The Cords of Vanity. A Comedy of Shirking

 'Only 'twixt the light and shade 
Floating memories of my maid 
Make me pray for Guendolen.'

After this we retraced our steps. I was peering anxiously about the roadway.

'Pardon me,' said I, subsequently; 'but have you seen anything of a watch—a small gold one, set with pearls?'

'Heavens!' said the Vision, sympathetically, 'what a pity! Are you sure it fell here?'

'I don't seem to have it about me,' I answered, with cryptic, but entire veracity. I searched about my pockets, with a puckered brow. 'And as we stopped here—'

I looked inquiringly into the water.

'From this side,' observed the Vision, impersonally, 'there is less glare from the brook.'

Having tied Guendolen to a swinging limb, I sat down contentedly in these woods. The Vision moved a little, lest I be crowded.

'It might be further up the road,' she suggested.

'Oh, I must have left it at the hotel,' I observed.

'You might look—' said she, peering into the water.

'Forever!' I assented.

The Vision flushed, 'I didn't mean—' she began.

'But I did,' quoth I,—'and every word of it.'

'Why, in that case,' said she, and rose to her feet, 'I'd better—' A frown wrinkled her brow; then a deep, curved dimple performed a similar office for her cheek. 'I wonder—' said she.

'Why, you would be a bold-faced jig,' said I, composedly; 'but, after all there is nobody about. And, besides,—for I suspect you of being one of the three dilapidated persons in veils who came last night,—we are going to be introduced right after supper, anyway.'

The Vision sat down. 'You mentioned your sanatorium?' quoth she.

'The Asylum of Love,' said I; 'discharged—under a false impression, —as cured, and sent to paradise.

'Oh!' said I, defiant, 'but it is!'

She looked about her. 'The woods are rather beautiful,' she conceded, softly.

'They form a quite appropriate background,' said I. 'It is a veritable Eden, before the coming of the snake.' 

'Before?' she queried, dubiously.

'Undoubtedly,' said I, and felt my ribs, in meditative wise. 'Ah, but I thought I missed something! We participate in a historic moment. This is in Eden immediately after the creation of—Well, but of course you are acquainted with that famous bull about Eve's being the fairest of her daughters?'

'It is quite time,' said she, judicially, 'for me to go back to the hotel, before—since we are speaking of animals,—your presence here is noticed by one of the squirrels.'

'It is not good,' I pleaded, 'for man to be alone.'

'I have heard,' said she, 'that—almost any one can cite scripture to his purpose.'

I thrust out a foot for inspection. 'No suggestion of a hoof,' said I; 'and not the slightest odour of brimstone, as you will kindly note; and my inoffensive name is Robert Townsend.'

'Of course,' she submitted, 'I could never think of making your acquaintance in this irregular fashion; and, therefore, of course, I could not think of telling you that my name is Marian Winwood.'

'Of course not,' I agreed; 'it would be highly improper.'

'—And it is more than time for me to go to supper,' she concluded again, with a lacuna, as it seemed to me, in the deduction.

'Look here!' I remonstrated; 'it isn't anywhere near six yet.' I exhibited my watch to support this statement.

'Oh!' she observed, with wide, indignant eyes.

'I—I mean—' I stammered.

She rose to her feet.

'—I will explain how I happened to be carrying two watches—'

'I do not care to listen to any explanations. Why should I?'

'—upon,' I firmly said, 'the third piazza of the hotel. And this very evening.'

'You will not.' And this was said even more firmly. 'And I hope you will have the kindness to keep away from these woods; for I shall probably always walk here in the afternoon.' Then, with an indignant toss of the head, the Vision disappeared.

2

I whistled. Subsequently I galloped back to the hotel.

'See here!' said I, to the desk-clerk; 'how long does this place keep open?'

'Season closes latter part of September, sir.'

I told him I would need my rooms till then.

17. He Provides Copy

1

So it was Uncle George Bulmer who presently left the Green Chalybeate, to pursue Mrs. Chaytor with his lawless arts. I stayed out the season.

Now I cannot conscientiously recommend the Green Chalybeate against your next vacation. Once very long ago, it was frequented equally for the sake of gaiety and of health. In the summer that was Marian's the resort was a beautiful and tumble-down place where invalids congregated for the sake of the nauseous waters,—which infallibly demolish a solid column of strange maladies I never read quite through, although it bordered every page of the writing-paper you got there from the desk-clerk,—and a scanty leaven of persons who came thither, apparently, in order to spend a week or two in lamenting 'how very dull the season is this year, and how abominable the fare is.'

But for one I praise the place, and I believe that Marian Winwood also bears it no ill-will. For we two were very happy there. We took part in the 'subscription euchres' whenever we could not in time devise an excuse which would pass muster with the haggard 'entertainer.' We danced conscientiously beneath the pink and green icing of the ball-room's ceiling, with all three of the band playing Hearts and Flowers; and with a dozen 'chaperones'—whom I always suspected of taking in washing during the winter months,—lined up as closely as was possible to the door, as if in preparation for the hotel's catching fire any moment, to give us pessimistic observal. And having thus discharged our duty to society at large, we enjoyed ourselves tremendously.

For instance, we would talk over the book I was going to write in the autumn. That was the main thing. Then one could golf, or drive, or—I blush to write it even now—croquet. Croquet, though, is a much maligned game, as you will immediately discover if you ever play it on the rambling lawn of the Chalybeate, about six in the afternoon, say, when the grass is greener than it is by ordinary, and the shadows are long, and the sun is well