There's always plenty to do."

  "To do, yes; but in the way of amusement, I mean. Do you have manyballs? Is there any gayety going on? Where do you find your men?"

  "No, we don't have balls often, but we have lawn parties, and tennis,and once a year there's a school feast."

  "Oh, yes, I know,--children in gingham frocks and pinafores, eating bunsand drinking milk-and-hot-water out of mugs. Rapturous fun it mustbe,--but I think one might get tired of it in time. As for lawn parties,I tried one in Fulham the other day, and I don't want to go to any morein England, thank you. They never introduced a soul t
o us, the bandplayed out of tune, it was as dull as ditch-water,--just dreary,ill-dressed people wandering in and out, and trying to look as if fivesour strawberries on a plate, and a thimbleful of ice cream were blissand high life and all the rest of it. The only thing really nice was theroses; those _were_ delicious. Lady Mary Ponsonby gave me three,--tomake up for not presenting any one to me, I suppose."

  "Do you still keep up the old fashion of introductions in America?" saidImogen with calm superiority. "It's quite gone out with us. We take itfor granted that well-bred people will talk to their neighbors atparties, and enjoy themselves well enough for the moment, and then theyneedn't be hampered with knowing them afterward. It saves a lot ofcomplications not having to remember names, or bow to people."

  "Yes, I know that's the theory, but I call it a custom introduced forthe suppression of strangers. Of course, if you know all the peoplepresent, or who they are, it doesn't matter in the least; but if youdon't, it makes it a ghastly mockery to try to enjoy yourself at aparty. But do tell me some more about Bideford. I'm so curious aboutEnglish country life. I've seen only London so far. Is it ever warm overhere?"

  "Warm?" vaguely, "what do you mean?"

  "I mean _warm_. Perhaps the word is not known over here, or doesn't meanthe same thing. England seems to me just one degree better than NovaZembla. The sun is a mere imitation sun. He looks yellow, like a realone, when you see him,--which isn't often,--but he doesn't burn a bit.I've had the shivers steadily ever since we landed." She pulled her furcape closer about her ears as she spoke.

  "Why, what can you want different from this?" asked Imogen, surprised."It's a lovely day. We haven't had a drop of rain since last night."

  "That is quite true, and remarkable as true; but somehow I don't feelany warmer than I did when it rained. Ah, here comes the tea. Let mepour it, Mrs. Page. I make awfully good tea. Such nice, thick cream!but, oh, dear!--here is more of that awful bread."

  It was a stout household loaf, of the sort invariable in south-countyEngland, substantial, crusty, and tough, with a "nubbin" on top, and inconsistency something between pine wood and sole leather. Miss Opdyke,after filling her cups, proceeded to cut the loaf in slices, protestingas she did so that it "creaked in the chewing," and that

  "The muscular strength that it gave to her jaw Would last her the rest of her life."

  "Why, what sort of bread do you have in America?" demanded Imogen,astonished and offended by the frankness of these strictures. "This isthe sort every one eats here. I'm sure it's excellent. What is thereabout it that you don't like?"

  "Oh, everything. Wait till you taste our American bread, and you'llunderstand,--or rather, our breads, for we have dozens of kinds, eachmore delicious than the last. Wait till you eat corn-bread and waffles."

  "I've always been told that the American food was dreadfully messy,"observed Imogen, nettled into reprisals; "pepper on eggs, and all thatsort of thing,--very messy and nasty, indeed."

  "Well, we _have_ deviated from the English method as to the eating ofeggs, I admit. I know it's correct to chip the shell, and eat all thewhite at one end by itself, with a little salt, and then all the yellowin the middle, and last of all the white at the other end by itself; butthere are bold spirits among us who venture to stir and mix. Fools rushin, you know; they _will_ do it, even where Britons fear to tread."

  "We stopped at Northam to see Sir Amyas Leigh's house," Mrs. Page wassaying to Lionel. "It's really very interesting to visit the spots wherecelebrated people have lived. There is a sad lack of such places inAmerica. We are such a new country. Lilly and Miss Opdyke walked up tothe hill where Mrs. Leigh stood to see the Spanish ship come in,--quitefascinating, they said it was."

  "You must be sure to stay long enough in Boston to see the house whereSilas Lapham lived," put in the wicked Miss Opdyke. "One cannot see toomuch of places associated with famous people."

  "I don't remember any such name in American history," said honestImogen,--"'Silas Lapham,' who was he?"

