THE KEYS OF EDEN

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIV, Issue 21, 27 May 1905, Page 6

THE KEYS OF EDEN

BY

Robert W. Chambers

Bubble, bubble, flows the stream. Like au old song through a dream. WHEN Kingsbury had finished his postgraduate course in social economy at Columbia University there appeared to be little or nothing further in the way of human knowledge for him to acquire. However, on the chance ot dis interring a fragment or two of amorphous information which he might find use for in his projected book, "Ihe Economy of Marriage,” he allowed himself a war abroad, taking the precaution to' invite Smith—the flippancy of Smith being calculated to neutralise any over-intellectual activity in himlle needed a rest; he had had the world on his hands too long—ever since his sophomore year. Smith was the man to give him mental repose. There was no use attempting to discuss social economy* with Smith, or of interesting that trivial and inert mind in race suicide. Smith was flippant. Often and often Kingsbury thought: "How can he have passed through Columbia University and remained flippant?” But neither pyramid nor Pantheon produced marked effect upon Smith, and although it is true that Paris horribly appealed to him, in the remainder of Europe he found nothing better to do than to unpack nis trout-rod and make for the nearest puddle wherever they found themselves, whether in the Alps, the Tyrol, the Vosges, or the forests of Belgium, where they at present occupied a stucco-covered villa with servants. stables, hothouses, and a likely trout stream for Smith to dabble in. at a sum per month so ridiculously reasonable that 1 shall not mention it for fear of depopulating my native land. Besides, they had the youthful and widowed Countess of Semois for their neighbour. And so it came about that, in this leafy, sunny land of cream and honey, one very lovely morning, young Kingsbury, booted and spurred and still flushed from his early gallop through the soft wood-roads of the forest, found Smith at breakfast under the grapearbour. immersed in a popular novel ami a bowl of strawberries. "Hello,” said Smith, politely, pushing the fruit across the table. "The berries are tine: 1 took a corking trout an hour ago; we'll have it directly.” "1 saw the Countess,” said Kingsbury, carelessly unbuttoning his gloves as lie stood there. "Oh, you did? Well, which one is the Countess: the girl with the dark hair, or that stunning red-haired beauty ?” "How could I tell? 1 couldn’t ride up and ask, could 1 ? They were driving, as usual. The King was out. too; I wish he’d wear a decent hat.” "With the moral welfare of two hemispheres on your hands, you ought not to feel responsible for the King’s derby.” observed Smith. Any exaggeration of fact always perplexed Kingsbury. He flattened out his gloves, stuck his riding-crop into his left boot, and looked at Smith through his monocle. “For all the talk about the King,” lie said, “the peasantry salute him as reverently as though he were their fat her.” To which Smith in his flippancy, replied: 'lhe children for their inuiinrch pray. Emh buxon lass and lathlie; A thousand reasons k<kml have they 'l’o call the King their daddy. Kingsbury retired to make bis toilet: returned presently smelling less of the stables, seated himself, drowned a dozen luscious strawberries in cream.

tasted one. and cast a patronising eye upon the trout which had been prepared a la Meuniere. ‘’Corker, isn't he?” observed Smith, contemplating the fish with pardonable pride, "lie’s poached. 1 regret to inform you.” “Poached?” “Oh. not like an egg; 1 mean that I took him in private waters. It was a flagrant case of poaching.” •‘What on earth did you do that for?” “Now, I’ll explain that in a minute. You know where our stream flows under the arch in the wall which separates our grounds from the park next door? Well. I was casting away on our side, never thinking of mischief, when, dip! tlop! spatter! splash! and. if you please, right under the water-arch in the wall this scandalous trout jumped. Of

course. 1 put it to him good and plenty, hut the criminal creature, on purpose to tempt me, backed off down stream and clean through the arch into our neighbour’s water. •• ’ls it poaching if 1 go over after him?’ thought 1. And. Kingsbury, do you know I had no time to debate that moral question, because, before I could reply to myself. 1 found myself hoisting a ladder to the top of the wall and lowering it on the other side there are no steps on the other side. And what do you think? BBefore 1 could rouse myself with the cry of ‘Trespasser! Help!* I found myself climbing down into the park and casting a fly with sinful accuracy. “’ls it right?' 1 asked myself in an agony of doubt. But. alas. Kingsbury, before I had a ghost of a chance to answer myself in the negative I had hooked that trout fast: and there was the deuce to play, for I’d forgotten my landing-net!” He shook his head, helped Kingsbury to a portion of the trout, and refilled his own cup. “Isn't it awful?” he said. “It’s on a par with most of your performances.” observed the other coldly.

“I suppose you continued your foolish conduct with that girl, too?” “What girl?” “And I suppose you kissed her again! Did you?” “Kiss a girl?” stammered Smith. • Where have you been prowling?” “Along the boundary wal on my side, if you want to know. A week ago I chanced to be out by moonlight, and I saw you kiss her. Smith, across the top of the park wall. It is your proper role, of course, to deny it, but let me tell you that I think it’s a pretty undignified business of yours, kissing the Countess of Semois’ servants ’’ What the deuce ” “Well, who was it you kissed over the top of the wall, then?” "I don’t know,” said Smith sullenly.

