Part 4

"I'm no more attached to Glen than I ever was. Everybody likes him. He's a good fellow."

"That's true. Do you think you'll marry him?"

"What's your opinion on that matter, Grandma Chazy?"

"I think you'd regret it all your life; he's only a boy."

"Yes, but he's a good fellow."

"You said that before."

Glen had kept away for a week or so after the moonlight circus party, and in that time became morbid and melancholy. Indiana dominated him completely. He racked his brain, hour after hour, trying to remember the exact words in which she had uttered such and such a remark, with her exact tone of voice and the exact expression of her eyes at the time. Sometimes in his sleep he heard her calling "Glen dear! Glen dear! Glen dear!" her childish name for him, in a helpless, frightened voice. He would awaken with a terrible fear that she might be ill or in trouble. Compared with this awful anxiety oppressing him in the night, his past misery seemed nothing. He resolved that if Indiana only kept well and happy he would ask nothing more of life. Again, he heard her laughing in his dreams, mockingly, tantalizingly; laughing, laughing, laughing, until his brain reeled, and he thought, "This is the laugh that drives men mad." Then, when taking bicycle rides on the moonlight nights of his week's absence, her face seemed to flash upon him suddenly in dark places, like that of a sweet ghost. Haunted like this, the idea of seeing her in reality once more was like the conventional promise of Heaven. He resolved to resume their old footing. "Indiana wishes it, and anything is better than not to see her." He appeared again at the model farm, humble and deferential to Indiana's slightest wish, grateful for her every look and word. With her tender heart and warm sympathies she pitied him intensely. She tried to establish their old comradeship. The loyal little soul hated to lose a friend.

Glen felt life was worth living once more. There is a magic flower, tiny, and blue as the sky. This is the forget-me-not bloom of hope. It sheds a sweet and subtle fragrance which enchants the soul, and charms the eyes, so that they see a wonderful light on all things. But when the flower perishes, there is an end to the spell. The glamour fades before the eyes, the soul is seized with an aching grief. But the witch-flower of hope will bloom again, if it is not plucked by the root.

"I'm getting a little bit tired of it myself, here," remarked Mrs. Bunker. "Well, it'll be time to pack up soon; I expect to enjoy myself this summer."

Indiana, watching the rain, forebore to answer. There were times when Mrs. Bunker's constant desire for pleasure rather palled on her.

Mid-summer at a fashionable seaside resort proved to be merely a repetition of other summers. Indiana enjoyed herself, after the manner of the young and thoughtless; dancing, bathing, flirting, and laughing. But after the glare of the sea and the kaleidoscope of life on the shore, after falling asleep every night to the echoes of the very latest dance music, mingled with the eternal dash of the waves, the woods beckoned her invitingly.

It was the middle of August before the Stillwater's were installed in the mountains. They arrived at the primitive station early in the morning, and were met by one of the two guides yearly engaged for the season. There was a large mountain wagon, without a cover, awaiting them, and a pair of fresh-looking ponies. Indiana jumped up nimbly, and took the reins, while Haller, the guide, packed in the rest of the family and Kitty, all looking rather sleepy, from their all-night travel. The other servants had preceded them by some days.

"All right!" shouted Indiana, starting at a brisk trot. It was only twenty minutes' drive from the station to a landing, where they were met by a trim little naptha launch with "The Indiana" painted newly, in bright letters, upon the prow. She puffed slowly up one of the largest lakes in the Adirondacks, buried in the very heart of the mountains. The latter are higher in this particular region, the scenery wilder than elsewhere. Nature had designed a beautiful color scheme from the lake; the rich, vivid green of the banks, fretted with enormous rocks and crags, the darker background of the immediate mountains, in their funereal dress of pine and balsam, and beyond the pale tracery of the distant ranges. It was a dull morning, and the grey atmosphere gave a touch of desolation to the wild environment of the lake.

"It's lonesome as the grave," said Mrs. Bunker. "Throw me that cape, please, Mr. Haller. I'm chilly."

"Yer be?" said Haller, with a certain contortion of his serious face, which was intended for a smile. "Waal, 'tis cool, mornin's."

"How are the evenings? Cold, I suppose?"

Haller cogitated for the space of five minutes. No one answers a question thoughtlessly in these regions; and after sojourning there some time, one learns not to interrogate at random. "Waal," he said at length, "'tis cool evenin's."

