The Adventures of a Modest Man

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER XXI

  IN A BELGIAN GARDEN

  That evening I found Williams curled up in his corner at the Cafe 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 Isat in the sun and recalled it. Possibly it was even real enough tosun-burn me a little."

  He eyed me with considerable chagrin. Perhaps he thought that he had themonopoly of poetic fancies. It was most agreeable to me to touch himup. 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 thisautumn."

  "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 tolisten. 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 tellyou something; there isn't a profession in all the world which can be soeasily and quickly acquired as yours. Therefore pin no more orders andribbons and stars and medals on yourself. The only difference betweenyou and your public is that they have no time to practice yourprofession in addition to their own."

  Which took him down a peg or two, until we both took down another peg ortwo. But when I called the waiter and ordered a third, he became morecheerful.

  "You're a jollier," he said, "aren't you?"

  "I did a little this afternoon. Go on about Kingsbury and Smithy. Afterall, Williams, you really do it much better than I."

  Which mollified him amazingly, and he began with a brisk confidence inhis powers of narration:

  * * * * *

  When Kingsbury had finished his course at the University of Paris, thereappeared to be little or nothing further in the way of human knowledgefor him to acquire. However, on the chance of disinterring a fragment ortwo of amorphous information which he might find use for in hisprojected book, The Economy of Marriage, he allowed himself another yearof travel, taking the precaution to invite Smith--the flippancy of Smithbeing calculated to neutralise any over-intellectual activity inhimself.

  He needed a rest; he had had the world on his hands too long--ever sincehis twentieth year. Smith was the man to give him mental repose. Therewas no use attempting to discuss social economy with Smith, or ofinteresting that trivial and inert mind in race suicide. Smith wasflippant. Often and often Kingsbury thought: "How can he have passedthrough The University of Paris and remained flippant?" But neitherSorbonne nor Pantheon produced marked effect upon Smith, and although itis true that Paris horridly appealed to him, in the remainder of Europehe found nothing better to do than to unpack his trout-rod and make forthe nearest puddle wherever they found themselves, whether in the Alps,the Tyrol, the Vosges, or the forests of Belgium, where they at presentoccupied a stucco-covered villa with servants, stables, hot-houses, anda likely trout stream for Smith to dabble in, at a sum per month soridiculously reasonable that I shall not mention it for fear ofdepopulating my native land.

  Besides, they had the youthful and widowed Countess of Semois for theirneighbour.

  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 stillflushed from his early gallop through the soft wood-roads of the forest,found Smith at breakfast under the grape-arbour, immersed in a popularnovel and a bowl of strawberries.

  "Hello," said Smith, politely, pushing the fruit across the table. "Theberries are fine; I took a corking trout an hour ago; we'll have itdirectly."

  "I saw the Countess," said Kingsbury, carelessly unbuttoning his glovesas he stood there.

  "Oh, you did? Well, which one is the Countess, the girl with the darkhair, or that stunning red-haired beauty?"

  "How could I tell? I couldn't ride up and ask, could I? They weredriving, as usual. The King was out, too; I wish he'd wear a decenthat."

  "With the moral welfare of two hemispheres on your hands, you ought notto feel responsible for the King's derby," observed Smith.

  Any exaggeration of fact always perplexed Kingsbury. He flattened outhis gloves, stuck his riding-crop into his left boot, and looked atSmith through his monocle.

  "For all the talk about the King," he said, "the peasantry salute him asreverently 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 lessof the stables, seated himself, drowned a dozen luscious strawberriesin cream, tasted one, and cast a patronising eye upon the trout, whichhad been prepared a la Meuniere.

  "Corker, isn't he?" observed Smith, contemplating the fish withpardonable 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 adisgusting case of poaching."

  "What on earth did you do that for?"

