THE MESSENGERS

Richard Harding Davis

When Ainsley first moved to Lone Lake Farm all of his friends asked him the same question.  They wanted to know, if the farmer who sold it to him had abandoned it as worthless, how one of the idle rich, who could not distinguish a plough from a harrow, hoped to make it pay?  His answer was that he had not purchased the farm as a means of getting richer by honest toil, but as a retreat from the world and as a test of true friendship.  He argued that the people he knew accepted his hospitality at Sherry’s because, in any event, they themselves would be dining within a taxicab fare of the same place.  But if to see him they travelled all the way to Lone Lake Farm, he might feel assured that they were friends indeed.

Lone Lake Farm was spread over many acres of rocky ravine and forest, at a point where Connecticut approaches New York, and between it and the nearest railroad station stretched six miles of an execrable wood road.  In this wilderness, directly upon the lonely lake, and at a spot equally distant from each of his boundary lines, Ainsley built himself a red brick house.  Here, in solitude, he exiled himself; ostensibly to become a gentleman farmer; in reality to wait until Polly Kirkland had made up her mind to marry him.

Lone Lake, which gave the farm its name, was a pond hardly larger than a city block.  It was fed by hidden springs, and fringed about with reeds and cat-tails, stunted willows and shivering birch.  From its surface jutted points of the same rock that had made farming unremunerative, and to these miniature promontories and islands Ainsley, in keeping with a fancied resemblance, gave such names as the Needles, St. Helena, the Isle of Pines.  From the edge of the pond that was farther from the house rose a high hill, heavily wooded.  At its base, oak and chestnut trees spread their branches over the water, and when the air was still were so clearly reflected in the pond that the leaves seemed to float upon the surface.  To the smiling expanse of the farm the lake was what the eye is to the human countenance.  The oaks were its eyebrows, the fringe of reeds its lashes, and, in changing mood, it flashed with happiness or brooded in sombre melancholy.  For Ainsley it held a deep attraction.  Through the summer evenings, as the sun set, he would sit on the brick terrace and watch the fish leaping, and listen to the venerable bull-frogs croaking false alarms of rain.  Indeed, after he met Polly Kirkland, staring moodily at the lake became his favorite form of exercise.  With a number of other men, Ainsley was very much in love with Miss Kirkland, and unprejudiced friends thought that if she were to choose any of her devotees, Ainsley should be that one.  Ainsley heartily agreed in this opinion, but in persuading Miss Kirkland to share it he had not been successful.  This was partly his own fault; for when he dared to