"None of the leaves have changed yet," said Indiana, after closely inspecting the banks on either side.

"No; they ain't changin'. Waal, thar's bin no frost, ter speak of--thar's bin no frost, ter speak of."

"Is it going to storm?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater, shivering, with a heavy plaid shawl wrapped about her.

Haller looked at the sky. "Waal, not yet awhile."

"Indiana, your hat!" cried Mrs. Bunker. A gust of wind had torn it off her head. Haller deftly rescued it from the lake and restored it to Indiana in a dripping condition. She sat bare-headed, enjoying the outlook, the moist wind blowing her hair in large rings around her face.

"We're in for it," said Mrs. Bunker. When they started, the lake had been grey and calm. Now, it was gradually darkening, and dotted here and there with white-caps.

"Are yer skeert?" said Haller, looking at Mrs. Bunker with one of his contortions.

"No," retorted Mrs. Bunker, sharply, "but I want to get to the camp."

"Waal, we're goin' there," said Haller, calmly.

In a little while they came in sight of the boat-house, elaborately rustic, and pretty in design. Near it was planted an enormous flag-staff, from which waved a white flag bearing the name "Camp Indiana" in red letters.

Camp Indiana, christened after the only daughter of the owner, was the usual log structure, but capacious in dimensions, with a luxurious interior. There were many adjuncts in the way of out-buildings and summer-houses, glimpses of which could be caught between the trees. The camp owed much to art, but rejoiced in one supreme, natural beauty. This was a giant balsam tree which Stillwater could not bring himself to cut, and, therefore, had been used in the construction of the camp itself. The huge trunk supported the balcony, and the lower branches were entwined in the rustic railing. Thence it rose, screening the front windows up to the very roof, above which it towered paternally. Birds innumerable made their homes in the branches, and chipmunks in the moss-covered trunk. Every summer the little creatures ran nimbly along the lower limbs, peeping curiously at the sharers of their home; and young birds, essaying to fly, met with mishaps and fell into the camp with broken wings and legs. The latter were a great solicitude to Indiana. She nursed them carefully, with a knowledge founded on similar cases in the Rocky Mountains. There, she had gained much experience with birds and animals.

Though it was blowing strongly on the lake, there was no wind at the camp. No matter how the elements rage, there is quiet among the trees, except for a sighing whisper, to which one could fall asleep.

"Em--n!" said Mrs. Bunker, taking a survey when she reached the balcony. "Enough to give one the blues."

There was a huge deer-head over the entrance, a trophy of Stillwater's first year in the Adirondacks. The large hall was decorated with many other trophies from the Rocky Mountains and elsewhere. Wild skins of every description strewed the polished floors throughout the camp. Logs crackled brightly in the great, deep fire-place of the hall, as they entered, emitting an odor of pine. The large, brown eyes of an elk gazed beneath the branching antlers mildly down on the fire. A short, wide flight of stairs was broken by a balcony over the hall. From the railing hung an antique, Persian silk rug, upon which the fire played richly. Beneath the stair-case and each side of the fire-place were deep niches, comfortably furnished with pillows, of which red was the prevailing tone. Graceful jars of old pottery decorated the shelves above, with here and there a brilliant cluster of peacock's feathers, or the rich plumage of a stuffed bird, to relieve the dullness of the clay. This decoration was repeated in all the lower rooms, of which there were many, one opening into the other, giving a vista of fire-lit interiors, the flames catching an occasional flash of color from a red pillow or an Oriental scarf hanging carelessly from a shelf. The camp resounded to the crackling of logs with the accompanying, healthy perfume of the burning pine. Indiana ran through all the rooms, looking out of every window upon the lake. Those of her own room opened directly into the balsam tree which ornamented the front of the camp. This room had been built entirely of white maple. There was simple furniture of the same wood. The gleaming white walls and ceiling served as a background for a continuous Bacchanalian dance of shadows, cast by the branches of the giant balsam screening the windows. Here, also, logs crackled cheerily in a deep, wide fireplace, tiled with white onyx, which reflected the flames in fitful opaline gleams. White bear rugs strewed the floor. Indiana, as she looked around her, had visions of frosty, October mornings, when she had put her feet unwillingly out of bed into the warm fur, and hopped over the intervening space of cold floor to the fire. She remembered awakings, when a breath of balsam air swept like a cool hand across her forehead. Open windows and fires were Mr. Stillwater's strict injunctions at the camp. Indiana, for one, obeyed him. She had often opened her eyes to see a chipmunk sitting on its haunches, regarding her curiously. And birds were in the habit of flying around her little nest and out again to their own nest in the tree. She stood for a moment by the fire with a sense of glad content to be once more in this white, balsam-scented room. Then she ran into her mother's room, and into that reserved for Glen. On the mantel were portraits of his mother and father. They had insisted on his leaving some of his belongings there last year, saying that if he did so, he would be sure to come again. Indiana inspected the portraits. "I'm glad they're here," she thought. "It'll be a welcome for him."