  "Now, I'll explain that in a minute. You know where our stream flowsunder the arch in the wall which separates our grounds from the parknext door? Well, I was casting away on our side, never thinking ofmischief, when, flip! flop! spatter! splash! and, if you please, rightunder the water-arch in the wall this scandalous trout jumped. Ofcourse, I put it to him good and plenty, but the criminal creature, onpurpose to tempt me, backed off down stream and clean through the archinto our neighbour's water.

  "'Is it poaching if I go over after him?' thought I. And, Kingsbury, doyou know I had no time to debate that moral question, because, before Icould reply to myself, I found myself hoisting a ladder to the top ofthe wall and lowering it on the other side--there are no steps on theother side. And what do you think? Before I could rouse myself with thecry of 'Trespasser! Help!' I found myself climbing down into the parkand 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 thenegative 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, andrefilled 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 Ichanced to be out by moonlight, and I saw you kiss her, Smith, acrossthe 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 ofyours, 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 onthe wall by moonlight and watch the trout jump; and just as my headcleared the wall the head of a girl came up on the other side--rightaga
inst the moon, so it was just a shadow--a sort of silhouette. It wasan 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 myastonishment, I realised that I was going to kiss her if she didn'tmove.... And--she didn't."

  "You mean to say----"

  "Yes, I do; I haven't the faintest notion who it was I kissed. Itcouldn't have been the Countess, because I've neither fought any duelsnor have I been arrested. I refuse to believe it could have been thecook, because there was something about that kiss indescribablyaromatic--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 toape 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 withyour ragged morals you are mistaken."

  "That's right; don't stand for 'em. I've been reading novels, and I needa jar from an intelligence absolutely devoid of imagination."

  "You'll get it if you don't behave yourself," said Kingsburycomplacently. "The Countess of Semois probably knows who we are, and tento one we'll meet her at that charity bazar at Semois-les-Bains thisafternoon."

  "I'm not going," said Smith, breaking an egg.

  "Not going? You said you would go. Our Ambassador will be there, and wecan meet the Countess if we want to."

  "I don't want to. Suppose, after all, I had kissed _her_! No, I'm notgoing, I tell you."

  "Very well; that's your own affair," observed the other, serenelyoccupied with the trout. "Perhaps you're right, too; perhaps the happyscullion whom you honoured may have complained about you to hermistress."

  Smith sullenly tinkled the bell for more toast; a doll-faced maid in capand apron brought it.

  "Probably," said Kingsbury in English, "_that_ is the species youfondled----"

  Smith opened his novel and pretended to read; Kingsbury picked up themorning paper, propped it against a carafe, sipped his coffee, andinspected the headlines through his single eyeglass. For a few minutespeace and order hovered over the American breakfast; the men were youngand in excellent appetite; the fragrance of the flowers was not toointrusive; discreet breezes stirred the leaves; and well-behaved littlebirds sang judiciously in several surrounding bushes.

  As Kingsbury's eyes wandered over the paper, gradually focussing up asmall 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 Iknow!"

  "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? Areyou aware, Smith, that over ninety-seven and three tenths per cent ofsuch marriages are unhappy? Are you? Why, I could sit here and give youstatistics----"

  "Don't, all the same."

  "Statistics that would shock even you. And I say solemnly, that I, as anAmerican, 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! Racesuicide is not alone what menaces us; it is the exportation of ourfinest and most vigorous stock to upbuild a bloodless and alienaristocracy at our expense."

  Smith reached for the toast-rack.

  "And if there's one thing that irritates me," continued Kingsbury, "it'sthe spectacle of wholesome American girls marrying titles. Every timethey do it I get madder, too. Short-sighted people like you shrug theirshoulders, but I tell you, Smith, it's a terrible menace to our country.Beauty, virtue, wealth, all are being drawn away from America into thearistocratic purlieus of England and the Continent."

