Down East Latch Strings/Chapter 1

by Ernest Ingersoll

Chapter I.

Outward Bound.

And for to see, and eke for to be seye.—Chaucer.

T last I had some good news for Prue—and for myself, too, It had looked for a time as though there was to be no vacation this year, when it seemed more than usually needful to both of us; though we were by no means broken in health—only a little strained. But that is just the point when one wants to stop and recuperate, partly because it costs the system less energy to recover than after the breaking-down is complete, and partly because a pretty well man can enjoy his vacation so much more than a pretty ill one can.

So I rode home that evening in a hurry, but curbed my spirits before I went into the house, and made no sign until the roast was out of the way, and I had a little cup of coffee and my after-dinner cigar well a-light. Then I suppose my satisfaction began to come to the surface for my wife spoke out, rather sharply,—

"Can’t you tell me the joke? If there’s anything especially disagreeable in you, Theo, it’s that way you have of hugging a good story to yourself and not telling it to me. If you knew how lonesome and hot it has been out here all day, you wouldn’t be so careless of my pleasure. Do stop that furious grin!"

Furious grin! Of all the mixtures of terms I ever heard, that was the worst; yet it seemed to have a certain appropriateness. Evidently we were in need of a change of scene.

"Oh, it’s nothing," I answered mildly; "at least nothing much. Only I've a chance for a very pretty vacation trip to the northward that I was going to tell you about presently."

My wife's half-tearful eyes opened wide. She sprang up, rushed round the table and – but no matter. These domestic incidents are neither here nor there.

"Now tell me all about it," she demanded, when peace had been fully restored.

"Well, that bothersome business that I feared was going to keep me in town all summer has at last come to an end, and in a few days I can get away for a good long trip."

"'Whither, Oh whither, Oh whither, away,'" sang my vis-a-vis ecstatically.

"I've been longing to see the White Mountains again, and you've been wishing you could go down to Maine. So we will do both, if you'll promise not to make too long a stay in any one place."

"Oh, I'll promise anything, and go anywhere. And I wonder whether we couldn't get Mr. Baily to go with us? You know he said in his last letter that he hadn't been out of town yet, and was undecided about it. I dare say he'd jump at this chance."

"Very likely. I'll write him to-night."

Baily was a friend of ours in New York, who had been a companion on more than one trip before. Though a bachelor he was not cranky,—only orderly, statistical and nice. He had more money than Prue and I together, twice over; was large-minded, serene of temper and an eager sportsman. This trip would undoubtedly suit him, we judged, and judged rightly, for he promptly replied that he would gladly go with us.

So we arranged our journey, with an eye to an enjoyable alternation of scenes and amusements,—now inland scenery and country fare, now hotel life and social gayety by the "loud-resounding sea", and anon some fishing and shooting; and this was the result:—

Boston via Haverhill to Lake Winnipesaukee; thence by rail to Old Orchard and Portland, Maine, and steamer to Mount Desert; thence to Moosehead Lake and the Rangeley lakes in succession; and finally to the White Mountains. Several side-trips were suggested in addition, as possible.

Everybody thought this an admirable tour; and Baily telegraphed that he would come up from New York by the way of Worcester and Nashua, and overtake us at Rochester, N.H., at a certain time.

The General Passenger Agent of the Boston & Maine Railroad pinned us together a little book of tickets which should carry us all the way round: the appointed day came and we started, with a look of expectant enjoyment on Prue’s somewhat wan face, that it did me good to see, for I knew the color would come into her cheeks fast enough when we got a taste of the balsamic breezes blowing straight from the cool northern hills.