“You don’t know! It wasn’t the Countess. was it?” “Of course it wasn’t the Countess. I tell you I don’t know who it was.” “Nonsense!” “No, it isn't. What happened was this: I climbed up the niches to sit on the wall by moonlight and watch the trout jump; and just as my head cleared the wall the head of a girl came up on the other side —right against the moon, so it was just a shadow—a sort of silhouette. It was an agreeable silhouette; I couldn’t really see her features.” "That was no reason for kissing them, was it?” "No—oh, not at all. The way that came about was most extraordinary. You see, we were both amazed to find our two noses so close together, and I said —something foolish—and she laughed—the prettiest, disconcerted little laugh, and that moon was there, and suddenly, to my astonishment, I realised that I was going to kiss her if she didn’t move. And—she didn’t.” “You mean to say ” “Yes. I do; I haven’t the faintest notion who it was I kissed. It couldn’t have been the Countess, because I’ve neither fought any duels nor have I been

arrested. I refuse to believe it could have been the cook, because there was something about that kiss indescribably aromatic—and, Kingsbury, she didn’t say a word—she scarcely breathed. Now a cook would have screamed, you know—” “I don’t know,” interrupted Kingsbury. “No, no, of course —neither do I.” “Idiot!” said Kingsbury, wrathfully. “Suppose it had been the Countess! Think of the consequences! Keep away from that fall, and don’t attempt to ape the depravity of a morally sick continent. You shocked me in Paris; you’re mortifying me here. If you think I’m going to be identified with your ragged morals you are mistaken.” “That’s right; don’t stand for ’em. I've been reading cheap novels, and I need a jar from an intelligence absolutely devoid of imagination.” “Y’ou’H get it if you don’t behave yourself,” said Kingsbury complacently. “The Countess of Semois probably knows who we are, and ten to one we’ll meet her at that charity bazaar at Semois-les-Bains this afternoon. ’ “I’m not going,” said Smith, breaking an egg. “Not going? You said you would go. Our Ambasador will lx* there, and we can meet the Countess if we want to.” "I don’t want to. Suppose, after all, I had kissed her! No, I’m not going. I tell you.” “Very well; that’s your own affair,” observed the other, serenely occupied with the trout. “Perhaps you’re right, too; perhaps the happy scullion whom you honoured may have complained about you to her mistress.” Smith sullenly tinkled the bell for more toast; a doll-faced maid in cap and apron brought it. “Probably,” said Kingsbury in English, •‘that is the species you fondled ” Smith opened his novel, and pretended to read; Kingsbury picked up the morning paper, propped it against a carafe, sipped his coffee, and inspected the headlines through his single eyeglass. For a few. minutes peace and order hovered over the American breakfast; the men were young and in excellent appetite; the fragrance of the flowers was not too intrusive; discreet breezes stirred the leaves; and well-behaved little birds sang judiciously in several surrounding bushes. As Kingsbury’s eyes wandered over the paper, gradually focusing upon a small paragraph, a frown began to gather on his youthful features. “Here’s a nice business!” he said, disgusted. Smith looked up indifl'erently. “Well, what is it?” he asked, and then, seeing the expression on his friend’s face, added: “Oh. I’ll bet I know!” “This,” said Kingsbury, paying him no attention, “is simply sickening.” “A young life bartered for a coronet?” inquired Smith, blandly. “Yes. Isn't it shameful ? What on earth are our women thinking of? Are you aware. Smith, that over (10 per cent, of such marriages are unhappy? Are you? Why, I could sit here ami give you statistics ” “Don’t, all the same.” “Statistics that must shock even you. And I say solemnly, that I, as an American. as a humanitarian, as a student of social economies ’’ “Help! Help!” complained Smith, addressing the butter. “Social economics,” repeated the other firmly, “as a patriot, a man, and a future father, I am astounded at the .women of my native land! Race suicide is not alone what menaces us; it is the exportation of our finest and most vigorous stock to upbuild a bloodless and alien aristocracy at our expense.” Smith reached for the toast-rack. “And if there’s one thing that irritates me.” continued Kingsbury, “it’s the spectacle of wholesome American girls marrying titles. Every time they do it I get

madder, too. Short-sighted people like you shrug their shoulders, but I tell you. Smith, it’s a terrible menace to our country. Beauty, virtue, wealth, all are being drawn away from America into the purlieus of England and the Continent.” “Then 1 think you ought to see about it at once,” said Smith, presenting himself with another slice of toast.

