Ainslee's Magazine/Adventure

by Neith Boyce

 

ADVENTURE

^BY NEITH BOYCE

THE Place of St. Cloud was crowded. It was the first warm Sunday of a laggard spring, and the whole population of the town had come pouring down the steep streets into the square, and there joined the excursionists who had come by boat from Paris. The band of the garrison was playing, and there were many little soldiers in their quaint red-and-blue clothes. The Seine was blue and covered with pleasure boats, the sky was blue, the air had the tremulous sweetness of May, perfumed with flowers from a hundred walled gardens. On the sidewalks round the Place were set out innumerable little tables, occupied by people eating and drinking lightly, talking and laughing gayly, people in their Sunday raiment, even to the befrilled babies.

“She is a Parisian!” said one of two young men drinking bock beer together, two young men in holiday mood, free and careless, light and eager, quick on the trace of the joy of the moment, seizing it here, there, everywhere. “Sightseeing for the day—she doesn't belong at St. Cloud! What style, Griffith!”

“She is certainly a peach,” said the other, in a lower tone.

The girl sat near them at a tiny table, alone, drinking lemonade. Small, slim, supple, in a dark dress exquisitely simple, with a little white frill at the neck, with a ravishing hat, a little hat, demurely framing a candid brow, two large dark eyes, dark hair carefully dressed, with beautiful little boots, no gloves, hands small, and showing some traces of work.

“A perfect French type,” said the first of the two young men with all the authority of a three months' residence in Paris. “Look at that dress—she probably made it herself, and it cost twenty francs, and her hat—a little straw, and a few flowers, but what taste, what cleverness! Wonderful people!”

The other instinctively lowered his voice:

“Jove, she is pretty! Look at her profile—it's like a Lippo Lippi! I wonder if she's waiting for some one?”

“Probably she is. A girl doesn't come into the country, dressed like that, for nobody. Whoever he is, he's late. I wouldn't be late, would you, Griff?”

“Would I!” said the other abstractedly. “She doesn't seem worried, though.”

In fact, the girl was watching the crowd very placidly. Her dark eyes moved quickly from one spot of color to another: she looked interested, but content. She drank her lemonade slowly and turned, apparently looking for the waiter, and for an instant her eyes caught the intent gaze of the two young strangers. She glanced away at once and signaled the stout and perspiring garçon, who swept up her empty glass, nodded, and flew off.

“Is she going, do you think?” asked the second young man anxiously.

No, she wasn't going. The waiter brought her a plate of little cakes and another lemonade. She resumed her alert and pleased inspection of the lively scene before them.

“Garçon, encore deux!” cried the first young man, a trifle more loudly, perhaps, than was absolutely necessary.

He was a handsome and powerful youth of twenty-five or six, looking extremely content with the world and himself. His companion was, perhaps, a year or two older, less brilliant, with a face more nervous, more sensitive and intense.

“Oh, the charming creature!” cried the first, draining his glass in a toast to the girl's profile.

“Oh, I say, not so loud, Louis,” the second protested.

“Why not? If she heard she wouldn't understand, and it she understood she wouldn't mind,” said Louis gayly. “Do you take her for an English miss? A French girl who sits alone in a public square isn't going to be so prim as all that. I don't think she'd mind at all if we asked her very politely to let us drink our beer at her table.”

“But if she's waiting for some one——” objected Griffith.

“Well, he hasn't come. If she doesn't want us, she can say so. Go along, Griff, ask her.”

“You do it—you speak better French than I.”

Louis laughed uproariously.

“Better! Ye gods! I'll bet you a dinner for the three of us that you don't dare speak to her.”

The girl's interested glance for a moment swept across the two. She looked over, not at, them, but she looked gentle and friendly.

“She knows we're talking about her,” said Louis, “and she doesn't mind. I dare you, Griff. Here you're dying for adventure and a chance to practice your French—what better do you want? It won't kill you if she does throw you down!”

Griffith rose, took off his straw hat, and approached the solitary damsel.

“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he began.

The girl looked up at him. He blushed furiously, and his vocabulary completely failed him,

“Well, monsieur?” she said crisply.

“Mademoiselle,” halted Griffith wretchedly. “I do not speak French. My friend speaks a little. Will you speak to him?”

“Why?” demanded the girl, a glint of amusement in her eyes.