  "A man in a novel, and Amyas Leigh is a man in another novel," whisperedMiss Opdyke. "Mrs. Page isn't quite sure about him, but she doesn't liketo confess as frankly as you do. She has forgotten, and fancies that hereally lived in Queen Elizabeth's time; and the coachman was so solemnlysure that he did that it's not much wonder. I bought an old silverpatch-box in a jeweller's shop on the High Street, and I'm going to tellmy sister that it belonged to Ayacanora."

  "What an odd idea."

  "We are full of odd ideas over in America, you know."

  "Tell me something about the States," said Imogen. "My brother is quitemad over Colorado, but he doesn't know much about the rest of it. Isuppose the country about New York isn't very wild, is it?"

  "Not very," returned Miss Opdyke, with a twinkle. "The buffalo arerarely seen now, and only two men were scalped by the Indians outsidethe walls of the city last year."

  "Fancy! And how do you pass your time? Is it a gay place?"

  "Very. We pass our time doing all sorts of things. There's the CornDance and the Green Currant Dance and the Water Melon pow wow, ofcourse, and beside these, which date back to the early days of thecolony, we have the more modern amusements, German opera and Italianopera and the theatre and subscription concerts. Then we have ballsnearly every night in the season and dinner-parties and luncheons andlectures and musical parties, and we study a good deal and 'slum' alittle. Last winter I belonged to a Greek class and a fencing class,and a quartette club, and two private dancing classes, and a girls'working club, and an amateur theatrical society. We gave two privateconcerts for charities, you know, and acted the Antigone for the benefitof the Influenza Hospital. Oh, there is a plenty to pass one's time inNew York, I can assure you. And when other amusements fail, we can gooutside the walls, with a guard of trappers, of course, and try our handat converting the natives."

  "What tribe of Indians is it that you have near you?"

  "The Tammanies,--a very trying tribe, I assure you. It seems impossibleto make any impression on them or teach them anything."

  "Fancy! Did you ever have any adventures yourself with these Indians?"asked Imogen, deeply excited over this veracious resume of life inmodern New York.

  "Oh, dear, yes--frequently."

  "Do tell me some of yours. This is so very interesting. Lionel never hassaid a word about the--Tallamies, did you call them?"

  "Tammanies. Perhaps not; Colorado is so far off, you know. They havePiutes there,--a different tribe entirely, and much less deleterious tocivilization."

  "How sad. But about the adventures?"

  "Oh, yes--well, I'll tell you of one; in fact it is the only reallyexciting experience I ever had with the New York Indians. It was twoyears ago; I had just come out, and it was my birthday, and papa said Imight ride his new mustang, by way of a celebration. So we started, mybrother and I, for a long country gallop.

  "We were just on the other side of Central Park, barely out of the city,you see, when a sudden blood-curdling yell filled the air. We werehorror-struck, for we knew at once what it must be,--the war-cry of thesavages. We turned of course and galloped for our lives, but the Indianswere between us and the gates. We could see their terrible facesstreaked with war-paint, and the tomahawks at their girdles, and wefelt that all hope was over. I caught hold of papa's lasso, which waslooped round the saddle, and cocked my revolving rifle--all the New Yorkgirls wear revolving rifles strapped round their waists," continued MissOpdyke, coolly, interrogating Imogen with her eyes as she spoke forsigns of disbelief, but finding none--"and I resolved to sell my lifeand scalp as dearly as possible. Just then, when all seemed lost, weheard a shout which sounded like music to our ears. A company of mountedRangers were galloping out from the city. They had seen our peril fromone of the watch-towers, and had hurried to our rescue."

  "How fortunate!" said Imogen, drawing a long breath. "Well, go on--do goon."

  "There is little more to tell," said Miss Opdyke, controlling withdifficulty her inclination to
laugh. "The Head Ranger attacked theTammany chief, whose name was Day Vidbehill,--a queer name, isn'tit?--and slew him after a bloody conflict. He gave me his brush, I meanhis scalp-lock, afterward, and it now adorns--" Here her amusementbecame ungovernable, and she went into fits of laughter, which Imogen'sastonished look only served to increase.

  "Oh!" she cried, between her paroxysms, "you believed it all! it is tooabsurd, but you really believed it! I thought till just now that youwere only pretending, to amuse me."

  "Wasn't it true, then?" said Imogen, her tardy wits waking slowly up tothe conclusion.

  "True! why, my dear child, New York is the third city of the world insize,--not quite so large as London, but approaching it. It is a great,brilliant, gay place, where everything under the sun can be bought andseen and done. Did you really think we had Indians and buffaloes closeby us?"

  "And haven't you?"