Kingsbury applied marmalade to a muffin and flattened out the newspaper. ■‘l tell you what,” he said, '‘some American ought to give them a dose of their own medicine.” How ?” "By coming over here and marrying a few of their titled women.” Smith sipped his coflee, keeping his novel open with the other hand: "We do that sort of thing very frequently in literature, I notice. There's an American doing it now in this novel. I’ve read lots of novels like it, too.” He laid his head on one side, musing. "As far as 1 can calculate from the romantic literature 1 have absorbed. I should say that we Americans have already carried off practically all of the available titled beauties of Europe.” "My friend,” said Kingsbury coldly, "do you realise that I am serious?” "About what?” “About this scandalous chase after titles. In the book on which I am now engaged I am embodying the following economic propisitions: For every good, sweet, wholesome American girl taken from America to bolster up a degenerate title, we men of America ought to see to it that a physically sound and titled young woman be imported and married to one of us.” “Why a titled one?” “So that Europe shall feel it the more keenly,” replied Kingsbury sternly. "I’ve often pondered the matter. If only one American could be found sufficiently self-sacrificing to step forward and set the example by doing it, I am convinced, Smith, that the tardy wheels of justice would begin to revolve and rouse a nation too long imposed upon.” "Why don’t you do something in that way yourself? There’s a fine physical specimen of the Belgian nobility in the villa next door.” “I don’t know her,” said Kingsbury, turning a delicate shell pink. “You will when you go to the bazaar. Stop fiddling with that newspaper and answer me like a man.” But Kingsbury only reopened the newspaper, amt blandly scanned the columns. Presently he began muttering aloud as he skimmed paragraph after paragraph; but his mutterings were ignored by Smith, who, coffee-cup in hand, was again buried in his novel. “I’ve a mind to try It,” repeated Kingsbury in a higher key. "It is the duty of every decent American to improve his own race. If we want physical perfection in anything don’t we select the best type obtainable? Why don’t we do it in marrying? I tell you, Smith, this is the time for individual courage, honesty and decency. Our duty is clear : we must meet the impoverishment which these titled marriages threaten with a resistless coun-ter-raid into the enemy’s country. When a European takes from us one of our best, let us take from Europe her best, health for health, wealth for wealth, title for title! By heaven, Smith. I’m going to write a volume on this.” “Oh. you’re going to write about it!” “I am.” “And then what ?” asked Smith, taking the newspaper from Kingsbury and opening it. “What then? Why—why, some one of us ought to give onr country an example. I’m willing to do it—when I have time ” “Here’s your chance, then,” urged Smith, studying the society column. “Here’s all about the charity bazaar at Semois-les-Mains this afternon. The Countess sells dolls there. Our Ambassador will be on hand, and you can meet her easily enough. The rest,” he added politely, “will, of course, be easy.” Kingsbury lighted a cigar, leaned baek in his ehair, and flung one slim, booted leg over the other. “If I were not here in Belgium for a rest ” he began. “You are—but not alone for bodily and mental repose. Think how it would rest your conscience to offset that marriage which has irritated you by marrying the Countess of Semois —by presenting to your surprised and admiring country a superb and titled wife for patriotic purposes.” “I don’t know which she is,” retorted Kingsbury, intensely annoyed. “If she’s the tail girl with dark hair and lots of

colour 1 could manage to fall in love easily enough. I may add. Smith, that you have an extraordinary way of messing up the English language.” He arose, walking out toward the gate, where the smiling little postman came trotting up to meet him. fishing out a dozen letters and papers. “Letters from home, Smith,” he observed, strolling back to the arbour. “Here’s one for you”—he laid it beside Smith’s plate—“and here’s one from my sister—l’ll just glance at it if you’ll excuse me.” He opened it and read placidly for a few moments. Then, of a sudden a terrible change came over his face; he hastily clapped his monocle to his eye. glared at the written page, set his teeth, and crumpled it furiously in his hand. 1 “Smith,” he said hoarsely, “my sister writes that she’s engaged to marry an—an Englishman!” “What of it?” inquired Smith. “What of it? I tell you my sister—my sister—my sister—is going to marry a British title!” “She’s probably in love, isn’t she? What’s the harm ” “Harm ?”

For a full minute Kingsbury stood petrified, glaring at space, then he east his cigar violently among the roses. “I have a mind,” he said, “to get into a top hat and frock coat and drive to Semois-les-Bains. . . . You say she sells dolls?” “She’s due to sell ’em, according to the morning paper.” For a few moments more Kingsbury paced the lawn; colour, due to wrath or rising excitement, touched his smooth, handsome face, deepening the mask of tan. He was good to look upon, and one of the most earnest young men the gods had ever slighted. “You think I’m all theory, don’t you? ’ he said nervously. “You shrug those flippant shoulders of yours when I tell you what course an America who honours his country should pursue. Now, I’ll prove to you whether or not I m sincere. I am deliberately going to many the Countess of Semois; and this afternoon I shall take the necessary measures to fall in love with her. That,” he added excitedly, “can be accomplished if she is the dark-haired girl we’ve seen driving.” “Now, I don’t suppose you really intend to do such a ” “Yes, I do! It sounds preposterous, but it’s logical. I’m going to practice what I expect to spend my life in preaching; that’s all. Not that I want to marry just now —I don’t; it’s inconvenient. I don’t want to fall in love. I don’t want to marry. I don't want to have a dozen children,” he s'id irritably; “but I’m going to. Smith! I’m going to, for the sake of my country. Pro patria et gloria.” “Right away?” “What rot you talk, sometimes! But I’m ready to make my words mean

something; I’m ready to marry the Countess of Semois. There is no possible room for doubt; any man can marry any woman he wants to; that is my absolute conviction. Anyhow, 1 shall ask her.” "As soon as you meet her?” "Certainly not. 1 expect to take several days about it ” "Why employ several days in sweet dissembling?” "Confound it, I’m not going to dissemble! I'm going to let her know that I admire her the moment I meet her. I’m going to tell her about my theory of scientific marriages. If she is sensible —if she is the woman America requires—if she is the dark haired girl—she’ll understand.” He turned squarely on Smith: “As for you, if you were the sort of American that you ought to be you would pick out some ornamental and wholesome young Belgian aristocrat and marry her in the shortest time that decency permits! That’s what you’d do if you had a scintilla of patriotism in your lazy make-up!” “No, I wouldn’t ” “You would! Look at vourself—-a