Griffith turned and, with a desperate gesture, summoned his accomplice. Louis obeyed with alacrity, laughing, and offered an apology, in French slightly more fluent, for the presumption of his friend, who, he explained, was a stranger to French customs, but ad not the remotest intention of offending mademoiselle——”

“But no,” she said, smiling merrily. “You are both Americans, are you not? The Americans are so droll!”

“Yes, mademoiselle, but what would you—we are aborigines!” said Louis, with humility.

“It is true! They interest me much, the aborigines! They are strange to me!” caroled the girl, her dark eyes demurely roguish.

“Mademoiselle, will you permit——” Louis glanced at their table.

“But be seated, messieurs,” she said sweetly.

In a moment they were sitting beside her, and the amused waiter had swiftly brought over their fresh foam-crowned glasses.

Thus favorably begun, the conversation proceeded with vivacity, Louis ruthlessly immolating the French tongue as to grammar and accent, to the evident extreme amusement of their new acquaintance. Griffith listened, fascinated, to her rapid, birdlike speech, catching a good deal of her meaning for he had a book knowledge of the language—and aided by an occasional kind translation from his friend.

“She says,” explained Louis, “that she isn't waiting for any one, but just came out to see the sights. She lives at Paris. She's a modiste—makes hats, you know. She says she gets her ideas of color and so on in this way—the country, the trees, flowers, sky. She's an artist, you see—told you so! Extraordinary, what sophistication you find in this people! It's getting a little crowded here—I'm going to suggest a stroll in the park.”

He turned to the girl and offered his suggestion, which was well received. The park, she said, was most beautiful at this hour of late afternoon.

Louis called the waiter and discharged her account as well as their own. She made a slight protest, half drawing out her purse, a silver-mesh trifle, then gracefully acquiesced and let Louis pay.

Then they went out, edging through the mesh of little tables and into the crowd that surrounded the band stand, overflowed the sidewalks, and thronged the pavement of the square. The girl slipped lightly through this good-humored mass, swaying slender and graceful, her beflowered little head turning to this side and that; and her companions followed with more difficulty. They ascended the long flight of steps leading to one of the avenues of the park, and at the top paused to look back.

“How amusing it is—all that!” cried the girl, sweeping with a light gesture the brilliant square, the bright-blue river, the compact darker masses of the town climbing up the hill.

Her face was lit with pleasure. The very spirit of careless youth, of radiant ease, she looked, and with a keen allurement, a poignant, troubling grace. Louis looked upon her with admiration as light and gay as her own mood. Griffith gazed at her, touched and thrilled. And as she looked up at him, and her eyes met the intensity of his, a color ever so faint, like the reflection of a flame, rose into her charming face. She turned quickly and began to walk up the stately avenue.

The fountains were playing in the old-time royal pleasure ground; the populace wandered about, under the supervision of grave guardians. The great flights of steps, the stone terraces and balustrades, the enormous statue-beset basins into which flowed and fell the leaping waters, the long stretches of green grass, part in golden sunlight, part in the shade of majestic trees, the long vistas of the avenues, radiating out, leading on into a mysterious distance—all this noble and stately beauty changed subtly the mood of the talk begun below in the Place of St. Cloud.

The girl became pensive. Louis, less sensitive to the influence of the hour, rallied her gayly.

“It is sad,” she murmured. “It is very beautiful, but it is sad.”

Griffith walked by her side, silent, wishing that Louis would stop talking, wishing that he could talk to her. He would have liked to ask her why this sumptuous beauty, in the golden afternoon light, seemed to her sad—he would have liked to be sad with her. He would have liked to quote a verse that he remembered:

Sois belle—et sois triste!

But it was quite impossible to be so pleasantly sad with Louis there. Presently the girl, too, was laughing again. Louis reminded her that they had not yet been properly introduced, and he presented himself and his friend—“Louis, surnamed the Good, manufacturer of automobiles, and Griffith the Simple, poet.” She repeated these names, struggling adorably with “Griffith,” and gave her own, “Laurence—toute courte.” “Laurence toute belle,” he promptly rechristened her; and, crossing her hands on her breast, she swept him a curtsy.

Then she asked what part of America they came from, She had a friend at Buenos Aires—would they by any chance have come from there? No, alas, they came from Chicago, Louis explained, which was in the provinces, and their acquaintance in Buenos Aires and other great cities was very limited.