  "Then I think you ought to see about it at once," said Smith, presentinghimself 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 oftheir 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: "Wedo that sort of thing very frequently in literature, I notice. There'san American doing it now in this novel. I've read lots of novels likeit, too." He laid his head on one side, musing. "As far as I cancalculate from the romantic literature I have absorbed, I should saythat we Americans have already carried off practically all of theavailable 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 nowengaged I am embodying the following economic propositions: For everygood, sweet, wholesome American girl taken from America to bolster up adegenerate title, we men of America ought to see to it that a physicallysound 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 Kingsburysternly. "I've often pondered the matter. If only one American could befound sufficiently self-sacrificing to step forward and set the exampleby doing it, I am convinced, Smith, that the tardy wheels of justicewould begin to revolve and rouse a nation too long imposed upon."

  "Why don't you do something in that way yourself? There's a finephysical 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 newspaperand answer me like a man."

  But Kingsbury only reopened the newspaper and blandly scanned thecolumns. Presently he began muttering aloud as he skimmed paragraphafter 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 theduty of every decent American to improve his own race. If we wantphysical perfection in anything don't we select the best typeobtainable? Why don't we do it in marrying? I tell you, Smith, this isthe 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 Europeantakes from us one of our best, let us take from Europe her best, healthfor health, wealth for wealth, title for title! By Heaven, Smith, I'mgoing 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 andopening 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 youcan meet her easily enough. The rest," he added, politely, "will, ofcourse, be easy."

  Kingsbury lighted a cigar, leaned back in his chair, and flung onebooted 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 wouldrest your conscience to offset that ma
rriage which has irritated you bymarrying the Countess of Semois--by presenting to your surprised andadmiring country a superb and titled wife for patriotic purposes."

  "I don't know which she is," retorted Kingsbury, intensely annoyed. "Ifshe's the tall girl with dark hair and lots colour I could manage tofall in love easily enough. I may add, Smith, that you have anextraordinary way of messing up the English language."

  He arose, walking out toward the gate, where the smiling little postmancame 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 onefrom my sister--I'll just glance at it if you'll excuse me." He openedit and read placidly for a few moments. Then, of a sudden a terriblechange came into his face; he hastily clapped his monocle to his eye,glared at the written page, set his teeth, and crumpled it furiously inhis hand.

  "Smith," he said, hoarsely, "my sister writes that she's engaged tomarry an--an Englishman!"

  "What of it?" inquired Smith.

  "What of it? I tell you my sister--my _sister_--_my_ sister--is going tomarry 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 hecast his cigar violently among the roses.

  "I have a mind," he said, "to get into a top hat and frock coat anddrive 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 orrising excitement, touched his smooth, handsome face, deepening the maskof tan. He was good to look upon, and one of the most earnest young menthe gods had ever slighted.

  "You think I'm all theory, don't you?" he said, nervously. "You shrugthose flippant shoulders of yours when I tell you what course anAmerican who honors his country should pursue. Now I'll prove to youwhether or not I'm sincere. I am deliberately going to marry theCountess of Semois; and this afternoon I shall take the necessarymeasures to fall in love with her. That," he added, excitedly, "can beaccomplished 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 topractice what I expect to spend my life in preaching; that's all. Notthat I want to marry just now--I don't; it's inconvenient. I don't wantto fall in love, I don't want to marry, I don't want to have a dozenchildren," 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 meansomething; I'm ready to marry the Countess of Semois. There is nopossible room for doubt; any man can marry any woman he wants to; thatis 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 thatI admire her the moment I meet her. I'm going to tell her about mytheory of scientific marriages. If she is sensible--if she is the womanAmerica requires--if she is the dark-haired girl--she'll understand." Heturned squarely on Smith: "As for you, if you were the sort of Americanthat you ought to be you would pick out some ornamental and wholesomeyoung Belgian aristocrat and marry her in the shortest time that decencypermits! That's what you'd do if you had a scintilla of patriotism inyour 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 ourloveliest women under your bovine nose. Shame on you! Have you no desireto be up and doing?"

  "Oh, of course," said Smith, unruffled; "if several passion-smittenduchesses should climb over the big wall yonder and chase me into thegarden----"

  Kingsbury swung on his spurred heels and strode into the house.