Mrs. Bunker stood warming her hands by the hall fire. "The dampness isn't off the rooms yet."

"They've bin closed s'long, yer see," said Haller, lighting his pipe in the doorway. "Waal, I opened up everything, lettin' in the sun, soon as I knowed yer was comin'."

"Now that he's lit his pipe," thought Mrs. Bunker, "it won't go out while we're here."

He stalked leisurely through the rooms, throwing a fresh log on every fire, and looking about proudly, as though he could well be congratulated upon his preparations.

"Everything looks very nice, Henry," said Mrs. Stillwater, "just as if we left yesterday."

Another pipe saluted Mrs. Bunker at the entrance. It belonged to the second guide, who was somewhat brisker in appearance than Haller.

"Waal, haow d'ye find things lookin', ma'am?" he said, with a cheery laugh.

"They're looking all right, William," answered Mrs. Bunker, graciously. She liked him better than Haller, who had an irritating effect on her.

"Will it be a good season for deer?" said Indiana, running down the stairs.

William puffed slowly and seriously.

"It's going ter be a good season for deer," he said.

"Oh, I hope so," exclaimed Mrs. Bunker. "I promised those Englishmen good hunting."

"If they come, there'll be good hunting, Grandma Chazy," said Indiana, moving close to her, and looking significantly into her eyes. Mrs. Bunker laughed vivaciously.

"Ther' comin' down ter drink," volunteered William.

"Already!" exclaimed Indiana, with a laughing glance at Mrs. Bunker.

"Waal, thar' ain't bin no rain ter speak of--the springs is dryin' up on the mauntings."

"Y--es!" corroborated Haller, joining them with Mrs. Stillwater. "Ther comin' down ter the lakes."

"Poor things!" said Mrs. Stillwater.

"Do you pity them, Grandma Chazy?" whispered Indiana, "I don't mean the deer."

"Not I," said Mrs. Bunker. "Wholesale slaughter isn't the word."

Glen joined them soon after their arrival, but not before Indiana had written him a special letter inviting him to come. He had a certain pride where she was concerned. They roamed the woods together, renewing acquaintance with all their old haunts, or rowed and fished on the lake for hours with Haller and William. Mrs. Bunker and her daughter did not share their enthusiasm for these sports. They enjoyed the lake only in pleasant weather, when they made trips in "The Indiana" with a guide. Sometimes they were met at the landing by the comfortable and airy mountain wagon and the fresh mountain ponies, to take them for one of the beautiful drives in which that county abounded. Occasionally, Indiana and Glen would join them, changing off with the reins.

"I'd like to write to the Smiths," said Mrs. Bunker, one morning. "I promised to invite them up here. But you're so half-hearted about it, Indiana. All you care for is to roam about with Glen." She was standing on the balcony of the boat-house, and did not see Glen below on the dock. He smiled grimly.

"I can't blame her for one, Mrs. Bunker," he called up, good humoredly.

Indiana laughed. She was sitting in a boat. After having assumed several positions in order to ship water, she was now very busy bailing it out with a large sponge.

"No offense, Glen," said Mrs. Bunker.

"None whatever," returned Glen, emerging, and bowing elaborately.

"The two of you are like a couple of Indians," she continued.

"Here's Haller with the mail," cried Indiana. He rowed swiftly towards them in a light, narrow guide-boat. Indiana took the letters.

"I brought a letter for yer," shouted Haller to Mrs. Bunker.

"Then why didn't you deliver it?" answered Mrs. Bunker sharply.

"_She_ tuk it," he answered, chuckling.