great, hulking, wealthy, idle young man, who stands around in puddles catching fish while Europe runs oil' our loveliest women under your bovine nose. Shame on you! Have you no desire to be up and doing?” “Oh, of course,” said Smith, unruffled; "if several passion-smitten duchesses should climb over the big wall yonder and chase me into the garden——” Kingsbury swung on his spurred heels and strode into the house; Smith sauntered out to the terrace, looked at the sky, sniffed the roses, and sat down in the shadow of a cherry tree, cocking his feet up and resting his novel on his knees. Several hours later, aroused by the mellow clash of harness and noise of wheels, he looked out over the terrace wall just in time to catch a glimpse of the victoria of his neighbour, gold and green livery, strawberry roans, flashing wheels and all; and, quite alone under her brilliant sunshade, the dark-haired girl whom Kingsbury had decided to marry as soon as he could arrange to fall in love with her. "1 fancy she's the Countess, all right,” mused Smith; “but, to me, the girl with red hair is vastly more—more alluring——” iThe sound of wheels again broke the thread of his sleepy meditation; their dog-cart was at the gate; and presently he perceived Kingsbury, hatte.l and gloved to perfection, get in, take the reins from the coachman, loop his whip, assume the posture popularly attributed to pupils of Howlett, and go whirling away through the lazy sunshine of a perfect Belgian afternoon. "The beast has lunched without me.” muttered Smith, yawning and looking

at hrs watch. Then he gut up, streivned, tmkled the bell, aud wheu the dollfaced maid arrived requested an omelet a la Seniors aud a bottle of claret. He gut it iu due lime, absorbed it lazily, casting a weather wise eye ou tue say al intervals with a view to alleruuou fishing; but the sun was too bright; besides, his book had become interesting iu a somewhat maudliu iashiou, inasmuch a» the lovers must come to a clinch in the next chapter or not at all. "You can t tell in modern novels,” he muttered; "a girl has a way of sidestepping just as the bell rings; but he ougnt to make good within the next page or two. If he doesn’t he s a dub!” With which comment he sought his hammock lor an hour's needed repose; but he had slumbered longer .nan that when he found himself sitting bolt upright, the telephone bell ringing in his ea rs. Comfortably awake now, he slid from the hammock, and entering the house, stepped into the smoking-room. "Hello!” he said, unhooking the reKingsbury’s voice replied: "I'm here in Semois les-Bains, at the charity bazaar. Can you distinguish what 1 say ?” "Perfectly, my .Romeo! Proceed.” "I’m in a fix. Our Ambassador didn’t come, and 1 don’t know anybody to take me over and present me.” "Buy a doll, idiot!” "Confound it, I've already bought ten! That doesn’t give me the privilege of doing anything but buying ten more. She’s busy; about five million people are crowding around her.” "Buy every doll she has! Put her out of business, man! Then if you can’t fix it somehow you’re a cuckoo. Is the Countess the dark-haired girl?” "Certainly.” "How do you know?” “Isn’t she here selling dolls? Didn’t the paper say she was going to?” "Yes—but hadn’t you better find out for certain before yon ” "1 am certain: anyway. I don’t care. Smith, she is the most radiantly "All right; ring off —” "Wait! I wanted to tel! you that she has the prettiest way of smiling every lime I buy a doll. And then, while she wraps up the infernal thing in ribbons and tissue we chat a little. I’d like to murder our Ambassador! Do you think that if I bought her entire stock ” "Yes, I do!” "What do you think?” "What you do.” "But I don’t think anything at all. I am asking you —” "Try it. anyhow.” "All right. Hold the wire, Smith. I’ll report progress ” "What! Stand here and wait ” 'Don t be selfish. I’ll return in a moment.” The "moment” stretched into a buzzing. crackling half-hour, punctuated bv impatient inquiries from Central. Sud denly an excited: “Hello, Smith!" "Hello, you infernal ” “I’ve done it! I've bought every doll! She’s the sweetest thing; 1 told her I had a plan for endowing a ward in any old hospital she might name, and she thinks we ought to talk it over, so Cm going to sit out on the terrace with her—Smith! ” "What?” "Oh. I thought you’d gone! I only wanted to say that she is far, far lovelier than I had supposed. 1 can't waff here talking with yon any longer. Goodbye ! ” "Is she the Countess?" shouted Smith incredulously. But Kingsbury had rung off. So Smi h retired to his room to bathe, clothed himself in snowy linen. and fresh tennis flannels. and deseended again, book under his arm. to saunter forth through heavy tangles of cinna-mon-tinted Flemish roses and great sweet scented peonies, musing on love and fate: "Kingsbury ami his theories! The Countess of Semois will think him crazy. She'll think ns both erazv! And I am not sure that we’re not; youth is madness; half the world is 'lunatic! Take me. for example: I never did a more unexpected thing than kissing that shadow across the wall. I don’t know why. I don't know how. but I did

it; and I am out of gaol yet. Certainly it must have been the cook. Oh, Heavens! If cooks kiss that way, what, what must the indiscretion of a Countess resemble’ .... She did kiss back. . . . . At least there was a-soft, tremulous, perfumed Hutter—a hint of delicate cou n t er- p ressu re ” But he had arrived at the wall by that time. “How like a woodland paradise!” he murmured sentimentally, youthful faee upraised to the trees. “How sweet the zephyr! How softly sing the dickybirds! 1 wonder—l wonder——” But what it was that perplexed him he did not say; be stood eyeing the top of the wall as the furtive turkey eyes its selected roost before coyly hopping thither. “What’s the use? If I see her I’ll only take fright and skulk homeward. Why do I return again anil again to the scene of guilt? Is it Countess or cook that draws me. or some one less exalted in the culinary confine? Why, why’ should love get busy with me? Is Ibis the price I pay for that guileless kiss? Am I to be for ever ‘it’ in love’s gaygame of tag?” He ascended the steplike niche in the wall, peeped fearfully over into his neighbour’s ehasse. Tree and tangle slept in the golden light of afternoon;

a coek-pheasaht strutted out of a thicket, surveyed the solitude with brilliant eyes, and strutted back again; a babyrabbit frisked across the carrefour into the ferny warren beyond; and ‘•Bubble, bubble, flowed the stream, like an old song through a dream.” Sprawling, 1 here Hat on top of the sunwarmed stucco wall, white sunlight barring the pages of his book, he lifted his head to listen. There was a leafy stirring somewhere, perhaps the pheasant rustling in the underbrush. The singsong of the stream threaded the silence: vtnd as he listened it seemed to grow louder, filling the woods with low, harmonious sounds. In the shallows he heard laughter; in the pouring waferfalls, echoes like wind-blown voices calling. Small gray and saffron tinted birds, passing from twig to twig, peered at him fearlessly; a heavy green lizard vanished between the stones with an iridescent wriggle. Suddenly a branch snapped and the underbrush crackled. “Probably a deer.” thought Smith, turning to look. Close inspection of 'the thicket revealed nothing; he droplied his chin on his hands, crossed his legs, and opened his book.

