CHAPTER XVI
THE CAMP ON THE OVERLOOK
Mountain Camp was rightly named, for it was built on the side of onemountain and was facing another. Between the two eminences was a lake atleast five miles long and almost as broad. The wind had blown so hardduring the blizzard that the snow had not piled upon the ice at all,although it was heaped man-high along the edges. The pool of blue icestretched away from before Mountain Camp like a huge sheet of plate glass.
The two storied, rambling house, built of rough logs on the outside, stoodon a plateau called the Overlook forty feet above the surface of the lake.Indeed the spot did overlook the whole high valley.
The hills sloped down from this height in easy descents to the plains.Woods masked every topographical contour of the surrounding country. Suchwoods as Betty Gordon and her friends had never seen before.
"Virginia forests are not like this," confessed Louise Littell. "The pinesare never so tall and there is not so much hardwood. Dear me! see thatdead pine across the lake. It almost seems to touch the sky, it is sotall."
This talk took place the next morning when they had all rested and, likeall healthy young things, were eager for adventure. They had been welcomedby Mr. and Mrs. Canary in a way that put the most bashful at ease.
Even Ida Bellethorne had soon recovered from that sense of strangenessthat had at first overpowered her. The girls had been able to help her outa little in the matter of dress. She appeared at the dinner table quite asone of themselves. Betty would not hear of Ida's withdrawing from thegeneral company, and for a particular reason.
In truth, Betty felt a little condemned. She had considered a suspicion ofIda's honesty, and afterward she knew it could not be so! The English girlhad no appearance of a dishonest person. Betty saw that Uncle Dick wasfavorably disposed toward Ida. If he did not consider her all right hesurely would not have introduced her to Mr. and Mrs. Canary as one of hisparty.
Nor did Uncle Dick allow Ida to tell her story the evening they arrived atthe camp on the Overlook. "To-morrow will do for that," he had said.
At breakfast time there were so many plans for exciting adventurediscussed that Betty surely would have forgotten all about IdaBellethorne's expected explanation had it not been for the lost locket.The possibility that Ida knew something about it had so impressed Bettythat nothing else held her interest for long.
Every one had brought skates from Fairfields, and the great expanse ofblue ice--no ice is so blue as that of a mountain lake--was unmarked.Naturally skating was the very first pleasure that beckoned.
"Oh, I'm just crazy to get on skates!" cried Bobby.
"I think I'll be glad to do some skating myself," came from Libbie, whohad been reading a book even before breakfast.
"What do you say to a race on skates?" came from Tommy Tucker.
"I think we had better get used to skating up here before we talk about arace," said Bob. "This ice looks tremendously hard and slippery. You won'tbe able to do much on your skates unless they are extra sharp."
"Oh, I had 'em sharpened."
"Don't forget to wrap up well," admonished Mrs. Canary. "Sometimes it getspretty cold and windy."
"Not to say anything about its being cold already," answered Bobby. "My,but the wind goes right through a person up here!"
While the other seven ran off for skates and wraps, Betty nodded to UncleDick and then, tucking her arm through that of Ida Bellethorne, urged herto follow Mr. Gordon from the breakfast room to a little study, or "den,"that was possibly Mr. Canary's own.
"Now, girls," said Uncle Dick in his quiet, pleasant way and smiling withequal kindness upon his niece and the English girl, "let us getcomfortable and open our hearts to each other. I think you know, Ida, thatBetty and I are immensely interested in your story and we are hungry forthe details. But not altogether out of mere curiosity. We hope to give youaid in some way to make your situation better. Understand?"
"Oh, Mr. Gordon, I quite understand that," said the English girl seriouslyand without smiling. "I never saw such friendly people as you are. And youboth strangers to me! If I were at home I couldn't find better friends, Iam sure."
"That's fine!" declared Uncle Dick. "It is exactly the way I want you tofeel. Betty and I are interested. Now suppose you sit down and tell us allabout it."
"Where shall I begin?" murmured the girl thoughtfully, hesitating.
