IN A BELGIAN GARDEN
That evening I found Williams curled up in his corner at the Café Jaune.
"You are sun-burned," he said, inspecting me.
"A little. I've been in Florida."
"What?"
"With the ghosts of years ago. But it seemed very realistic to me as I
sat in the sun and recalled it. Possibly it was even real enough to
sun-burn me a little."
He eyed me with considerable chagrin. Perhaps he thought that he had the
monopoly of poetic fancies. It was most agreeable to me to touch him
up. They're a jealous bunch, those whittlers of fact into fiction.
However, he brightened as he drew a letter from his pocket:
"You remember Kingsbury, of course?" he asked.
"Perfectly."
"And his friend Smith?"
"Certainly."
"I've a letter here from Kingsbury. He expects to be in Paris this
autumn."
"I'd like to see him," said I, "but I'm going home before Autumn."
"Haven't you seen him in all these years?"
"Not once."
"And you never heard----"
"Oh, go on, Williams, and tell your story. I'm perfectly willing to
listen. Cut out all that coy business and tear off a few page-proofs.
Besides," I added, maliciously, "I know how it's done, now."
"_How_ do you know?"
"Because I did a little in that line myself this afternoon. Let me tell
you something; there isn't a profession in all the world which can be so
easily and quickly acquired as yours. Therefore pin no more orders and
ribbons and stars and medals on yourself. The only difference between
you and your public is that they have no time to practice your
profession in addition to their own."
Which took him down a peg or two, until we both took down another peg or
two. But when I called the waiter and ordered a third, he became more
cheerful.
"You're a jollier," he said, "aren't you?"
"I did a little this afternoon. Go on about Kingsbury and Smithy. After
all, Williams, you really do it much better than I."
Which mollified him amazingly, and he began with a brisk confidence in
his powers of narration:
* * * * *
When Kingsbury had finished his course at the University of Paris, there
appeared to be little or nothing further in the way of human knowledge
for him to acquire. However, on the chance of disinterring a fragment or
two of amorphous information which he might find use for in his
projected book, The Economy of Marriage, he allowed himself another year
of travel, taking the precaution to invite Smith--the flippancy of Smith
being calculated to neutralise any over-intellectual activity in
himself.
He needed a rest; he had had the world on his hands too long--ever since
his twentieth 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 The University of Paris and remained flippant?" But neither
Sorbonne nor Pantheon produced marked effect upon Smith, and although it
is true that Paris horridly appealed to him, in the remainder of Europe
he found nothing better to do than to unpack his 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, hot-houses, and
a likely trout stream for Smith to dabble in, at a sum per month so
ridiculously reasonable that I 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 grape-arbour, immersed in a popular
novel and a bowl of strawberries.
"Hello," said Smith, politely, pushing the fruit across the table. "The
berries are fine; I took a corking trout an hour ago; we'll have it
directly."
"I saw the Countess," said Kingsbury, carelessly unbuttoning his gloves
as he 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? I couldn't ride up and ask, could I? 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," he said, "the peasantry salute him as
reverently as though he were their father."
To which Smith, in his flippancy, replied:
"The children for their monarch pray,
Each buxom lass and laddie;
A thousand reasons good have they
To call the King their daddy."
Kingsbury retired to make his 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 à la Meunière.
"Corker, isn't he?" observed Smith, contemplating the fish with
pardonable pride. "He's poached, I regret to inform you."
"Poached?"
"Oh, not like an egg; I mean that I took him in private waters. It was a
disgusting 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, flip! flop! spatter! splash! and, if you please, right
under the water-arch in the wall this scandalous trout jumped. Of
course, I put it to him good and plenty, but the criminal creature, on
purpose to tempt me, backed off down stream and clean through the arch
into our neighbour's water.
"'Is it poaching if I go over after him?' thought I. And, Kingsbury, do
you know I had no time to debate that moral question, because, before I
could reply to myself, I 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? Before I could rouse myself with the
cry of 'Trespasser! Help!' I found myself climbing down into the park
and casting a fly with sinful accuracy.
"'Is it right?' I 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 pay,
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 wall 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 rôle, 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's 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 wall 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 novels, and I need
a jar from an intelligence absolutely devoid of imagination."
"You'll 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 bazar at Semois-les-Bains this
afternoon."
"I'm not going," said Smith, breaking an egg.
"Not going? You said you would go. Our Ambassador will be 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 focussing up a
small paragraph, a frown began to gather on his youthful features.
"Here's a nice business!" he said, disgusted.
Smith looked up indifferently. "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 ninety-seven and three tenths per cent of
such marriages are unhappy? Are you? Why, I could sit here and give you
statistics----"
"Don't, all the same."
"Statistics that would shock even you. And I say solemnly, that I, as an
American, as a humanitarian, as a student of social economics----"
"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
aristocratic purlieus of England and the Continent."
"Then I 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.
"I 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 coffee, 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 I can
calculate from the romantic literature I 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 propositions: 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 bazar. Stop fiddling with that newspaper
and answer me like a man."
But Kingsbury only reopened the newspaper and 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 restless counter-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 of us ought to give our 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 bazar at Semois-les-Bains this afternoon.
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 back in his chair, and flung one
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 tall girl with dark hair and lots colour I 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--I'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 into 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.
"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
cast 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
American who honors his country should pursue. Now I'll prove to you
whether or not I'm sincere. I am deliberately going to marry 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 said, 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, I shall ask her."
"As soon as you meet her?"
"Certainly not. I 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 yourself--a great, hulking, wealthy, idle young man,
who stands around in puddles catching fish while Europe runs off 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.
[Illustration]