CHAPTER XXIII
ON THE WALL
Smith retired to his room to bathe, clothed himself in snowy linen andfresh tennis flannels, and descended again, book under his arm, tosaunter forth through heavy tangles of cinnamon-tinted Flemish roses andgreat sweet-scented peonies, musing on love and fate.
"Kingsbury and his theories! The Countess of Semois will think himcrazy. She'll think us both crazy! And I am not sure that we're not;youth is madness; half the world is lunatic! Take me, for example; Inever did a more unexpected thing than kissing that shadow across thewall. I don't know why, I don't know how, but I did it; and I am out ofjail yet. Certainly it must have been the cook. Oh, Heavens! If cookskiss that way, what, _what_ must the indiscretion of a Countessresemble?... She _did_ kiss back.... At least there was a soft,tremulous, perfumed flutter--a hint of delicate counter-pressure----"
But he had arrived at the wall by that time.
"How like a woodland paradise!" he murmured sentimentally, youthful faceupraised to the trees. "How sweet the zephyr! How softly sing thedicky-birds! I wonder--I wonder--" But what it was that perplexed him hedid not say; he stood eying the top of the wall as the furtive turkeyeyes its selected roost before coyly hopping thither.
"What's the use? If I see her I'll only take fright and skulk homeward.Why do I return again and again to the scene of guilt? Is it Countess orcook that draws me, or some one less exalted in the culinary confine?Why, why should love get busy with me? Is this the price I pay for thatguileless kiss? Am I to be forever 'it' in love's gay game of tag?"
He ascended the steplike niche in the wall, peeped fearfully over intohis neighbour's chasse. Tree and tangle slept in the golden light ofafternoon; a cock-pheasant strutted out of a thicket, surveyed thesolitude with brilliant eyes, and strutted back again; a baby rabbitfrisked across the carrefour into the ferny warren beyond; and "Bubble,bubble, flowed the stream, like an old song through a dream."
Sprawling there flat on top of the sun-warmed stucco wall, whitesunlight barring the pages of his book, he lifted his head to listen.There was a leafy stirring somewhere, perhaps the pheasant rustling inthe underbrush. The sing-song of the stream threaded the silence; and ashe listened it seemed to grow louder, filling the woods with low,harmonious sounds. In the shallows he heard laughter; in the pouringwaterfalls, echoes like wind-blown voices calling. Small grey andsaffron tinted birds, passing from twig to twig, peered at himfearlessly; a heavy green lizard vanished between the stones with aniridescent wriggle. Suddenly a branch snapped and the underbrushcrackled.
"Probably a deer," thought Smith, turning to look. Close inspection ofthe thicket revealed nothing; he dropped his chin on his hands, crossedhis legs, and opened his book.
The book was about one of those Americans who trouble the peace of mindof Princesses; and this was the place to read it, here in the enchantedstillness of the ancient Belgian forest, here where the sunshine spreadits net on fretted waters, where lost pools glimmered with azure whenthe breeze stirred overhead--here where his neighbor was a Countess andsome one in her household wore a mass of gold-red hair Greekfashion--and Aphrodite was not whiter of neck nor bluer eyed than she.
The romance that he read was designed to be thickly satisfying toAmerican readers, for it described a typical American so accurately thatSmith did not recognize the type. Until he had been enlightened byfiction he never imagined Americans were so attractive to exoticnobility. So he read on, gratified, cloyed, wondering how the Princess,although she happened to be encumbered with a husband, could stand foranything but ultimate surrender to the Stars and Stripes; and trustfullyleaving it to another to see that it was done morally.
Hypnotized by the approaching crisis, he had begun already to finger thenext page, when a slight crash in the bushes close by and the swish ofparting foliage startled him from romance to reality.
But he had looked up too late; to slink away was impossible; to move wasto reveal himself. It was _she_! And she was not ten feet distant.
One thing was certain: whether or not she was the shadowy partner of hiskiss, she could not be the Countess, because she was fishing,unattended, hatless, the sleeves of her shirtwaist rolled up above herwhite elbows, a book and a short landing-net tucked under her left arm.Countesses don't go fishing unattended; gillies carry things. Besides,the Countess of Semois was in Semois-les-Bains selling dolls toKingsbury.
The sun glowed on her splendid red hair; she switched the slender rodabout rather awkwardly, and every time the cast of flies becameentangled in a nodding willow she set her red lips tight and with animpatient "_Mais, c'est trop bete! Mais, c'est vraiment trop_----"
It was evident that she had not seen him where he lay on the wall; thechances were she would pass on--indeed her back was already towardhim--when the unexpected happened: a trout leaped for a gnat and fellback into the pool with a resounding splash, sending ring on ring ofsunny wavelets toward the shore.
"Ah! _Te voila!_" she said aloud, swinging her line free for a cast.
Smith saw what was coming and tried to dodge, but the silk line whistledon the back-cast, and the next moment his cap was snatched from his headand deposited some twenty feet out in the centre of the pool.
The amazement of the fair angler was equal to his own as she lookedhastily back over her shoulder and discovered him on the wall.
There is usually something undignified about a man whose hat has beenknocked off; to laugh is as fatal as to show irritation; and Smith didneither, but quietly dropped over to her side of the wall, saying, "I'mawfully sorry I spoiled your cast. Don't mind the cap; that trout was abig one, and he may rise again."
He had spoken in English, and she answered in very pretty English: "I amso sorry--could I help you to recover your hat?"