She had a most musical voice, and her speech had a crisp elegance and purity of intonation that quite ravished the ear of Griffith, the poet. And then, how pretty she was, and what shades and refinements in that which at first seemed simple! For example, her hair—when the sunlight fell upon it, one perceived that it was not merely dark; it had red gleams in it, it had copper threads, it had golden lights. And her eyes—those large, brown irises were shot with green and flecked with gold. And her pale skin—what a wonderful undertone it had, how luminous! Speech, manner, too—all corresponded to this alluring and subtle quality of her beauty.

They came out after a time upon a broad terrace, with a balustrade, below which the ground fell abruptly, and there, in the distance, was Paris, sparkling with lights already, and lightly veiled with the mist of evening. In fact, the sun was sinking.

Laurence leaned her elbows on the stone railing and looked dreamily at the city; and she began to repeat poetry. She murmured wistfully:

“Les sanglots longs
Des violons
De l'automne
Blessent mon cœur
Dune langueur
Monotone.

“Tout suffocant
Et blême, quand
Sonne l'heure,
Je me souviens
Des jours anciens
Et je pleure.

“Et je m'en vais
Au vent mauvais
Oui m'emporte
De ça, de la
Parcil à la
Feuille morte.”

Her voice was pure music. Ending, she looked up almost tearfully into the poets eyes,

“Very pretty,” said Louis abruptly. “What is it?”

“It is Verlaine,” she said absently.

Griffith was silent. He was too startled, too utterly charmed, to speak, even had he possessed speech at that moment. His eyes glowed, and they were fiery eyes, eyes that looked deep—dangerous eyes.

Laurence suddenly gave a little cry, and declared that it was late, that she must go, that she must take the next boat back to Paris.

Louis protested volubly. No, she must dine with them. Down there at the Pavillon Bleu there was very good food, there was music on the balcony overlooking the river, then they could all go back to Paris together.

No, she could not do that. She positively must return now, at once. And she did not want them to take her to the boat. She would bid them adieu.

Louis, disappointed and incredulous, finally saw that she meant what she said, and recovered himself to protest that it was at least not adieu that she meant, but au revoir. She could not be so completely cruel as not to want to see them again. As for him, he would not submit to it. He would follow her, and if she tore away the last remnant of hope, he would positively fling himself into the Seine. Griffith said nothing, except with his eyes. But, answering his imploring gaze, she hesitated, smiled.

Louis began to suggest plans, places for meeting. She shook her head. No, she was busy, very busy, all the week. Next Sunday? Well, perhaps. He again mentioned the Seine—and, laughing, she yielded. Next Sunday, then, she would lunch with them at the Pavillon Bleu. Yes, without fail, she would be there, on the balcony at one o'clock.

Then she gave her hand to each, with a demure “Au 'voir, monsieur,” and slipped away with her swift, graceful motion, half running, turning her head to give them a farewell smile, vanishing at a turn of the avenue into the deepening shades of the forest.

 

The two friends dined that evening on the balcony of the Pavillon Bleu, and they drank many toasts to Laurence, in white wine.

“A little milliner who quotes Verlaine—a little working girl with the manners of a duchess!” cried Louis, much excited. “Haven't I told you, you aristocrat, that there is nothing to equal for charm the women of the people? So frank, so simple, so gay—and then so clever, the little coquette! Confess, isn't your heart touched, O poet? Aren't you already composing a sonnet to her adorable eyebrow?”

Griffith smiled his confession. His eyes were dreamy, especially after all those toasts to Laurence, and he smoked cigarette after cigarette in a rapt reverie, listening to the rhapsodies of Louis, watching the lights on the river. Youth and its quick blood, the heady charm of adventure, the eyes of a girl, the foreign city, freedom and glamour, beat in his pulses and dazzled him with visions. Poems to Laurence, indeed, shaped themselves in his brain, but he did not utter them.

However, he spent a large part of the week following in putting these lyric emotions into words, in polishing and jeweling the form of his tribute. Between times, he practiced his French, going about with a phrase book and a dictionary, muttering to himself, and, whenever possible, trying his powers of expression upon the inhabitants of Paris. Louis had been the eloquent and emphatic one, but it happened precisely that he was the one to fail at the rendezvous of the next Sunday. He explained; a race at two o'clock between two famous speed demons—he couldn't miss it.

