It was with another quick heart-beat that he awoke next morning, for
his first thought was of Valentine.
The sun already gilded the towers of Notre Dame, the clatter of
workmen’s sabots awoke sharp echoes in the street below, and across
the way a blackbird in a pink almond tree was going into an ecstasy of
trills.
He determined to awake Clifford for a brisk walk in the country, hoping
later to beguile that gentleman into the American church for his soul’s
sake. He found Alfred the gimlet-eyed washing the asphalt walk which
led to the studio.
“Monsieur Elliott?” he replied to the perfunctory inquiry, “_je ne sais
pas_.”
“And Monsieur Clifford,” began Hastings, somewhat astonished.
“Monsieur Clifford,” said the concierge with fine irony, “will be
pleased to see you, as he retired early; in fact he has just come in.”
Hastings hesitated while the concierge pronounced a fine eulogy on
people who never stayed out all night and then came battering at the
lodge gate during hours which even a gendarme held sacred to sleep. He
also discoursed eloquently upon the beauties of temperance, and took an
ostentatious draught from the fountain in the court.
“I do not think I will come in,” said Hastings.
“Pardon, monsieur,” growled the concierge, “perhaps it would be well
to see Monsieur Clifford. He possibly needs aid. Me he drives forth
with hair-brushes and boots. It is a mercy if he has not set fire to
something with his candle.”
Hastings hesitated for an instant, but swallowing his dislike of such
a mission, walked slowly through the ivy-covered alley and across
the inner garden to the studio. He knocked. Perfect silence. Then he
knocked again, and this time something struck the door from within with
a crash.
“That,” said the concierge, “was a boot.” He fitted his duplicate key
into the lock and ushered Hastings in. Clifford, in disordered evening
dress, sat on the rug in the middle of the room. He held in his hand a
shoe, and did not appear astonished to see Hastings.
“Good-morning, do you use Pears’ soap?” he inquired with a vague wave
of his hand and a vaguer smile.
Hastings’ heart sank. “For Heaven’s sake,” he said, “Clifford, go to
bed.”
“Not while that—that Alfred pokes his shaggy head in here an’ I have a
shoe left.”
Hastings blew out the candle, picked up Clifford’s hat and cane,
and said, with an emotion he could not conceal, “This is terrible,
Clifford,—I—never knew you did this sort of thing.”
“Well, I do,” said Clifford.
“Where is Elliott?”
“Ole chap,” returned Clifford, becoming maudlin, “Providence which
feeds—feeds—er—sparrows an’ that sort of thing watcheth over the
intemperate wanderer—”
“Where is Elliott?”
But Clifford only wagged his head and waved his arm about. “He’s out
there,—somewhere about.” Then suddenly feeling a desire to see his
missing chum, lifted up his voice and howled for him.
Hastings, thoroughly shocked, sat down on the lounge without a word.
Presently, after shedding several scalding tears, Clifford brightened
up and rose with great precaution.
“Ole chap,” he observed, “do you want to see er—er miracle? Well, here
goes. I’m goin’ to begin.”
He paused, beaming at vacancy.
“Er miracle,” he repeated.
Hastings supposed he was alluding to the miracle of his keeping his
balance, and said nothing.
“I’m goin’ to bed,” he announced, “poor ole Clifford’s goin’ to bed,
an’ that’s er miracle!”
And he did with a nice calculation of distance and equilibrium which
would have rung enthusiastic yells of applause from Elliott had he
been there to assist _en connaisseur_. But he was not. He had not
yet reached the studio. He was on his way, however, and smiled with
magnificent condescension on Hastings, who, half an hour later, found
him reclining upon a bench in the Luxembourg. He permitted himself to
be aroused, dusted and escorted to the gate. Here, however, he refused
all further assistance, and bestowing a patronizing bow upon Hastings,
steered a tolerably true course for the rue Vavin.
Hastings watched him out of sight, and then slowly retraced his steps
toward the fountain. At first he felt gloomy and depressed, but
gradually the clear air of the morning lifted the pressure from his
heart, and he sat down on the marble seat under the shadow of the
winged god.