The book was about one of those Americans who trouble the peace of mind of Princesses; and this was the place to read it, here in the enchanted stillness of the ancient Belgian forest, here where the sunshine spread its net on fretted waters, where lost pools glimmered with azure when the breeze stirred overhead—here where his neighbour was a Countess and some one in her household wore a mass of gold-red hair Greek fashion -and Aphrodite was

nql whiter of neck nor bluer eyed than she.

The romance that he read was designed to be thickly satisfying to American readers, for it . described al-typi-cal American so accurately’ that Smith did not recognise the type. Until he had been enlightened ' by fiction he .never imagined Americans were so attractive to exotic nobility. So he read on. gratified, cloyed, wondering how the Princess, although she happened to be incumbered with a busband, could stand for anything but ultimate surrender to the Stars and Stripes; and trustfully leaving it to the author to see that it was done morally.

Hypnotised by the approaching crisis, he had begun already to finger the next page, when a slight crash in the bushes close by and the swish of parting foliage startled him from romance to realitv.

But he had looked up too late; to slink away was impossible; to move was to reveal himself. It was she! And she was not ten feet distant. One thing was certain: whether or not she was the shadowy partner of his kiss, she could not be the Countess, because she was fishing, unattended, hatless, the sleeves of her shirtwaist rolled up above her white elbows, a book and a short landing-net tucked under her left arm. Countesses don’t go fishing unattended; gillies carry things. Besides, the Countess of Semois was in Semois-les-Bains selling dolls to Kingsbury. The sun glowed on her splendid red hair: she switched’ the slender rod about rather awkwardly, and every time the cast'of Hies became entangled

in a nodding willow she set her red lips tight and with an impatient ‘Mais, e'est trop bete! Mais, e'est vraiment trop ”

It was evident that she had not seen him where he lay on the wall; the chances were she would pass on—indeed her baek was already toward him —when the unexpected happened; a trout leaped for a gnat and fell baek into the pool with a resounding splash, sending ring on ring of sunny wavelets toward the shore.

"Ah! Te voila!” she said aloud, swinging her line free for a east. Smith saw what was coming and tried to dodge, but the silk line whistled on the back-east, and the next moment his cap was snatched from his head and deposited some twenty feet out in the centre of the pool.

The amazement of the fair angler was equal to. his own as? she looked hastily baek over her shoulder and discovered him on the wall.

There is usually something undignified about a man whose hat has been knocked oil'; to laugh is as fatal as to show irritation: and Smith did neither, lint quietly dropped over on to her side of the wall, saying, “I’m awfully sorry 1 spoiled your east. Don’t mind the cap: that trout was a big one, and he may rise again.”

He had spoken in English, and she answered in very pretty English: “I am so sorry—could 1 help you to recover your hat?”

“Thank you; if you would let me take your rod for a moment.” "Willingly, monsieur.”

She handed him the rod: he loosened the line, measured the distance with

practised eye, turned to look behind him, and, seeing there was - scant room for a long baek -“Vast, began sending loop after loop of silken .line forward across the water, using the Spey method, of which none except an expert is master.

The first cask struck half-way, but in line; the next, still in line, slipped over the cap, but failed to hook. ‘Then, as he recovered, there was a boiling rush in the water, a flash of pink ami silver, and the rod staggered. “I—l beg your pardon!” he exclaimed aghast; “I have hooked your trout!” “Play him,” she said quietly. The elfin shriek of the reel answered; be gave the fish every ounce the quivering rod could spare, the great trout surged deeply, swerved, circled and bored slowly up-stream. "This fish is magnificent,” said Smith guiltily. “You really must take the rod ” "1 shall not, indeed.” "But this is not fair!” It. is perfectly' fair, monsieur—and a wonderful lesson in angling to me. Oh, I beg you to be careful! There is a sunken tree limb beyond!” Her cheeks were the colour of wild roses, her blue eyes burned like stars. “He’s down; I can’t stir him,” said Smith. “He’s down like a salmon!” She linked her hands behind her back. “What is to be done?” she asked calmly. "If you would gather a handful of those pebbles and throw one at a time into the pool where he is lying ” Before he finished speaking she had knelt, filled her palms with golden gravel, and stood ready at the water's edge. "Now?” she nodded inquiringly. “Yes, one at a time; try to hit him.” The first pebble produced no effect; neither did the second, nor yet the third. "Throw a handful at him,” he suggested, and braced himself for the result. A spray of gravel fell; the great fish sulked motionless. "There’s a way ” began Smith, feeling in his pockets for his key-ring. It was not there. “Could I be of any use?” she asked, looking up at Smith very guilelessly. "Why, if I had something—a key-ring, or anything that I could hang -over the taut line—something that would slide down and jog him gently— ”