“And, besides, it was you that she was interested in,” he added generously. “Didn't you see it? I did. And now you ll have a clear field.”

“But I can't talk to her!” cried Griffith, half charmed, half dismayed.

“Oh, nonsense—you can if you try. You can manage. Why, at worst you can converse by signs. Delicious! I'd love that, myself! You can learn from her pretty lips—ye gods, how romantic!”

Yes, this idea appealed to Griffith, too. Nevertheless, fright overtook him when, waiting on the little pier, he saw the boat approach that would, if she were faithful to her appointment, bring Laurence. Fright, yes—he could feel his heart pounding—but he wouldn't have retreated, naturally, for worlds. At the last moment it occurred to him that she might come by train, and that he would have done better to await her at the restaurant. But it was too late now—the boat was touching the pier—and he saw her. In the same plain, dark dress, the same flowered hat, the immaculate little frill, and the buttoned boots. But she looked pale, she looked tired—he perceived this in the instant before she recognized him.

In his pocket he had the phrase book, the dictionary, and a gallant note of apology from Louis, on the composition of which that youth had spent a good half hour.

All his phrases deserted him when she smiled up at him, and he could only stammer disjointedly and present the note. He thought that she did not seem overwhelmed by Louis' desertion. She said very prettily that she was sorry, but her face became animated, and lost the look of weariness. They went up to the restaurant, where Griffith had reserved a table, decorated with spring blossoms. Spring breathed all about them from the delicate blue sky marbled with light-gray clouds; it sparkled in her eyes and touched with faint rose color her cheek.

How adorably that cheek melted into the long curve of her throat! How adorable was her mouth, the full, rather pouting lips curved up so finely at the corners!

“You do not speak much French, but you understand, do you not?” was the meaning of her light staccato.

Yes, he understood, but, alas, that he could not speak! He conveyed to her somehow that he had innumerable things to say—he looked laughing despair. She encouraged him, supplying the words when he halted, finishing the sentences that hung fire, guessing, answering. It was a quite fascinating game, involving close study of one's opponent, across the little table, the blue eyes and the brown having to be very intent on each other, a game helped out by gestures and played to the accompaniment of much laughter, absorbing the players so that they were hardly aware of the people about them or of what they ate or drank.

Laurence did not say much about herself. The sum of what he was able to find out about her was that she was living alone in Paris—that is, one had friends, of course, but really it was living alone—and that she had a mother and sister “en province,” that she, too, was a provincial, but had been for some years in the city; and that she worked very hard.

He managed to say that she had seemed tired when he saw her first that morning—and for an instant the shadow of that weariness again fell upon her face. Yes, work—sometimes it did not go very well. One exhausted one's self, all for nothing. With an abrupt gesture, she dismissed this theme.

She asked him how long he had been in Paris, and if it were true that he was a poet. He blushed and said that he was a student, traveling a little for pleasure, and that he had written verses. He had even written some to her. She opened her eyes wide with pleased surprise, and wanted to hear the verses. No matter if they were in English, she would like to hear how they sounded, for, she explained, words had a music, too, even if one did not understand the meaning. Wouldn't he repeat them? He would.

She listened intently, and exclaimed that English, after all, could be quite musical, though, of course, it was more rough, more harsh, than French. Would he not give her a copy of the verses? He wrote them down for her on the back of a little Japanese fan that she carried, and she gave him the tiny bunch of violets that she had tucked into her belt.

Then she proposed a plan to him: Let him speak English to her! It was fatiguing to him, she saw, not to be speak freely. It would be so to see how much she could guess of his meaning!

Griffith leaned across the table, and his pent-up feeling burst forth in a swift torrent of speech:

“Laurence, you are the most charming thing I ever saw! Your eyes are the color of the shallows of a brook, full of sunlight! Your hair is a mesh of copper, bronze, and gold, and my heart is caught in that net. Laurence, you are adorable! You are like a white rose, with a heart of rose color. I have thought of you night and day for a week. This never happened to me before, it is very strange, but I couldn't get you out of my mind. I shall write a thousand poems to you! I shall adore you! I wonder if you will love me.”

She listened with her head on one side, smiling archly.

Why, English was not so very difficult, after all! She understood very well that he was saying most agreeable things. It was quite plain that he was a poet! But continue, monsieur!

He was quite willing, only would she please not call him monsieur? Would she not say Griffith? She tried—her efforts were enchanting.

