But, in spite of this profession of obstinate heresy, Beekman
observed with secret joy that there were signs, before the end of
the season, that Cornelia was drifting a little, a very little but
still perceptibly, in the direction of a change of heart. She began
to take an interest, as the big trout came along in September, in
the reports of the catches made by the different anglers. She would
saunter out with the other people to the corner of the porch to see
the fish weighed and spread out on the grass. Several times she
went with Beekman in the canoe to Hardscrabble Point, and showed
distinct evidences of pleasure when he caught large trout. The last
day of the season, when he returned from a successful expedition to
Roach River and Lily Bay, she inquired with some particularity about
the results of his sport; and in the evening, as the company sat
before the great open fire in the hall of the hotel, she was heard
to use this information with considerable skill in putting down Mrs.
Minot Peabody of Boston, who was recounting the details of her
husband's catch at Spencer Pond. Cornelia was not a person to be
contented with the back seat, even in fish-stories.
When Beekman observed these indications he was much encouraged, and
resolved to push his educational experiment briskly forward to his
customary goal of success.
"Some things can be done, as well as others," he said in his
masterful way, as three of us were walking home together after the
autumnal dinner of the Petrine Club, which he always attended as a
graduate member. "A real fisherman never gives up. I told you I'd
make an angler out of my wife; and so I will. It has been rather
difficult. She is 'dour' in rising. But she's beginning to take
notice of the fly now. Give me another season, and I'll have her
landed."
Good old Beekman! Little did he think-- But I must not interrupt
the story with moral reflections.
The preparations that he made for his final effort at conversion
were thorough and prudent. He had a private interview with Dewlap
in regard to the construction of a practical fishing-costume for a
lady, which resulted in something more reasonable and workmanlike
than had ever been turned out by that famous artist. He ordered
from Hook and Catchett a lady's angling-outfit of the most enticing
description,--a split-bamboo rod, light as a girl's wish, and strong
as a matron's will; an oxidized silver reel, with a monogram on one
side, and a sapphire set in the handle for good luck; a book of
flies, of all sizes and colours, with the correct names inscribed in
gilt letters on each page. He surrounded his favourite sport with
an aureole of elegance and beauty. And then he took Cornelia in
September to the Upper Dam at Rangeley.
She went reluctant. She arrived disgusted. She stayed incredulous.
She returned-- Wait a bit, and you shall hear how she returned.
The Upper Dam at Rangeley is the place, of all others in the world,
where the lunacy of angling may be seen in its incurable stage.
There is a cosy little inn, called a camp, at the foot of a big
lake. In front of the inn is a huge dam of gray stone, over which
the river plunges into a great oval pool, where the trout assemble
in the early fall to perpetuate their race. From the tenth of
September to the thirtieth, there is not an hour of the day or night
when there are no boats floating on that pool, and no anglers
trailing the fly across its waters. Before the late fishermen are
ready to come in at midnight, the early fishermen may be seen
creeping down to the shore with lanterns in order to begin before
cock-crow. The number of fish taken is not large,--perhaps five or
six for the whole company on an average day,--but the size is
sometimes enormous,--nothing under three pounds is counted,--and
they pervade thought and conversation at the Upper Dam to the
exclusion of every other subject. There is no driving, no dancing,
no golf, no tennis. There is nothing to do but fish or die.
At first, Cornelia thought she would choose the latter alternative.
But a remark of that skilful and morose old angler, McTurk, which
she overheard on the verandah after supper, changed her mind.
"Women have no sporting instinct," said he. "They only fish because
they see men doing it. They are imitative animals."
That same night she told Beekman, in the subdued tone which the
architectural construction of the house imposes upon all
confidential communications in the bedrooms, but with resolution in
every accent, that she proposed to go fishing with him on the
morrow.
"But not on that pool, right in front of the house, you understand.
There must be some other place, out on the lake, where we can fish
for three or four days, until I get the trick of this wobbly rod.
Then I'll show that old bear, McTurk, what kind of an animal woman
is."
Beekman was simply delighted. Five days of diligent practice at the
mouth of Mill Brook brought his pupil to the point where he
pronounced her safe.
"Of course," he said patronizingly, "you have 'nt learned all about
it yet. That will take years. But you can get your fly out thirty
feet, and you can keep the tip of your rod up. If you do that, the
trout will hook himself, in rapid water, eight times out of ten.
For playing him, if you follow my directions, you 'll be all right.
We will try the pool tonight, and hope for a medium-sized fish."
Cornelia said nothing, but smiled and nodded. She had her own
thoughts.
At about nine o'clock Saturday night, they anchored their boat on
the edge of the shoal where the big eddy swings around, put out the
lantern and began to fish. Beekman sat in the bow of the boat, with
his rod over the left side; Cornelia in the stern, with her rod over
the right side. The night was cloudy and very black. Each of them
had put on the largest possible fly, one a "Bee-Pond" and the other
a "Dragon;" but even these were invisible. They measured out the
right length of line, and let the flies drift back until they hung
over the shoal, in the curly water where the two currents meet.
There were three other boats to the left of them. McTurk was their
only neighbour in the darkness on the right. Once they heard him
swearing softly to himself, and knew that he had hooked and lost a
fish.
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