Indiana stood up in the boat, balancing herself admirably, and flung the letter to Mrs. Bunker, then sat down examining the other letters and papers in her lap.

"Nothing for you, Glen."

He overturned a boat and seated himself upon it, smoking a pipe. Naturally dark, he was burnt several shades darker, from his hair to the loose, open collar of his flannel shirt.

"You're sitting right in the water, Indiana. Your feet must be soaking wet. Your mother ought to see you."

Indiana looked at him with a laugh. He remembered her blue eyes had given him that same arch glance as a child, when he had discovered her in some act of mischief.

"You always liked to put your feet in the puddles," he said.

"Yes, I always had a passion for puddles. As Grandma Chazy would say, 'it'll bode me no good, some day.'"

"It's from Lord Stafford," cried Mrs. Bunker.

"Indeed!" said Indiana, affecting an English accent.

"They'll be with us in a few days, Indiana."

"Charmed!" said Indiana, standing up in the boat, and screwing up her face in imitation of Lord Stafford with his monocle.

Glen laughed heartily at the expense of Mrs. Bunker's English friends.

"That's great, Indiana."

"You little rogue," cried Mrs. Bunker, "I won't have you ridicule my friends. Oh, I'm so delighted. You'll find them lovely company."

"Ya--a--as," drawled Indiana, with a bored expression, "delighted, I'm--" the rest was finished in the water, the boat capsizing suddenly. Indiana was near enough to the dock to throw out an arm to Glen, and he drew her up laughing, but drenched.

"I knew you'd do it, Indiana," cried Mrs. Bunker.

Indiana, still clinging to Glen, as the dock was slippery, smiled faintly, putting her hand to her side.

"You didn't hurt yourself, did you, Indiana?" said Glen, anxiously.

"I twisted my side a little--I wanted to save myself, as I fell--that's all."

"What did she do, Glen?" called Mrs. Bunker.

Glen lifted her up in his arms, and carried her up to the camp.

"It was a punishment for making fun of people, wasn't it, Glen?" she said, lifting her little wet face from his breast. "Serves me right, don't it, Glen?"

"No, dear," he said, tenderly.

She tightened her arms about his neck. "You always took care of me, Glen," she said, childishly. His heart beat violently against the little soaking bundle. It was on his lips to say, "I always will, if you'll only let me, Indiana." But he refrained. Still, as he climbed, he felt he was mounting the goal where his heart could rest.

Mrs. Stillwater ran anxiously to meet them.

"It's nothing, Mary," cried Mrs. Bunker, "she was cutting up some of her pranks, and fell into the water."

"Just rub her side," said Glen, delivering his burden, "she sprained it a little, falling, and put some dry clothes on her. You feel all right, don't you, Indiana?"

"Yes, Glen; thank you," said Indiana, meekly.

Mrs. Bunker often remarked, "Indiana's always good, when she's sick."

"Now, Indiana," said that lady, after her granddaughter had been duly dried and dressed. "Shall I read you the rest of the letter?"

"Yes," said Indiana, lying on a couch before the fire.

"'We have enjoyed our tour exceedingly. My nephew has accumulated much information which will prove of scientific value--'"

"Oh, he's that sort, is he?" said Glen, who was seated in a niche by the fire. He rose, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and sauntered out on the balcony.

"Jealous already!" said Mrs. Bunker. Indiana laughed, looking into the fire.

"Go on with the letter, Grandma Chazy."

Glen looked up into the giant balsam. A chipmunk sat on one of the branches, watching him. It was one which he and Indiana had succeeded in making quite tame. He searched in his pocket for a nut. "Chip, chip, chip!" he called, holding out his hand. Indiana's words echoed in his ears. "You always took care of me, Glen," with all the innocent trust that they conveyed. "She's known me all her life," he thought, "there's no going against that. Now these Englishmen will come and spoil everything." He puffed savagely on his pipe, still holding out the nut to the chipmunk, who approached nearer and nearer. "I'll have to take a back seat, now, I suppose. I guess I'll get out of the way, altogether, for a little while. That'll suit me better." He caught sight of Haller, below, planting ferns. "Halloa!" he called.

Haller regarded him interrogatively.

"Any guides at liberty?"

Haller pulled thoughtfully on his pipe. Meanwhile the chipmunk grabbed the nut, and disappeared.

"Little rascal," said Glen.

"Thar's Burt."