"If I were you," returned Uncle Dick, with a smile, "I would begin at thebeginning."
"Oh, but that's so very far back!"
"Never mind that. One of the most foolish mistakes which I see ineducational methods is to give the children lessons in modern historywithout any reference to ancient history which comes to them in highergrades. Ancient history should be gone into first. Suppose, Ida, you beginwith ancient history."
"Before Ida Bellethorne was born, do you mean?" asked the English girldoubtfully.
"Which Ida Bellethorne do you mean?" asked Mr. Gordon, while Betty stared.
"I was thinking of my beautiful black mare. The darling! She is sevenyears old now, Mr. Gordon; but I think that in those seven years enoughhas happened to me to make me feel three times seven years old."
"Go ahead, Ida," said the gentleman cheerfully. "Tell it in your own way."
Thus encouraged, the girl began, and she did tell it in her own way. Butit was not a brief way, and both Mr. Gordon and Betty asked questions andthat, too, increased the difficulty of Ida's telling her story.
She had been the only living child of Gwynne Bellethorne, who had been ahorse breeder and sometimes a turfman in one of the lower Englishcounties. She had been motherless since her third birthday. Her onlyliving relative was her father's sister, likewise Ida Bellethorne, who hadbeen estranged from her brother for several years and had made her ownway on the continent and later in America on the concert stage.
Ida, the present Ida, remembered seeing her aunt but once. She had come toBellethorne Park the very week the black mare was foaled. When they allwent out to see the little, awkward, kicking colt in the big box stall,separated from its whinnying mother by a strong barred fence, the owner ofthe stables had laughingly named the filly after his sister.
"But," Ida told them, "father told Aunt Ida that the filly was to be myproperty. He had, I think, suffered many losses even then. He made a billof sale, or something, making the filly over to me; but I was a minor, andafter father died my guardian had that bill of sale. He showed it to meonce. I don't see how Mr. Bolter could have bought my lovely mare when Igot none of the money for her."
This was not, however, sticking to the main thread of the story. Ida knewthat although her aunt had come to the Park in amity, there was a quarrelbetween her father and aunt before the haughty and beautiful concertsinger went away, never more to appear at Bellethorne, not even to attendher brother's funeral.
Before that sad happening the mare, Ida Bellethorne, had come to fullgrowth and as a three-year-old had made an astonishing record on theEnglish race tracks. The year Mr. Bellethorne died he had planned to shipher to France for the Grand Prix. Her name was in the mouths of everysportsman in England and her fame had spread to the United States.
The death of her father had signaled the breaking up of her home and thesevering of all home ties for Ida. Like many men of his class, Mr.Bellethorne had had no close friends. At least, no honorable friends. Theman he had chosen as the administrator of his wrecked estate and theguardian of his unfortunate daughter, Ida felt sure had been dishonorable.
There seemed nothing left for Ida when the estate was "settled." One dayIda Bellethorne, the mare, had disappeared, and Ida the girl could learnnothing about her or what had been done with her. At that she had run awayfrom her guardian, had made her way to Liverpool, had taken service withan American family sailing for the United States, and so had reached NewYork.
"I found a letter addressed to Aunt Ida after my father died," explainedthe girl, choking back a sob. "On the envelope in pencil father hadwritten to me to find Aunt
Ida and give it to her. He hoped she wouldforgive him and take some interest in me. I've got that letter safe inhere." She touched the belt that held her blouse down so snugly. "I hopeI'll find Aunt Ida and be able to give her the letter. I remember her as amost beautiful, tall woman. I loved her on sight. But, I don't know----"
"Cheer up!" exclaimed Mr. Gordon, beamingly. "We'll find her. I take itupon myself to say that Betty and I will find her for you. Sha'n't we,Betty?"
"Indeed we will. If she is singing in this country of course it will becomparatively easy to find her."
"Do you think so?" asked Ida Bellethorne doubtfully. "I have not found itso, and I have been searching for her for three months now. This is such abig country! I never imagined it so big until I began to look for AuntIda. It seems like looking for a needle in a haystack."