The air was fresh and sweet with perfume from the orange flowers.
Everywhere pigeons were bathing, dashing the water over their iris-hued
breasts, flashing in and out of the spray or nestling almost to the
neck along the polished basin. The sparrows, too, were abroad in force,
soaking their dust-coloured feathers in the limpid pool and chirping
with might and main. Under the sycamores which surrounded the duck-pond
opposite the fountain of Marie de Medici, the water-fowl cropped the
herbage, or waddled in rows down the bank to embark on some solemn
aimless cruise.
Butterflies, somewhat lame from a chilly night’s repose under the lilac
leaves, crawled over and over the white phlox, or took a rheumatic
flight toward some sun-warmed shrub. The bees were already busy among
the heliotrope, and one or two grey flies with brick-coloured eyes sat
in a spot of sunlight beside the marble seat, or chased each other
about, only to return again to the spot of sunshine and rub their
fore-legs, exulting.
The sentries paced briskly before the painted boxes, pausing at times
to look toward the guard-house for their relief.
They came at last, with a shuffle of feet and click of bayonets, the
word was passed, the relief fell out, and away they went, crunch,
crunch, across the gravel.
A mellow chime floated from the clock-tower of the palace, the deep
bell of St. Sulpice echoed the stroke. Hastings sat dreaming in the
shadow of the god, and while he mused somebody came and sat down beside
him. At first he did not raise his head. It was only when she spoke
that he sprang up.
“You! At this hour?”
“I was restless, I could not sleep.” Then in a low, happy voice—“And
_you!_ at this hour?”
“I—I slept, but the sun awoke me.”
“_I_ could not sleep,” she said, and her eyes seemed, for a moment,
touched with an indefinable shadow. Then, smiling, “I am so glad—I
seemed to know you were coming. Don’t laugh, I believe in dreams.”
“Did you really dream of,—of my being here?”
“I think I was awake when I dreamed it,” she admitted. Then for a
time they were mute, acknowledging by silence the happiness of being
together. And after all their silence was eloquent, for faint smiles,
and glances born of their thoughts, crossed and recrossed, until lips
moved and words were formed, which seemed almost superfluous. What they
said was not very profound. Perhaps the most valuable jewel that fell
from Hastings’ lips bore direct reference to breakfast.
“I have not yet had my chocolate,” she confessed, “but what a material
man you are.”
“Valentine,” he said impulsively, “I wish,—I do wish that you
would,—just for this once,—give me the whole day,—just for this
once.”
“Oh dear,” she smiled, “not only material, but selfish!”
“Not selfish, hungry,” he said, looking at her.
“A cannibal too; oh dear!”
“Will you, Valentine?”
“But my chocolate—”
“Take it with me.”
“But _déjeuner_—”
“Together, at St. Cloud.”
“But I can’t—”
“Together,—all day,—all day long; will you, Valentine?”
She was silent.
“Only for this once.”
Again that indefinable shadow fell across her eyes, and when it was
gone she sighed. “Yes,—together, only for this once.”
“All day?” he said, doubting his happiness.
“All day,” she smiled; “and oh, I am so hungry!”
He laughed, enchanted.
“What a material young lady it is.”
On the Boulevard St. Michel there is a Crémerie painted white and blue
outside, and neat and clean as a whistle inside. The auburn-haired
young woman who speaks French like a native, and rejoices in the name
of Murphy, smiled at them as they entered, and tossing a fresh napkin
over the zinc _tête-à-tête_ table, whisked before them two cups of
chocolate and a basket full of crisp, fresh croissons.
The primrose-coloured pats of butter, each stamped with a shamrock in
relief, seemed saturated with the fragrance of Normandy pastures.
“How delicious!” they said in the same breath, and then laughed at the
coincidence.
“With but a single thought,” he began.
“How absurd!” she cried with cheeks all rosy. “I’m thinking I’d like a
croisson.”
“So am I,” he replied triumphant, “that proves it.”
Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a
child in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until
Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was
eaten under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm
with a bright nod to Mile. Murphy, who cried them a merry: “_Bonjour,
madame! bonjour, monsieur_!” and watched them hail a passing cab and
drive away. “_Dieu! qu’il est beau_,” she sighed, adding after a
moment, “Do they be married, I dunno,—_ma foi ils ont bien l’air_.”
The cab swung around the rue de Medici, turned into the rue de
Vaugirard, followed it to where it crosses the rue de Rennes, and
taking that noisy thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse.
They were just in time for a train and scampered up the stairway and
out to the cars as the last note from the starting-gong rang through
the arched station. The guard slammed the door of their compartment,
a whistle sounded, answered by a screech from the locomotive, and the
long train glided from the station, faster, faster, and sped out into
the morning sunshine. The summer wind blew in their faces from the open
window, and sent the soft hair dancing on the girl’s forehead.
“We have the compartment to ourselves,” said Hastings.
She leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wide
open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the
ribbons under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and,
drawing a long hat-pin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside
her. The train was flying.
The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her
breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees,
houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles.
“Faster! faster!” she cried.
His eyes never left her, but hers, wide open, and blue as the summer
sky, seemed fixed on something far ahead,—something which came no
nearer, but fled before them as they fled.
Was it the horizon, cut now by the grim fortress on the hill, now by
the cross of a country chapel? Was it the summer moon, ghost-like,
slipping through the vaguer blue above?
“Faster! faster!” she cried.
Her parted lips burned scarlet.
The car shook and shivered, and the fields streamed by like an emerald
torrent. He caught the excitement, and his faced glowed.
“Oh,” she cried, and with an unconscious movement caught his hand,
drawing him to the window beside her. “Look! lean out with me!”
He only saw her lips move; her voice was drowned in the roar of a
trestle, but his hand closed in hers and he clung to the sill. The wind
whistled in their ears. “Not so far out, Valentine, take care!” he
gasped.
Below, through the ties of the trestle, a broad river flashed into view
and out again, as the train thundered along a tunnel, and away once
more through the freshest of green fields. The wind roared about them.
The girl was leaning far out from the window, and he caught her by the
waist, crying, “Not too far!” but she only murmured, “Faster! faster!
away out of the city, out of the land, faster, faster! away out of the
world!”
“What are you saying all to yourself?” he said, but his voice was
broken, and the wind whirled it back into his throat.
She heard him, and, turning from the window looked down at his arm
about her. Then she raised her eyes to his. The car shook and the
windows rattled. They were dashing through a forest now, and the sun
swept the dewy branches with running flashes of fire. He looked into
her troubled eyes; he drew her to him and kissed the half-parted lips,
and she cried out, a bitter, hopeless cry, “Not that—not that!”
But he held her close and strong, whispering words of honest love and
passion, and when she sobbed—“Not that—not that—I have promised!
You must—you must know—I am—not—worthy—” In the purity of his own
heart her words were, to him, meaningless then, meaningless for ever
after. Presently her voice ceased, and her head rested on his breast.
He leaned against the window, his ears swept by the furious wind, his
heart in a joyous tumult. The forest was passed, and the sun slipped
from behind the trees, flooding the earth again with brightness. She
raised her eyes and looked out into the world from the window. Then she
began to speak, but her voice was faint, and he bent his head close to
hers and listened. “I cannot turn from you; I am too weak. You were
long ago my master—master of my heart and soul. I have broken my word
to one who trusted me, but I have told you all;—what matters the
rest?” He smiled at her innocence and she worshipped his. She spoke
again: “Take me or cast me away;—what matters it? Now with a word you
can kill me, and it might be easier to die than to look upon happiness
as great as mine.”
He took her in his arms, “Hush, what are you saying? Look,—look out at
the sunlight, the meadows and the streams. We shall be very happy in so
bright a world.”
She turned to the sunlight. From the window, the world below seemed
very fair to her.
Trembling with happiness, she sighed: “Is this the world? Then I have
never known it.”
“Nor have I, God forgive me,” he murmured.
Perhaps it was our gentle Lady of the Fields who forgave them both.