"Tell him I want him for a week or two."

The morning of the day when Mrs. Bunker expected her guests, Glen signified his intention of a temporary departure.

"Why, you are not going to leave us, Glen?" asked Mrs. Stillwater, innocently.

"Oh, I'm just going off for a little sport."

"And when will you be back, Glen?"

"Oh, I'll be back in a week or so."

"I think it's real mean of you, Glen," said Indiana, pouting, "just as we're expecting company, and men, too--and Pa isn't here."

"Oh, there won't be any deficiency. Mrs. Bunker will see to that."

"You're right! There won't be any deficiency," and she added sweetly, "though I don't like to see you go."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bunker. Here's Burt for me, now." Burt was a blonde, stalwart young fellow, about Glen's own age. He rowed swiftly toward the boat-house, smoking the inevitable pipe. When he landed, he strapped one of those deep baskets the guides carry for provisions, on his back, and climbed up to the camp. Mrs. Stillwater hurried down to the kitchen, to assure herself that Glen was well provided for on his trip.

They all descended to the lake to see him go. When Indiana saw the accoutrements for departure; the fishing tackle, guns, and tent rigging, she commenced to envy the two young fellows going off together, and felt rather ill used to be left behind, to do the tame work of entertaining. Glen read her face, and was inwardly delighted.

"We're going to have a rare, good time, Indiana."

"I believe you," said Indiana, ruefully.

"Do you think there'll be enough provisions, Glen?" inquired Mrs. Stillwater, anxiously.

Glen laughed. The laugh was echoed by Haller and William, who were assisting in the ceremony of seeing the young men off.

"We'll have plenty of game, and Burt's as fine as any French cook."

Burt took his pipe from his mouth with a flattered smile and a blush. He was as shy as some young girls.

"We'll feed on the delicacies of the season. And there's the canned stuff, which we'll reserve for emergencies." He grasped Mrs. Stillwater's hand.

"Don't you be afraid, Mrs. Stillwater. We won't starve."

"Oh, he won't starve, ma'am. I'll see to that," said Burt.

"When we're hungry, we'll come home." They both laughed heartily.

"Do you think there'll be good sport, Burt?" said Indiana.

Burt, sitting in the boat, arranging his paraphernalia, looked at her admiringly.

"There'll be sport," he replied.

"Oh, Glen; are you going to take your mandolin?"

"Why not? It'll cheer us up nights, by the fire."

Burt grinned in visible delight.

"Well, I won't say good-bye for such a short time." He shook them all by the hand. "Take care of yourselves."

"Good-bye, Glen--no, I won't say good-bye. I hope you'll have a good time, and come home safe."

"Thank you, Indiana." He waved his hat to all and jumped into the boat. Haller pushed them off.

Indiana ran down to the end of the dock and threw her arms out to Glen. "Oh, take me along!"

Burt stopped rowing.

"All right," said Glen, "there's room for you; will you come?"

"Yes," said Indiana.

"We'll take care of her, Mrs. Stillwater; won't we, Burt?"

"Why, of course," said Burt. "She won't starve--I'll see to that."

"Be off, the pair of you!" cried Mrs. Bunker. Burt took the oars again, laughing, while Glen flourished his cap, looking at Indiana, and Haller and William shouted sportsman's jokes from the shore.

"There they go," said Indiana, waving her handkerchief. She then sat down on the dock, watching the boat grow smaller and smaller. The strains of the mandolin floated to them over the water.

"Indiana, you look as though you hadn't a friend left. If I thought as much of a person as that, I wouldn't let him out of my sight."

"Well, Grandma Chazy, Glen's my best friend."

"And look at your mother! She's actually crying."

"Well, I hated to see him going off like that--I--I'm so fond of him."

"Ma's a good soul," cried Indiana, jumping up and throwing herself into Mrs. Stillwater's arms. "Yes, she is."

"Well, I am not disputing that, Indiana."

"He was so set on going," said Mrs. Stillwater, holding Indiana to her. "I think it was because of those Englishmen. He don't like strangers."

"A pity about him," retorted Mrs. Bunker, sharply. "Does he want to monopolize Indiana altogether? He went because he might be of some use for once. He could have livened things up a little nights with his mandolin, but I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of saying so. Well, I'm just as well pleased. He might have been unmannerly or bearish."

"Not Glen!" said Indiana.