"Thank you; if you would let me take your rod a moment."
"Willingly, monsieur."
She handed him the rod; he loosened the line, measured the distance withpracticed eye, turned to look behind him, and, seeing there was scantroom for a long back-cast, began sending loop after loop of silken lineforward across the water, using the Spey method, of which none except anexpert is master.
The first cast struck half-way, but in line; the next, still in line,slipped over the cap, but failed to hook. Then, as he recovered, therewas a boiling rush in the water, a flash of pink and silver, and the rodstaggered.
"I--I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed aghast; "I have hooked your trout!"
"Play him," she said quickly. The elfin shriek of the reel answered; hegave the fish every ounce the quivering rod could spare, the great troutsurged deeply, swerved, circled and bored slowly upstream.
"This fish is magnificent," said Smith, guiltily. "You really must takethe rod----"
"I shall not, indeed."
"But this is not fair!"
"It is perfectly fair, monsieur--and a wonderful lesson in angling tome. Oh, I beg you to be careful! There is a sunken tree limb beyond!"
Her cheeks were the colour of wild roses, her blue eyes burned likestars.
"He's down; I can't stir him," said Smith. "He's down like a salmon!"
She linked her hands behind her back. "What is to be done?" she askedcalmly.
"If you would gather a handful of those pebbles and throw one at a timeinto the pool where he is lying----"
Before he finished speaking she had knelt, filled her palms with goldengravel, and stood ready at the water's edge.
"Now?" she nodded, inquiringly.
"Yes, one at a time; try to hit him."
The first pebble produced no effect; neither did the second, nor yet thethird.
"Throw a handful at him," he suggested, and braced himself for theresult. A spray of gravel fell; the great fish sulked motionless.
"There's a way--" began Smith, feeling in his pockets for his key-ring.It was not there.
"Could I be of any use?" she asked, looking up at Smith veryguilelessly.
"Why, if I had something--a key-ring or anything that I could ha
ng overthe taut line--something that would slide down and jog him gently----"
"A hairpin?" she asked.
"I'm afraid it's too light."
She reflected a moment; her bent forefinger brushed her velvet lips.Then she began to unfasten a long gold pin at her throat.
"Oh, not that!" exclaimed Smith, anxiously. "It might slip off."
"It can't; there's a safety clasp. Anyway, we must have that trout!"
"But I could not permit----"
"It is I who permit myself, monsieur."
"No, no, it is too generous of you----"
"Please!" She held the pin toward him; he shook his head; she hesitated,then with a quick movement she snapped the clasp over the taut line andsent it spinning toward the invisible fish.
He saw the gold glimmer become a spark under water, die out in duskydepths; then came a rushing upheaval of spray, a flash, the rod quiveredto the reel-plate, and the fight began in fury. The rod was so slim, solight--scarce three ounces--that he could but stand on the defensive atfirst. Little by little the struggle became give and take, thenimperceptibly he forced the issue, steadily, delicately, for the tacklewas gossamer, and he fought for the safety of the golden clasp as wellas for his honour as an angler.
"Do you know how to net a trout?" he asked presently. She came and stoodat his shoulder, net poised, blue eyes intent upon the circling fish.
"I place it behind him, do I not?" she asked coolly.
"Yes--when I give the word----"
One more swerve, a half circle sheering homeward, nearer, nearer----
A moment later the huge trout lay on the moss; iridescent tints playedover its broad surface, shimmering hues deepened, waxing, warning; thespots glowed like rubies set in bronze.
Kneeling there, left hand resting on the rod, Smith looked up at herover his shoulder; but all she said was: "Ah, the poor, brave thing! Thegallant fish! This is wrong--all wrong. I wish we had not taken a lifewe cannot give again."
"Shall I put the trout back madame?"
She looked at him surprised.
"Would you?" she asked incredulously.
"If you desire it."
"But it is your fish."
"It is yours, madame."
"Will it live? Oh, try to make it live!"
He lifted the beautiful fish in both hands, and, walking to the water'sedge, laid it in the stream. For a while it floated there, gold andsilver belly turned to the sky, gills slowly inflating and collapsing.Presently a fin stirred; the spasmodic movement of the gill-coversceased, and the breathing grew quiet and steady. Smith touched thepectoral fins; the fish strove to turn over; he steadied the dorsal fin,then the caudal, righting the fish. Slowly, very slowly, the great troutmoved off, farther, farther, sinking into cool, refreshing depths; therewas a dull glitter under the water, a shadow gliding, then nothingexcept the green obscurity of the pool criss-crossed with surfacesunshine.
When Smith turned around the girl was pensively regarding the water. Hiscap had stranded on a shoal almost at his feet; he recovered it, wrungthe drops from it, and stood twirling it thoughtfully in the sunlight.
"I've ruined it, haven't I?" she asked.
"Oh, no; it's a shooting-cap. Like Tartarin, I shall probably ventilateit later in true Midi fashion."
She laughed; then, with the flushed composure of uneasiness: "Thank youfor a lesson in angling. I have learned a great deal--enough at leastto know that I shall not care to destroy life, even in a fish."
"That is as it should be," he replied coolly. "Men find little charm inwomen who kill."
"That is scarcely in accord with the English novels I read--and I readmany," she said laughing.
"It is true, nevertheless. Saint Hubert save us from the woman who canwatch the spark of life fade out in the eye of any living thing."
"Are you not a little eccentric, monsieur?"
"If you say so. Eccentricity is the full-blown blossom of mediocrity."