“A hairpin ?” she asked. . “I’m a-fratd it’s *OO light.” t,-, She reflected a moment; her bent forefinger brushed her velvet lips. Then she began to unfasten a long gold- her throat. r . “Ob, not that!” exclaimed Smith anxiously. “It might slip off.” “It can’t; there’s a safety clasp. Anyway, we must have that trout!” “But I could not permit ” “It is 1 who permit myself, monsieur.” “No, no, it is too generous of you -” “Please!” She held the pin toward him; he shook his head; she hesitated, then with a quick movement she snapped the clasp over the taut line and sent it spinning toward the invisible fish. He saw the gold glimmer become a spark under the water, die out in dusky depths; then came a rushing upheaval of spray, a flash, the rod quivered to the reel-plate, and the fight began in fury. The rod was so slim, so light—scarce three ounces —that he eould but stand on tile defensive at first, kittle by little the struggle became give and take, then imperceptibly he forced the issue, steadily, delicately, for the tackle was gossamer, and he fought for the safety of the golden clasp as well as for his honour as an angler. “Do you know how to net a trout?” he asked presently. She came and stood at his shoulder, net poised, blue eyes intent upon the circling fish. “1 place it below him, do I not?” she asked coolly. “Yes —when I give the word ”

One more swerve, a half circle sheering shoreward, nearer, nearer ; '‘Now!” . ,

A moment later the huge trout, lay on the moss; iridescent tints played over its broad surface, shimmering hues deepened, waxing, waning; the spots glowed like rubies set in bronze..

Kneeling there, left hand resting on the rod, Smith looked up at her over his shoulder; but all she said was:.“Ah, the poor,-brave thing! . The gallant fish! Thi». is wrong—all wrong. 1 wish we had not taken a life we cannot give again.

•'Shall 1 put the trout back, madamc?” She looked at him surprised. ‘ Would you?” she asked incredulously. “If you desire it.” “But it is your fish.” “It is yours, madamc.” “Will it live? Oh, trv to make it live!”

lie lifted the beautiful fish in both hands, and, walking to the water’s edge, laid it in the stream. For a while it floated there, gold and silver belly turned to the sky, gills slowly inflating and collapsing. Presently a fin stirred; the spasmodic movement of the gill-covers ceased, and the breathing grew quiet and steady. Smith touched the pectoral fin; the fish strove to turn over; he steadied the dorsal fin, then the caudal, righting the fish. Slowly, very slowly, the great, trout moved off, farther, farther, sinking into cool, refreshing depths; there was a dull glitter under the water, a shadow gliding, then nothing except the green ol>security of the pool criss-crossed wi.li surface sunshine.

When Smith turned round the girl was pensively regarding the water. His eap had stranded on a .shoal almost at his fret; he recovered it. wrung the drops from if. and stood twirling it thoughtfully in the sunlight.

“I've ruined it, haven't.l?” she asked. - “t>h, • no"; • itsr-'a shootrng-eirp. ■ -Like Tartarin. I shall probably ventilate it later in true Midi fashion.”

She laughed; then, with the flushed composure of .uneasiness: “Thank yon for a lesson in angling. 1 have learned a great deal—enough, at least, to know that I shall not care to destroy life, even in a dish. ■ 4 - — -

'. “That is as- it should be.” he replied coolly.' “Men find little eharm in women who kill.” “That is scarcely in accord with the English novels I read—and I read many.” she said. laughing.

“Lt is true, nevertheless. Saint Hubert save us from the woman who can watch the spark of life fade out in the eye of any living thing.” “Are you not a little eccentric, mon-

sieur?” “If you say so. Eccentricity is the full-blown blossom of inedioeritv.”

There was a silence so politely indifferent on her part that he felt it to be the signal for his dismissal. And he took his leave with a formality so attractive, and a good humour so informal, that before sbe meant to she had spoken again—a phrase politely meaningless in itself, yet—if he ehose to take it so—acting as a stay of execution. “I was wondering.” he said, amiably, .“how 1 was going to climb back over the wall.” A sudden caprice tinged with malice dawned in the most guileless of smiles as she raised her eyes to his: “You forgot your ladder this time, didn't you?” Would he. ever stop getting redder? His ears were afire, and felt enormous. “I am afraid you misunderstand me.” she said, and her smile became pitilessly sweet. “I am quite sure a distinguished foreign angler could scarcely condescend to notice trespass signs in a half-ruined old park —” . His crimsoned distress softened her. perhaps, for she hesitated, then added impulsively: “I did not mean it. monsieur; 1 have gone too far—-—” “No. you have not gone too far.” he said. “I’ve disgraced myself, and deserve no mercy." “You are mistaken; the trout may have come-from your side of the wall “It did, but that is a miserable excuse. Nothing ean palliate my conduct. It’s a curious thing,” he added, bitterly, “(hat a fellow who is decent enough at home immediately begins to do things in Europe.” “What things, monsieur?” . * “111-bred things; I might as well say it. Theoretically, poaching is romantic; practically, it’s a misdemeanour—the old conflict between realism and romance, madaine< —as typified by a book I am at present- reading—a copy of the same book which 1 notice you are now carrying under your arm.” . She glanced at him. curious, irresolute, waiting for him to continue. And as he did not, but stood moodily twirling his cap like a sulky schoolboy, she leaned back against a tree, saying: “You are very severe on romance, monsieur.” • “You are very lenient with reality, madame.”; “How do you know? I may be far more angry with you than you suspect. Indeed, every time 1 have seen you on the wall —” she hesitated, paling a trifle. She had made a mislake, unless he was more stupid than sac dared h ope. “But until this morning I. had done nothing to auger you?” he said, looking up sharply. Her features wore the indifference of perfect repose; his lat-