Two hours slipped by swiftly in this pleasant play. Then followed a long walk through the park, a slow wandering in those beguiling mazes. They sat on a stone bench to watch the fountains playing. And, suddenly, Laurence began to sing, a strange, dreamy, and passionate song, in a low voice, sweet, restrained, meant for him only. She did not look at him, but she sang to him, though it seemed, too, as if she were singing to herself, singing her heart out.

Silence followed this song—a long silence. She sat watching the falling waters, and he, gazing at her with a deep glow in his eyes. At last, in a shaking voice, he begged her to sing again.

But no. The spell was broken. She was tired, she said, moving abruptly. She must go back. She looked suddenly pale and sad. Unmoved by his mournful protest, she insisted. He took her to the boat. Then, at the last moment, she smiled up at him remorse fully, and of her own accord asked: Should they meet again next Sunday?

Yes, very well, then, at the same hour. Only this time they would not lunch at the restaurant, she said firmly. She would bring something with her, and they would lunch under the trees in the park. Agreed, then.

Griffith returned alone to the park, and found the bench where they had sat watching the fountains, and he sat there a long time, lost in dreams delicious and painful, tumultuous, full of deep sadness, full of poignant joy.

There are four golden Sundays in the month of May. One of them is a day of ardent sunshine, when the little, thin, green leaves unfold visibly, and shake out their creases against the blue sky. One is a blue-gray day, with a little shivering wind and tender mists. On one it rains delightfully out of low gray clouds, and the wind sobs, and one is especially gay—a delicious day, intimate, full of promise. And on the last, in the full glory of the sun, flowers bloom riotous, the earth breathes out fragrance, the grass is a rich, warm carpet, the sky a burning blue, drunken with light—and Laurence has a new dress. It is a white dress with a scarlet belt, and she has a white hat, a thin Tuscan straw, with red poppies on it. Her lips are scarlet like the poppies, her eyes are warm like the sunlight on the grass. She is intoxicating.

And he? A poet, in love, in springtime, with his love trembling on his lips, with his heart so full that it brims over at his eyes; Griffith the Simple, who has never been in love before, and never will be again. Some people are like that.

They eat their luncheon on the grass. She has taken off her hat and her hair catches the sunlight. He lies at her feet and looks at her. By this time they have communicated many thoughts to one another. She has sung many songs, some sad, some gay, and he has repeated innumerable verses of his own, to hear her say earnestly:

“But that is music! You are a true poet, my friend!”

He knows a little of her soul, but he knows no more of her. She comes to him, for these golden days, out of the great city, and she goes back, alone. He is infinitely curious about her, and yet he does not seek to know more. The enchantment is too strong upon him. She is a mystery, a radiant thing, divinely veiled. He trembles before the veil, possessed by the dawning of that most powerful ecstasy of passion where the senses are quiescent.

She is strong and careless. She gives and withholds what she pleases. He has but kissed lightly the tips of her fingers. Sometimes her face is a child's, sometimes it is weary and wise. She is not simple. She is capricious, She is self-conscious, never off her guard, and yet she is spontaneous. Sometimes she is silent for a long time, and looks at him strangely, as if she disliked him. Sometimes she is mocking, her laugh has an edge, she says skeptical, contemptuous things. She bewilders him, baffles. him, hurts him sometimes, enchants him always. He is sinking in love.

His prophecy is fulfilled. He has written or dreamed a thousand poems to her. He adores her. His question remains unanswered: Will she love him? He does not know. Sometimes he thinks she must, she seems so happy, her eyes are so tender, she is so made for love. He has not asked her; they linger yet in that magical dawn where every word, every look implies the question that is still unspoken.

On this last day of golden light, a phrase of hers brings on the inevitable. They have talked of love. By this time she knows that “l'amour” is “love.” She has every reason to know it, in prose and verse! To-day of all days, she chooses to descend to prose.

“L'amour,” she quotes cynically, mischievously, “c'est un malentendu entre une dame et un monsieur.”

Love is a misunderstanding between a lady and a gentleman!

Can a poet and a lover hear this from the lips of his beloved

He springs up, he drops on his knee beside her, indignant, wounded.

Love! Love is understanding between man and woman! It is the only understanding there is, the only sight, the only speech! It is the wedding of souls, it is the most divine thing on earth, it is the most beautiful thing in life, it is life itself! Oh, Laurence!

