How suddenly it had all broken up, Livingstone thought forlornly, their
pleasant little quartet of walks and talks. He had the sensation of
being left stranded by the ebbing of a tide which had seemed to buoy him
up on great depths. With the disappearance of Miss Mills back to her
Paris apartment, the very light had gone out of everything. Miss Allen
never had had the social grace and ease of Miss Mills, and now she ate
her meals silently and vanished immediately, and Crittenden, not being a
social light on any occasion, was of less than no use in saving the
situation.
Livingstone was reduced to solitary mornings spent in museums, with a
book of art criticism in his hand; or on Sunday mornings, when admission
was free, on a bench in the park on the Palatine. The benches were very
comfortable there, not mere backless slabs of stone, and when you felt
like sight-seeing you could get up and lean over the wall and look down
into the Forum and pick out where the different buildings had stood.
He stood thus, his back to the long, cypress-shaded path, trying to be
archeological, his guide-book open on the wall. Which of the battered
rows of stumps of pillars had been the Temple of Vesta and which the
Fornix Fabianus?
He heard voices back of him. To be exact he heard Miss Allen's voice
back of him. Livingstone was so paralyzed by the quality of it that,
gentleman though he tried to be to the marrow of his bones, he was for
an instant incapable of stirring and announcing his presence. _That_,
Miss Allen's voice! She sounded as though she had come into a fortune.
But what under the sun was she saying?
"Here, exactly here, is where we stood when you said you were like the
puppy, and when you rolled the dusty weight of all those centuries off
my shoulders. And now come along. The next place in the pilgrimage is
St. John Lateran, where you said, you brutal Prussian, that nothing
would induce you to protect a woman!"
"Come, come, this is eavesdropping. Something must be done!" said
Livingstone to himself. He shut his guide-book with a slam to give them
warning, and faced about resolutely. But they had paid no attention to
his warning. They stood with their backs to him, and, oh! hand in hand
like rustics at a country fair. But she had called him a brutal
Prussian! And a puppy!
"Ahem!" said Mr. Livingstone, loudly, not knowing what else to say.
They turned about, and saw him, and seemed neither surprised nor
ashamed. Miss Allen stepped quickly towards him, smiling and saying,
"Oh, Mr. Livingstone, we were meaning to tell you anyhow.... Mr.
Crittenden and I are going to be married."
She smiled at him dazzlingly as she spoke, but Livingstone was not at
all sure from the expression of her eyes that she saw him. It crossed
his mind that she would have smiled as dazzlingly as that if a lamp-post
had stood in his place.
"Married!" he cried, really aghast for both of them. That sensitive,
imaginative girl tied for life to that unfeeling, rough, hard fellow.
What on earth did she, even for a moment, see in him? And as for
Crittenden ... any man with a little money of his own, personable enough
to marry advantageously, throwing himself away on a girl without a penny
either now or in prospect! To what a wretched, cramped life he was
dooming himself and her ... back rooms in greasy, third-rate pensions,
never any margin for decent clothes....
"Yes, and we're going to live in Ashley, Vermont."
Livingstone sank down on his bench, appalled. Worse than third-rate
pensions! Worse than the human mind could conceive!
"Oh, no! No! No!" he cried to her as though he were clutching at her as
she sank to ruin. "No! Don't say that! You've no idea ... my dear young
lady, you haven't the faintest idea what an impossible life that would
be. You mustn't consider it for a moment. Crittenden, you mustn't let
her consider it. An American country village. Good God! You don't know
what it is, what the people are!"
"Yes, I do, too," she told him gaily, giving the effect, though she
stood quite still, of executing a twirling pirouette of high spirits.
"I've lived there. It's really going back home for both of us."
"Home! Why, Crittenden certainly told me he'd never been there in his
life!"
"Oh, pshaw, Livingstone, don't be so heavy-handed and literal. Why
wet-blanket _every_ imaginative fancy?" said Crittenden, laughing loudly
as though some one had made a joke. He might, for the impression he made
on Livingstone, have joined hands with the girl to dance madly around
him in a circle. But this was no laughing matter. This was terrible!
Tragic! They had simply lost their heads, both of them, lost their heads
and had no idea what they were doing. You could tell that by the wild
glitter in their eyes. They were infatuated, that was it, infatuated. He
must try to recall them to their senses. He turned imploringly to the
girl. "But ... but ... but...." He was so agitated that he could not
bring out his words. He stopped, drew a long breath, and passed his hand
over his forehead. Then, very solemnly, "Do you know," he said to her,
warningly, "do you know that you will probably have to _do your own
work_?"
At this, she burst into an inexplicable, foolish shout of laughter,
opening her eyes very wide at him and saying, "Appalling!"
She looked up at Crittenden, who for his part never took his eyes an
instant from her.
How foolishly she talked! How foolishly she laughed! Why, they were
acting as sentimentally as ... Mr. Livingstone could not think of any
comparison adequate to their foolishness.
They were moving away now, nodding good-by to him and smiling at each
other. At the top of the dark steps leading down through the Palace of
the Caesars to the Forum they turned and cast a backward glance at him,
who stood stock-still where they had left him, staring after them,
dumfounded. Miss Allen looked at him and then came flying back, running,
her light dress fluttering. What did she want? What was she going to do,
with that shining, tremulous, mirthful face? Livingstone felt afraid of
her, as if, like a swift bolt of summer lightning, she might strike him
through and through.
What she did was to take his face in her two hands and give him a hearty
kiss on each cheek. "_Dear_ Mr. Livingstone!" she said (or was it
"_poor_"?)
Livingstone had the impression, from the expression of her face, that
she would have kissed a cabman with equal fervor, and that Crittenden
would have watched her do it with the same fatuous look he had now.
They went down together into the vaulted darkness and desolation of the
ruined palace. Livingstone, leaning on the wall high above, saw them
emerge together into the Forum and step off over the ancient flagged
paving. And still hand in hand! Mr. Livingstone had by this time thought
of an adequate comparison. They were as sentimental as a couple of
Rogers statuettes!
Looking up, they saw him leaning there. They waved their hands and
called up some laughing greeting to him. But he could not understand
what they said, because they were too far away from him.
Hand in hand in the fierce, literal brightness of the noonday sun, they
trod their new path over the ancient stones.
THE END
* * * * *
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without comment.
Minor inconsistencies in hyphenated words have been adjusted to conform
with the author's most frequent usage, except for bed-room/bedroom which
are left as in the original.
On page 68, "Meisonnier" was changed to "Meissonier" to correspond with
the correct spelling of the 19th century painter, as found later on the
same page.
Accent marks have been added to the following words, based on context,
and author's most frequent usage:
aperitif: page 152 (in the phrase, "... aperitif at the cafe....")
menage: page 156 (in the phrase, "... a young menage;...")
chateau: page 452 (in the phrase, "... of the chateau Country....")