  "Dear me, no. There never was a buffalo within a thousand miles of us,and not an Indian has come within shooting distance for half a century,unless he came by train to take part in a show. You mustn't be soeasily taken in. People will impose upon you no end over in America,unless you are on your guard. What has your brother been about, not toexplain things better?"

  "Well, he _has_ tried," said Imogen, candidly, "but I didn't halfbelieve what he said, because it was so different from the things in thebooks. And then he is so in love with America that it seemed as if hemust be exaggerating. He did say that the cities were just like ourcities, only more so, and that though the West wasn't like England atall, it was very interesting to live in; but I didn't half listen tohim, it sounded so impossible."

  "Live and learn. You'll have a great many surprises when you get across,but some of them will be pleasant ones, and I think you'll like it.Good-by," as Imogen rose to go; "I hope we shall meet again some time,and then you will tell me how you like Colorado, and the Piutes,and--waffles. I hope to live yet to see you stirring an egg in a glasswith pepper and a 'messy' lump of butter in true Western fashion. It'sawfully good, I've always been told. Do forgive me for hoaxing you. Inever thought you _could_ believe me, and when I found that you did, itwas irresistible to go on."

  "I can't make out at all about Americans," said Imogen, plaintively, asafter an effusive farewell from Mrs. Page and a languid bow from Madamede Conflans they were at last suffered to escape into the street. "Thereseem to be so many different kinds. Mrs. Page and her daughter are not abit like each other, and Miss Opdyke is quite different from either ofthem, and none of the three resembles Mrs. Geoffrey Templestowe in theleast."

  "And neither does Buffalo Bill and your phrenological lecturer. Courage,Moggy. I told you America was a sizable place. You'll begin to take inand understand the meaning of the variety show after you once get overthere."

  "It was queer, but do you know I couldn't help rather liking that girl;"confessed Imogen later to Isabel Templestowe. "She was odd, of course,and not a bit English, but you couldn't say she was bad form, and shewas so remarkably quick and bright. It seemed as if she had seen allsorts of things and tried her hand on almost everything, and wasn't abit afraid to say what she thought, or to praise and find fault. I toldyou what she said about English bread, and she was just as rude aboutour vegetables; she said they were only flavored with hot water. What doyou suppose she meant?"

  "I believe they cook them quite differently in America. Geoff likestheir way, and found a great deal of fault when he was at home with thecauliflower and the Brussels sprouts. He declared that they had notaste, and that mint in green-peas killed the flavor. Clover was toopolite to say anything, but I could see that she thought the same. Mammawas quite put about with Geoff's new notions."

  "I must say that it seems rather impertinent and forth-putting for a newnation like that to be setting up opinions of its own, and findingfault with the good old English customs," said Imogen, petulantly.

  "Well, I don't know," replied Isabel; "we have made some changesourselves. John of Gaunt or Harry Hotspur might find fault with us forthe same reason, giving up the 'good old customs' of rushes on thefloor, for instance, and flagons of ale for breakfast. There were thestocks and the pillory too, and hanging for theft, and the torture ofprisoners. Those were all in use more or less when the Pilgrims went toAmerica, and I'm sure we're all glad that they were given up. The worldmust move, and I suppose it's but natural that the new nations shouldgive it its impulse."

  "England is good enough for me," replied the practical Imogen. "I don'twant to be instructed by new countries. It's like a child in a pinaforetrying to teach its grandmother how to do things. Now, dear Isabel, letme hear about your mother's parcels."

  Mrs. Templestowe had wisely put her gifts into small compass. There weretwo dainty little frocks for her grandson, and a jacket of her ownknitting, two pairs of knickerbocker stockings for Geoff, and for Clovera bit of old silver which had belonged to a Templestowe in the time ofthe Tudors,--a double-handled porringer with a coat of arms engraved onits somewhat dented sides. Clover, like most Americans, had a passionfor the antique; so this present was sure to please.

  "And you are really off to-morrow," said Isabel at the gate. "How I wishI were going too."

  "And how I wish I were not going at all, but staying on with you,"responded Imogen. "Mother says if Lionel isn't married by the end ofthree years she'll send Beatrice out to take my place. She'll be turnedtwenty then, and would like to come. Isabel, you'll be married before Iget back, I know you will."

  "It's most improbable. Girls don't marry in England half so easily as inAmerica. It will be you who will marry, and settle over therepermanently."

  "Never!" cried Imogen.

  Then the two friends exchanged a last kiss and parted.

  "My love to Clover," Isabel called back.

  "Always Clover," thought Imogen; but she smiled, and answered, "Yes."