A Romance at Tuxedo

GEORGE S. CHAPPELL

A Winter Idyll in the Mountain Fastnesses of Society

I HAVE just been spending a week-end, as do once or twice every Winter, with my friends, the Skidmores, at Tuxedo. They have a charming house there, though just where it is situated I can't say, for my journeys to and from their mountain fastness are always accomplished by night.

Taken by and large, Tuxedo is without question the most ambiguous, vague and artfully concealed of our polite purlieus. The weekend traveller, leaving town normally on the 4:40 (Saturdays only), departs in the general direction of Atlantic City by .a mysterious subfluvinal tube, emerges into a very down-at-heel terminal, re-embarks in a shockingly dissolute like trip to the railroad station, at which functions he assists or is assisted only by his bodily presence.

His arrival at his hospitable destination is shrouded in velvety blackness punctuated by the glare of waiting motors and the final welcoming warmth of a large hot fire and a small cold Bronx. Likewise his departure, if he be of the well-ordered and routine-regulated class of American males to whom Monday means the office and the pursuit of sufficient revenue to make another week-end possible,—his departure, I say, takes place in the Stygian dawn, after a semi-conscious breakfast and a trancelike trip to the railroad station, at which functions he assists or is assisted only by his bodily presence.

SO with my visits to the Skidmores. They are luminous spots between two dreams. How I get there is a mystery. How I get away even more so. But of one thing I am certain— their house is on a hill. I remember that distinctly, though that may not identify it sufficiently, it being true of all the other houses in Tuxedo. But you probably know the place— they call it "The Eyrie." I asked Laura Skidmore if it was because It was on the Eyrie Railroad and she looked very thoughtful for a moment and said she would ask Ned. Dear Laura,—she's so intelligent and such a charming hostess. If only she hadn't introduced me to . . . but this is ungallant. The whom must be nameless.

It was a small house-party this time,—Ned and Laura, young Tom, their son, looking very handsome in khaki—my, how these boys grow up!—the fair Un-named and myself. The instant I saw her, I realized with a start that she must have been invited simply and solely on my account,—who else was there for her?. Good old Ned is so wonderful that way. He hadn't said a word about her on the train, didn't want to wake me, I suppose. But Ned knows my tastes like a book,—better, in fact, as he doesn't go in much for books—and she was absolutely my ideal. As she stood in the hall, her bronze-gold hair reflecting the firelight, a look of wistful anticipation lighting her blue eyes, I quite forgot my hostess, my surroundings, even myself. The only thing that brought me to, was Watkins' remark as he helped me off with my coat.

"The sleeve lining's torn, sir," he said.

Big booby! As if I didn't know it, and hadn't slipped my arm between the cursed thing and the sleeve forty-eight times that week! But it bridged the awkward interval. She laughed and we were friends from that moment. What a delightful evening we had, Laura completely absorbed in a six-day knitting race, Ned dozing in his big chair, young Tom gone yawning to bed—poor boy, he must have felt a bit de trop—while She—what do you suppose? She actually mended my coat, while I told her about the Winter sports at St. Moritz.

IT is one of the subjects I am at my best on, and how could I fail to shine under such lovely auspices? In the confidence of these columns—and I know that you will not let it go an inch further—I will whisper one thing. I have never been in St. Moritz in Winter. But She, sweet innocent, had never been there at all. She had always longed to—the Winter sports must be so wonderful.

"Oh, they are!" I enthused.

"Do tell me about them," she begged.

And I did. It was quite simple. As a matter of fact, I had once toiled up the Maloya Pass from Lake Como on a boiling day in August. It had been at least ninety in the shade. The Engadine was a mass of wild flowers. I was on a bicycle trip through the Alps. Why I took along my bicycle I have often wondered, an Alp being much. too steep for either coasting or climbmg, but anyway I had the blooming thing with me and used to lean on it, in moments of exhaustion, and admire the scenery. But it wasn't a bit difficult to describe the Winter sports, as an eyewitness and participant. Hastily reconstructing the environment as I remembered it, I covered it with a heavy fall of snow, and the thing was done. The rest was easy. Any one who has a really deep, serious, literary interest, as I have, in looking at the pictures in the magazines can not fail to amass a tremendous lot of vicarious adventure. The skijumping contests, toboggan racing and snowshoeing hikes became a part of my daily life. I even remembered hair-raising slides I had experienced at a mile a second—and I told of the record ski-jump I had seen, six hundred and eighty feet, adding modestly, "Of course, I couldn't jump quite that far, but I'm pretty good." Ned groaned in his sleep and even Laura looked up at this.

"I should hope not," she said and lapsed into purl-two-knit-two oblivion, while She and I laughed together like children.