He pours out a flood of words, hot from his heart. He does not think whether she understands. He knows she understands. The tears run down his face.

And she? She turns pale, she shrinks into herself, her eyelids fall over her eyes. She does not answer him. In silence, she reaches for her little basket and packs it. She puts on her hat. She puts him away with an imperious gesture. She gets up. She will not listen, she will not look at him. He clasps her wrists, she stands mute and frozen. She is ice, she is marble. He is struck to the heart, he looses her.

Then she looked up at him, and said very clearly and coldly:

“Well—the little comedy is played out. So much for our adventure.”

Her accent was perfectly American.

Griffith stared at her.

It was, indeed, as if a curtain had rolled down, shutting away a fairy-land scene, and the garish day flooding in had drowned out the mystic light of his dream. Laurence had changed before his eyes. She stood there, cool, self-possessed, hard—a familiar type, so familiar that it seemed to him utterly impossible that he could have been deceived by her.

“How on earth——” he muttered in stupefaction.

He stared at her wildly.

How had she done it? How had she kept it up? It was absurd—she couldn't have done it. He couldn't have been such a fool. Why, why had she done it?

A quick, blind rage was rising in him, against himself and against her. His eyes flamed. Laurence looked back at him coolly, and her coolness maddened him. He snatched the basket from her hand, and threw it away among the trees. He seized her by the wrists, and sent her backward, and looked fiercely into her face.

“What possessed you to make a fool of me like that?” he demanded thickly.

“It wasn't difficult,” said Laurence hardily. “I'm quite French, I've been here so long. I'm an art student.”

“I don't care what you are,” said Griffith ferociously.

He saw her bite her lip with pain, and suddenly he seized her in his arms and kissed brutally her mouth, her eyes.

“So you would make a fool of me, would you?” he cried hoarsely. “So ends the comedy, does it? I have something to say about that, you'll find. You think you can play with me——”

She lay crushed against his breast, her face gone quite white.

“If you'd only once kissed me!” he cried, in a voice of hatred. “If you'd cared ever so little about me! But you held me off, and I let you, because I was falling in love with you. You cold, cruel, little devil!”

And he shook her frenziedly, and then pushed her away so violently that she staggered and nearly fell.

She put up her hands and straightened her hat mechanically, biting her lips hard, her eyes filling with tears.

Griffith glared at her for a moment, then turned away and threw himself full length on the grass, hiding his face on his arms.

He lay there a long time, lost in misery, and anger, and self-abasement.

When he moved and looked up, Laurence was gone.

He stared about him, dazed, and sprang to his feet. He called her name. There was her little basket on the ground, but she was gone. He called her, again and again, then set off running. He reached her pier only to see a boat swinging out into the river. No doubt she had taken that. But he went back, looking for her at the restaurant, and among the crowds. He went back to the park and tramped about till night-fall. It was useless. She was gone.

 

There were five terrible Sundays in that month of June. For four of them, he haunted the Place and Park of St. Cloud, tormented by hope and by despair.

She did not come.

They were fête days, days of full summer in its freshness, days of warm sun and deep, leafy shade, days of popular merrymaking—they were frightful days.

Had she forsaken him, then? Had he so offended her? Had his love repelled her and his anger frightened her? Had she turned from him in pure, absolute coldness, when he was pouring out his heart to her? He wandered restlessly among the groups of happy people. He spent long hours sitting huddled on a bench, his gaze blank and listless.

He went over in his mind, hour by hour, minute by minute, all the happenings of those four days that they had been together. His anger was gone now, and only pain was left; pain that she had felt nothing of what he was feeling, that what had been so magically sweet to him had been to her only an amusing little game, to be ended when there seemed a chance of its becoming serious. Of course, if she had had the slightest feeling for him, she couldn't have kept it up, her pretty little foolery. That was the sting, that was what had infuriated him, and made him treat her so brutally at the end. She must have known that was the reason; she ought to have understood; she should not have run away. That was cowardly, to run away. Surely she would not have done this if she had understood even a little, if she had known how it would crush him, and that he could not forget her, could not let her go this way.

