The Puppet Crown [18]
waterward from the gate there lay, hidden in the shadowed water, a sunken pier. On one of the iron piles the boat had become impaled.
Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began rapidly to fill. First he swore, then he laughed, for he was possessed of infinite good humor. The only thing left for him to do was to swim for the gate. With a rueful glance at his thin clothes, he dropped himself over the side of the wreck and struck out toward the gate. The water, having its source from the snowclad mountains, was icy. He was glad enough to grasp the lower bars of the gate and draw himself up. He was on the point of climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his streaming eyes.
Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She held in her hand a book, but she was not reading it. She was scanning the unwritten pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark, large and wistful, were holding communion with the god of dreams. A wisp of hair, glossy as coal, trembled against a cheek white as the gown she wore.
At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a bulldog, toothless and old. Now and then a sear leaf, falling in a zig-zag course, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his head as if he, too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him. All at once he sniffed, his ears stood forward, and a low growl broke the enchantment. The girl, on discovering Maurice, closed the book and rose. The dog, still growling, jumped down and trotted to the gate. Maurice thought that it was time to speak.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "pardon this intrusion, but my boat has met with an accident."
The girl came to the gate. "Why, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you are wet!"
"That is true," replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock together. "I was forced to swim. If you will kindly open the gate and guide me to the street, I shall be much obliged to you."
The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land, or the next thing to it, which was the boat-dock.
"Thank you," he said.
"O! And you might have been drowned," compassion lighting her beautiful eyes. "Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must be weak. And it was that sunken pier? I shall speak to Monseigneur; he must have it removed. Bull, stop growling; you are very impolite; the gentleman is in distress."
Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the desire to gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this girl who could say "must" to the formidable prelate? His quick eye noticed that she showed no sign of embarrassment. Indeed, she impressed him as one who was superior to that petty disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it seemed to him, as she stood there looking down at him, that he, too, should be standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought. Against the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy petals. Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep. Presently a color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks. Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said.
"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.
"It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.
"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to imprint it on her memory. "You are English?"
He said: "No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have possibly read about."
Her teeth gleamed. "Yes, I have heard of them. But you do not appear so very dreadful; though at present you are truly not at your best. What is this--this Yankeeland like?"
"It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such a great country."
"You are a patriot!" clapping her hands. "No other country is so
Maurice was tumbled into the bow of the boat, which began rapidly to fill. First he swore, then he laughed, for he was possessed of infinite good humor. The only thing left for him to do was to swim for the gate. With a rueful glance at his thin clothes, he dropped himself over the side of the wreck and struck out toward the gate. The water, having its source from the snowclad mountains, was icy. He was glad enough to grasp the lower bars of the gate and draw himself up. He was on the point of climbing over, when a picture presented itself to his streaming eyes.
Seated on a bench made of twisted vine was a young girl. She held in her hand a book, but she was not reading it. She was scanning the unwritten pages of some reverie; her eyes, dark, large and wistful, were holding communion with the god of dreams. A wisp of hair, glossy as coal, trembled against a cheek white as the gown she wore.
At her side, blinking in the last rays of the warm sun, sat a bulldog, toothless and old. Now and then a sear leaf, falling in a zig-zag course, rustled past his ears, and he would shake his head as if he, too, were dreaming and the leaves disturbed him. All at once he sniffed, his ears stood forward, and a low growl broke the enchantment. The girl, on discovering Maurice, closed the book and rose. The dog, still growling, jumped down and trotted to the gate. Maurice thought that it was time to speak.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "pardon this intrusion, but my boat has met with an accident."
The girl came to the gate. "Why, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "you are wet!"
"That is true," replied Maurice, his teeth beginning to knock together. "I was forced to swim. If you will kindly open the gate and guide me to the street, I shall be much obliged to you."
The gate swung outward, and in a moment Maurice was on dry land, or the next thing to it, which was the boat-dock.
"Thank you," he said.
"O! And you might have been drowned," compassion lighting her beautiful eyes. "Sit down on the bench, Monsieur, for you must be weak. And it was that sunken pier? I shall speak to Monseigneur; he must have it removed. Bull, stop growling; you are very impolite; the gentleman is in distress."
Maurice sat down, not because he was weak, but because the desire to gain the street had suddenly subsided. Who was this girl who could say "must" to the formidable prelate? His quick eye noticed that she showed no sign of embarrassment. Indeed, she impressed him as one who was superior to that petty disturbance of collected thought. Somehow it seemed to him, as she stood there looking down at him, that he, too, should be standing. But she put forth a hand with gentle insistence when he made as though to rise. What an exquisite face, he thought. Against the whiteness of her skin her lips burned like poppy petals. Innocent, inquisitive eyes smiled gently, eyes in whose tranquil depths lay the glory of the world, asleep. Presently a color, faint and fugitive, dimmed the whiteness of her cheeks. Maurice, conscious of his rudeness and of a warmth in his own cheeks, instinctively lowered his gaze.
"Pardon my rudeness," he said.
"What is your name, Monsieur," she asked calmly.
"It is Maurice Carewe. I am living in Vienna. I came to Bleiberg for pleasure, but the first day has not been propitious," with an apologetic glance at his dripping clothes.
"Maurice Carewe," slowly repeating the full name as if to imprint it on her memory. "You are English?"
He said: "No; I am one of those dreadful Yankees you have possibly read about."
Her teeth gleamed. "Yes, I have heard of them. But you do not appear so very dreadful; though at present you are truly not at your best. What is this--this Yankeeland like?"
"It would take me ever so long to tell you about it, it is such a great country."
"You are a patriot!" clapping her hands. "No other country is so