"We must try it to-morrow," she said, going to the window.

"We!"—I thought no further, delirious at the prospect of a whole day in the open with this exquisite, eager-eyed young creature.

WELL, morning came as mornings will, and I dressed for the part rather carefully. My Winter equipment was quite faultless—some of it a bit new, perhaps, but correct in every detail. In fact, if I could have been judged on appointments rather than on performance I might have gotten the blue rather than the black-and-blue,—but I am getting ahead of myself.

The first event on the programme was to ski down the hill, previously mentioned, to the top of the toboggan slide. From there, as I understood the breakfast-babel, we were to let Nature take its course. The skis were waiting for us outside. As I stood on the edge of the precipice which plunged from the piazza, I realized the truth of that wise saying, C'est le premier pas qui coute.

It coute me something terrible.

Tom and my lovely companion had led the way, sliding gracefully down-grade on the bias. They were some distance ahead of me before I started ,but I caught them,—passed them, in fact, goiifg at lightning speed. The emergencybrake—a long stick with a pretzel on the end of it—didn't seem to have the slightest effect. I tried to remember how I had seen it done in the Geographic Magazine, but my musings were cut short by my head's "coming in contact with a large oak tree that-rushed to meet me. When I revived, She was bending over me applying first snow to the injured and, would you believe it, there were tears in her eyes!

"It's too bad," she murmured, "you've broken one of your skiis."

I was tremendously relieved. I had thought it was my leg. Fortunately we were near our first objective and as I limped by her side, I asked her if she knew what the record was for the trip from the Skidmores to the slide, and Tom, very manfully I thought, said he believed I held it.

Quite a crowd of enthusiasts were grouped at the head of the slide, where my exploit on the hillside was loudly acclaimed. As Tom put it, rather neatly, too, "There was nothing between him and a touch-down but the goalpost, but, as he hit the goal-post, he was thrown back five yards."

OF course, I was unanimously elected to steer our first boat-load down the chute. Tom sat in the bow. She was between us, and I was at the helm, fully resolved to give the brute his head. Just as we were comfortably settled an officious person in the rear suddenly tipped the tail of our toboggan sky-ward, and we were off. I say "we"; perhaps it would be more accurate to say I was off. We seemed to drop directly into space, more or less together for a second, after which I was going it literally on my own. I have always been thankful to my tailor for including in my equipment a sliding-seat with out-riggers. ' "

The second and successive slides were more successful. Tom steered and all I had to do was to hold myself on by her waist, which seemed to come perfectly natural to me. The crisp, cold rush of air as we dove downward, the sweet fragrance of her bronze-gold hair made a combination that exhilarated me. I could have kept it up all day. But lunch was waiting at the Club and then skating on the little pond, which had been cleared for the purpose. Ned and Laura had motored over with the implements.

I had to apologize in advance for my skating, my left ankle having begun to swell and throb quite furiously. Fortunately, She was very sweet about it and glided off with Tom, which must have been dull enough, and I had an opportunity to practice on Laura, who is splendidly solid and steady, built more for comfort than speed. We got on famously and had only one fall—that is, Laura had. While we were curving grandly in a circle her foot got in front of one of mine and down she went with a terrific crash. But I escaped all blame by skating on alone, pretending I hadn't been with her when the disaster occurred.

(Continued on page 82)

(Continued, from page 43)

AFTER a few simple figures in an isolated part of the pond I returned, but Laura was nowhere to be found. I couldn't imagine what had become of her and was just about to go to the Club to inquire, when my radiant maiden came swooping toward me and begged for just one waltz. I suppose I was foolish to consent, but I have waltzed so many miles in so many ball-rooms, and was so flushed by my recent success in keeping my balance that I imagined I could negotiate at least one tour on ice. The backward half of the manoeuvre was assigned to me. Throwing my will-power into full reverse I soared heavenward for an instant, described a perfect parabola—and dropped with the crack of a French 75. Ned must have picked me up. I remembered nothing after the moment of impact until I slowly recognized a Scotch-and-soda in my hand. My host was tact itself; his every thought was for my comfort. He was full of plans for my evening's entertainment. Would I have another Scotch? Should we dress for dinner? The young people were going on a moonlight bob-sled ride before coming down to the club to dance; would I join them, or should we rest-up at home and go to bed? Out of all his propositions I accepted the last.

I DID not see Laura again—Ned and I yawned over our cigars. And even his announcement of Tom's engagement to SHE—our fair house-guest— did not rouse me. I had had so many bumps that day, one more or less did not matter. Rising shortly after midnight, we took the early train to town. Young Tom was on board, looking as fresh as a daisy, but I could not help thinking how these new uniforms do make some of our young men swagger and put on airs.

It's really quite sickening.