ent alarm subsided. She had made no mistake in his stupidity. And now, perfectly conscious of the irregularity of the proceedings, perhaps a trijfe exhilarated by it, she permitted curiosity to stir liehind the curtain, ready for the proper cue. “Of course,” he said, colouring, “I know you perfectly well by sight ” “And I you, monsieur—perfectly welt. One notices strangers, particularly when reading so frequently about them in romance. This book”—she opened it leisurely and examined an illustration—“appears to describe the American quite perfectly. So, having read so much about Americans, 1 was a trifle curious to see one.” He did not know what to say; her youthful face was so innocent that suspicion subsided. “That American you are reading about is merely a phantom of romance,” he said, honestly. “His type, if he ever did exist, would become such a public nuisance in Europe that the police would take charge of him—after a few kings and dukes had finished thrashing him.” “I do not believe you,” she said, with a hint of surprise and defiance. “Besides, if it were true, what sense is there in destroying the pleasure of illusion? Romance is at least amusing; reality alone is a sorry scarecrow clothed in the faded rags of dreams. Do you think you do well to destroy the tinted film of romance through which every woman ever born gazes at a man—and pardons him because the rainbow dims her vision?” She leaned back against the silver birch once more and laid her white hand flat on the open pages of the book: “Monsieur, if life were truly like this, fewer tears would fall from women’s eyes—eyes which man, in his wisdom, takes pains to clear—to his own destruction!” She struck the book a light blow, smiling up at him: “Here in these pages arc spring and youth eternal—blue skies and roses, love and love and love unending, and once more love, and the world’s young heart afire! Close the book and what remains?'’ She closed the covers very gently. “What remains?" she asked, raising her blue eyes to him. “You remain, niadamq.” She flushed with displeasure. “And yet,” he. said, smiling, “if (lie hero of that book replied as I have you would have smiled. That is the false light the moon of romance sheds in com-

petition with the living sun." He slirugged his broad shoulders, laughing: “The contrast between the heroine of that romance and you proves which is the lovelier, reality or romance

She bit her lipa and looked at him narrowly, the high colour pulsating and dying in her checks. liuder cover of the very shield that should have protected her he was using weapons which sh? herself lu.d sai* failed —the impalpable weapons of romance. Dusk, too, had already laid its bloom on hill and forest and had spun a haze along the stream—dusk, the accomplice of all th? dim, jcwell d forms that people the tinted shadows of romance. Why—■ if he had displeased her—did she not dismiss him? It is not with a question that a woman gives a man his conge. “Why do you speak as you do?” she asked gravely. “Why, merely because you are clever, do you twist words into compliments? We are scarcely on such a footing, monsieur.” ; “What I said I meant," he replied slowly. “Have I accorded you permission to say or mean?” “No; that is the fashion of romance —a pretty one. But in lif.?, sometimes a man’s heart boats out the words his lips deliver uutrieked with verbal tinsel.” Again she coloured, but met his eyes steadily enough. “This is all wrong,” sli.?, said; “yon know it; I know it. If, in the woman standing here alone with you, I scarcely recognise myself, you. monsieur, wilt fail to remember her—if chance wills it that we meet again.” “My m.-'inory,” be said in a low voice, “is controlled by your mind. W'.iat you forget 1 cannot recall.” She said impulsively, “A gallant man speaks as you speak—in agreeable books of fiction as in reality. Oh, monsieur” —and she laughed a pretty, troubled laugh—“how can you expect me now to disbelieve in my Amciieain of romance ?” She had scarcely meant to say jtsfc that; she did not realize exactly what she had said until she read it in bis face—r>?ad it. saw that he did not hituh to misunderstand her. and. in the nervous flood of relief, stretched Out her hand to him. He took it. laid his lips (o' the frtA rant fingers, and relinqliishcd it. Meanwhile his heart was choking him like th. clutch of justie". “Good-bye,” she said, her outstretched

'tan<l us he had released it, then biuwly failing. A moment's silence; the gl<>" faded from the sky, and from iter fact*, too; then suddenly the blur ryes glimmered with purest nial“llaving negl.eted to bring your ladd*i this time, monsieur, pray accept the use of mine.” And she pointed to a rustic ladder lying half-buried in the weedy tangle held nd him. II • gave himself a moment to steady his voice: “I suppose there was a ladder here—somewhere/’ he said quietly. “Oh! And why do you suppose ” She spoke too hurriedly, and sli? began again, pleasantly indifferent: “The foresters use a ladd* r for pruning, not for climbing walls, monsieur.” He strolled over to the thicket, lifted the light ladder, and set it against the wall. When he had done this he stepped back, examining the effect attentively; then, as though not satisfied, shifted it. a trifle, surveyed the result, moved it again, dissatisfied. ■*la’t me see,” lh? mused aloud, “1 want to place it exactly where it was that night ” lie looked back at her interrogatively. “Was it about where I have placed it ?” Her face was inscrutable. “Or.” he continued thoughtfully, “was it an inch or two this way? I could tell exactly if the moon were up. Still’’ — he considered the ladder attentively—• "I might h? able to fix it with some accuracy if you would help me. Will you ?” “I do not understand,” she said. “Oh, it is nothing—still, if you wouldn’t mind aiding me to settle a matter that interests me —would you?” “With pleasure, monsieur,” she said indifferently. “What shall I do?” So hr? mounted the ladder, crossed the wall, and stool on a stone niche on his side, looking down at the ladder. “Now,” he said, “if you would be so amiable, madame, as to stand on the ladder for qne moment you could aid me immensely,” “Mount,that, ladder, monsieur?” She caught his eyes fixed on her; for just an instant-,»he hesitated, then met them steadily .enough; indeed, a growing , and. iiinoc-.mt curiosity widened her gaze, and .she. smiled and lifted her pretty a trifle, and her skirts just a trifle,i too; and, with a grace that made him tremble, she mounted the ladder,, step by -step, until her head and shoulders were on a. level with his own across the wall. ; “And now?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “The moon.” he said unsteadily, "ought to be about—there!” “Where?” She turned her eyes inquiringly skyward. But his heart had him by tin? throat again. an<l he was past all speech. “Well, monsieur?” She waited in sweetest patience. Presently: “Have you finished your astronomical calculations? Ami may I descend?” lie tried to speak, but was so long about it that she said very kindly: “You are trying to locate the moon, are you not?” “No. madame—only a shadow.” "A shadow, monsieur?”—laughing. “A shadow—a silhouette.” “Of what?” “Of a—a woman’s head against the moon.”