In the city he fled from his usual associations. He dropped his work. He wandered in the streets, vaguely, vainly looking for her. He ate and slept by snatches. He was possessed. He was devoured with fever and longing. The most terrible day was that on which he did not go to the park, on which he stayed in his room, his head buried in the pillows, till past the time when they had been used to meet. Then it seemed that hope had abandoned him, When it was too late, he was seized by the idea that perhaps she had relented, that perhaps she had sought him, that so he had really lost her. He could endure his solitude no longer. He dressed and went out.

He went to find Louis, whom he had not seen for some time. Louis was out. Then he went to the house of another friend, a Mrs. Davenant, who had shown a kindly interest in him. She, too, was out. He walked back slowly to Louis' apartment and got the concierge to let him in; and he waited there, drinking whisky and soda, smoking countless cigarettes, hanging over the little balcony that overlooked the street. It was dusk when Louis came in, whistling cheerfully.

“My dear old chap, how are you?” he cried boisterously. He flashed on the lights, looked at Griffith, and said: “I say—what the deuce is the matter? What's happened to you?”

He must tell somebody—he told Louis. Louis listened, breaking into delighted laughter at the tale of Laurence's deception.

“Well, she did fool us most artistically, by Jove! The clever little minx! I bet if I'd seen her again, I'd have found her out, though. But you, being a poet, and going about with your head in the clouds—of course she could put it over you.”

Griffith grew violent, and Louis deeply puzzled.

“But, my dear old boy, you take it too hard,” he protested after a while, kindly.

Griffith flared. Couldn't Louis understand? He was crazy about that girl!

“Yes, I see you are, but hang it—after all, you know, one oughtn't to take a thing like that too seriously.”

“Too seriously! Can't you get it through your head, you fool, that it is serious?”

Louis gave a long whistle and stared at his friend.

“I've got to dress—going out to dinner. Go ahead, tell me about it,” he said, with astonishment.

“Tell you? I have told you. I tell you I'm mad in love with her—and I've lost her!” groaned Griffith, tramping about the room

“Well, why did you scare her off then? What on earth did you say to her, anyway?”

“I said I loved her, and wanted her near me forever.”

“Forever! Well, of course—one says that, I suppose——”

“You suppose! Do you suppose I didn't mean it?”

“Yes, but damn it all, do you mean you want to marry her?”

“I don't care whether I marry her or not!” shouted Griffith. “All I want is to have her belong to me forever—forever, do you hear?”

“Yes, I hear,” said Louis, looking queerly at his friend. “I should think the people in the street probably hear, too—I'm certain the concierge does. But never mind—— Tell you what, old fellow, you come along. with me to-night. There's a gay crowd—some fellows you know, and some pretty girls—you come, now. You need something to divert your mind.”

“To—divert—my—mind,” said Griffith slowly. “Thanks.”

He went with Louis. He could not endure the idea of returning to solitude. The room in the restaurant overlooking the river was as gay as possible. There were many pretty girls, and more very lively young men. There was an excellent dinner. There was a great deal of champagne. Griffith was as riotous as the rest. He laughed, shouted, sang, pounded on the table, and made ironical love to the girl next him. Gradually the noise and the bright colors seemed to get inside his brain, and to whirl about there madly. He was hardly conscious of anything, except that his heart was breaking.

The girl—she had dark, smiling eyes—she was kind—she kissed him. He clasped her roughly—and broke into wild, bitter weeping upon her breast.

 

On a Sunday afternoon in mid-July, Mrs. Davenant, his one other confidante, who was full of kindly plans for drawing him away from his broodings, took him out in her motor to Verles, to the house of a French sculptor, Fabre, who was giving a little tea in honor of the work of a successful pupil, an American girl named Laura Denby.

The place was charming. They went into a little court and through the house, which was small, a pavilion all gay with scarlet and white. The garden was large and old, with high stone walls overgrown with ivy, tall box hedges, winding paths, and many trees, damp nook and corners, snails on the rocks, flowers everywhere. Women with bright dresses were scattered about in it, and a few men. The sculptor greeted them in excellent English, and took them to his wife, who was pouring weak tea—a tall, slender, soberly dressed lady with the sweetest of manners. The artist himself was short and fat, with a beautiful head, robust and classic. He talked rapidly, with brusque gestures.

“Come now, and I will show you something pretty,” he said, when they had had their tea. He led them across a grassplot and into a little space inclosed in box and planted with roses. In the midst of the roses was a plaster model of a small fountain—a group of naked children playing with a tortoise.

