“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 prettie
st, 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 you
r 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.”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 573