“Monsieur, for a realist you are astonishingly romantic. Oh, you see 1 was right! You do belong in a bock.” “You, also,” he said, scarcely recognizing his own voice. “Men —in books —do well to risk all for one word, trie glance from you; nun—in books —do well to die for you, who reign without a pe. r in all romance ” “Alclistenr,” she faltered. But he had found his voice—or one something like it—and he said: “You arc right to rebuke me; romanc? is the shadow, life the substance; and you live, and as long as you live living men must love you; as 1 love you, Countess of Semois.” “Oh,” she breathed tremulously, “oh, you —you think that? You think I am the Countess of Semois? And that is why ” For a moment her wide eyes ’Hardened, then flashed brilliant with tears. “Is that your romance, monsieur?— the romance of 'a Countess Is your declaration for mistress or servant? —for the -Countess or for her secretary—who sometimes makes her gowns, too? Ah, the sorry romance! Your declaration deserved an audience more fitting ” “My declaration was made a week ago! The moon and you were audience enough. 1 love you.” “Monsieur, I —l beg you to release my hand ” “No; you must listen—for the veil of romance is rent and we are face to face in the living world! Do you think a real man cares what title you wear, if you but wear his name? Countess that you are not, woman that you are, is there anything in Heaven or earth that can make love more than love? A'eil your beautiful true eyes with romance, and answer mo; look with clear, untroubled eyes upon throbbing, pulsating life; and answer me! Love is no more, no less, than love. I ask for yours; 1 gave you mine a week ago—in our first kiss.” Her face was whit.? as a flower; the level beauty of her eves set him trembling. “Give me one chance,” he breathed. “I am not mad enough to hope that the lightning struck us both at a single flash. Give me, in your charity, a chance —a little aid where 1 stand stunned .blinded, alone—you who anc still see clearly!” She did not stir or speak or cease to watch him from unwavering eyes; he leaned forward, drawing her inert hands together between his own; but she freed them, shivering. “Will you not say one word to me?” ho faltered. “Three, monsieur.” Her eyes closed, slh? covered them with her sit nd er hands: “J —love —you.” Before tire moon appeared she had taken leave of him. her hot, young faca pressed to bis. striving to say something for which she found no words. In tremulous silence she turned in his arms, unclasping his hands and yeilding her own in fragrant adieu. “Do you not know, oh, most wonderful of lovers—do you not know?” her eyes were saying, but her lips were motionless; she waited, reluctant, trembling. No. he could not understand—he did not care, and the knowledge of it suffused her very soul with a radiance that transfigured her. So she left him. the promise of the moon silvering the trees. And he stood

there on the wall, watching the lights break out in the windows of iier house — stood there while his soul drifted above the world of moonlit shadow floating ’t his feet. “Smith!” Half roused he turned and looked down. The moonlight glimmered on Kingsbury’s single eyeglass. After a moment his senses return d; he descended to the ground and peered at Kingsbury, rubbing his eyes. With one aceord they started toward the house, moving slowly, shoulder to shoulder. - "Not that I personally eare,” began Kingsbury. “I am sorry only on account of my country.- 1 was, perhaps, precipitate; hut 1 purchased one hundred and seven dulls of Mademoiselle Plessis—her private secretary ” “What!” “With whom,” continued Kingsbury thoughtfully, "1 am agreeably in love. Such matters, Smith, cannot be wholly controlled by st sense of duty to one’s country. Beauty and rank seldom coincide except in fiction. It appears”—he removed his single eyeglass, polished it with his handkerchief, replaced it, and examined the moon—“lt appears,” n>e continued blandly, “that it is the Conntess of Semois who is—eh—so to speak, afflicted with red hair. . . The moon —ahem —is preternaturally bright this evening. Smith.” After a moment Smith halted and turned, raising his steady eyes to that pale mirror of living fire above the forest. “Well,” began Kingsbury irritably, can’t you say something’” “Nothing more than I have said to her already—though she were Empress of the World!” murmured Smitn, staring fixedly-at the moon. "Empress of what? Ido not follow you.” "No,” said Smith dreamily, “you must not try- to. ft is a long journey to the summer moon —a long, long journey. I started when I was a child; I reached it a week ago; 1 returned to-night. And do you know what I discovered there? Why, man, I discovered the veil of Isis, and I looked behind it And what do you suppose I found? A child, Kingsbury, a winged child, who laughingly handed me the keys of Eden! What do you think of that!” But Smith had taken too many liberties with the English language, and Kingsbury was far too mad to speak.