“Oh, charming!” cried the lady. “Oh, it is lovely!”

The sculptor nodded.

“It is nice—not at all bad,” he said, looking deeply pleased. “This pupil of mine—you know her, Miss Denby——”

“Oh, do let us find her,” said Mrs. Davenant.

“I will bring her,” said the sculptor, and trotted off with his hands in his pockets.

“It's pretty, isn't it?” Mrs. Davenant asked.

“Very,” Griffith responded indifferently.

Presently they saw their host returning, with a slim girl beside him. She was holding up her long white dress, and her face, turned toward his, was half hidden by the sweep of a black hat with a long plume. Mrs. Davenant went forward a few steps to greet the newcomer, and turned to present her friend.

“This is Mr. Griffith Banning, who wants to tell you how much he admires your fountain——”

The two stood staring at one another, pale to the lips. There was a moment's tense silence.

“Well, well!” muttered the sculptor under his breath, with a worried look.

Mrs. Davenant took his arm. She had had a flash of intuition.

“Come along, my friend,” she said, with decision. “In America, you know, we always leave the young people to settle their own affairs.”

And she led him away firmly, though he hung back and shot a jealous glance over his shoulder.

“My best pupil!” he said indignantly. “What has your savage young man to do with her?”

“You'll know later,” said Mrs. Davenant prophetically.

 

Griffith and the girl faced one another across the little fountain among the roses. She was more beautiful even than he had remembered, with that pallor of emotion—for she was moved, as he had never seen her before, though he had seen tears in her eyes, too.

“You needn't be afraid of me,” he stammered. “I didn't mean to frighten you—I didn't know you were here. I'm not angry with you now. I'm quite sane. I'm only sorry I was such a wild idiot. Forgive me?”

“Oh, yes,” she murmured, with lips still pale and trembling.

“I'm sorry—I know you didn't want to see me again——”

“But—I did,” she said quickly, vehemently. “If I'd known where to find you——”

“You would? No, I can't believe that. No, not that.”

“Yes—after what you said to me. When I thought it over.”

“Why didn't you come back to St. Cloud, then?”

“Come back? Were you there?”

“I was there every Sunday for a month.”

The color rose into her face slowly.

“Truly? You went back?”

“Oh, Laurence,” he said, in a low voice.

“My name is Laura. I thought you never would forgive me.”

“Well, I'm not sure that I have forgiven you. It isn't so easy to forgive—what you did——”

Her eyelids fell, and once more she looked as she had done that last day in the forest—miserably hurt.

“You see,” he said, as calmly as he could, “if you play a game you ought to be willing to see it through. You oughtn't to play at all if you're going to lose your nerve and back out. Remember that next time. It's my opinion you haven't very much nerve, Laurence—Laura—though you're very charming. You're even prettier than I remembered you——”

“Don't speak to me like that!” she flashed out, her eyes glittering.

“Well, how shall I speak to you? You don't want me to be tragic, or choke you, do you? You know this is the last act of the comedy, and it ought to end pleasantly, or at least lightly. You played with me, and amused yourself to the top of your bent with my simple folly, you wanted a harmless little adventure, and you've had it—at least, if anybody's been harmed it isn't you. It seems to me you ought to be satisfied.”

She turned away from him and stood looking down into the little basin of the fountain, empty except for a few rose leaves dropped there by the wind. She fished the rose leaves out one by one, and crushed them in her fingers.

“You see,” he said sternly, with a sudden deep note of passionate sincerity, “it's true, one doesn't play with love. You destroyed something beautiful—for it was beautiful, what I felt for you——”

“I didn't play with it,” she broke in. “When I felt it, I stopped.”

“Yes, you stopped—that was easy. It wasn't so easy for me.”

“I can't think it was very hard,” she said ironically. “Why can't you be honest and admit that you had only a slight fancy for me, that you, too——”

“Because I wasn't!” he shouted. “I was mad in love with you, and I am still, and you know it!”

She bent her head still lower, and color overspread her face, and a look came into it. She looked up at him.

It was like dawn—never had she looked at him like that. It was like the first faint color of sunrise on snowy mountain peaks, while in the cool, waiting dusk the stars are paling out—hushed, wondering, pondering, a long brooding.

He stood, thrilled to the heart, dazzled.

“She will, perhaps, love me all, after all, it may be!”

Immortal moment, the beginning of the great Adventure!