CHAPTER XIV

WHITHER? TOGETHER

Much was crowded into the next few weeks, for, with all Paris to see and the important matter of gowns and hats to attend to, there was little idle time. Since Gabriella’s extravagance consisted in the ordering of but one gown at a modest price, and a simple hat, she had rather more leisure than the other two, who had frequent visits to pay to dressmakers, and who started off together in the early morning, leaving Gabriella to follow at her convenience. That Gabriella made the most of these unfettered moments may well be imagined; if she did not spend them at the Louvre with the Russian, she took advantage of the time to explore out-of-the-way places with the Briton. Upon the Dutchman her blandishments had little effect, for he was a follower in Sidney’s train and to her quiet little self gave his undivided attention whenever she would permit, though one day at the end of three weeks he took a sudden departure.

There were days, too, when the whole party, the Baileys included, would take a trip to Versailles or to Fontainebleau. One afternoon gave them an outing up the river to St. Cloud, and an early morning expedition was made to the market. And thus the time passed rapidly and happily till at the end of a month they were still lingering in Paris, but making feeble efforts to leave. By this time the Baileys had taken their departure, though Mr. Morgan still tarried.

“It is the dressmakers and the shopping and all that which has taken so much time,” said Miss Cavendish one morning as she set upon her handsome head a hat which had just been sent home.

“Yes, but it has been worth while,” returned Gabriella, regarding her admiringly. “You are a dream in that hat, Gem. I don’t see how you are to escape returning a countess or at least a marquise, if you appear in it.”

“As if I were so silly as to be dazzled by a title,” said Miss Cavendish, taking off the hat and turning it around on her hand. “No, my dear, I shall remain Isabella Cavendish to the end of the chapter.”

“I don’t believe it,” retorted Gabriella. “We have none of us escaped the adoration of foreign masculines, so why should you, who are the best looking? Anything more distinguished than you in that hat it would be hard to find. As for Sidney, she is a new creature. Her friends won’t know her in her costumes which we shall take the credit of having selected.”

“If I am not to be recognized I shall be sorry that I have them,” remarked Sidney, who had just come into the room with an open letter in her hand and an expression of half amusement, half annoyance upon her face. “It seems mean to show you this, but it is too funny to keep.”

“What is it?” asked Gabriella, holding out her hand.

“On second thoughts I’ll not show you; I’ll simply tell you the contents of this letter. It is from Mr. van Schepel and it is a proposal of marriage.”

Gabriella clapped her hands. “What did I tell you? I knew his philanderings meant something. Oh, Sid, now you will have a chance to wear the monster ring.”

“Nonsense, Gabriella,” returned Sidney. “Of course I couldn’t accept him. He has written in such funny English that at first I couldn’t tell just what he meant, but at the end, when he said that he would have offered himself before he left Paris, but he had to ask the consent of his parents first, then I understood.”

“Good little boy! Did he really say that, Sid?”

“He certainly did. Listen.” She read a few sentences from her letter.

“I can scarce believe it in this age and generation. Isn’t it delicious? Go on, what else?”

“He says that he will return to Paris at once if I will accept him, and that he left hastily that he might return before we left.”

“Dear me.”

“Oh, but I threw cold water upon that plan. I wrote him that it would not be the slightest use for him to return, for I had left my heart in America.”

“And have you?” asked Gabriella quickly.

The soft color overspread Sidney’s face as she said: “It seemed the best excuse, and one that would not allow of any protest.”

“But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Which you haven’t any right to ask,” put in Miss Cavendish. “That was a wise reply, Sidney.”

“I am sure I never gave him any undue encouragement, do you think I did, Gem? He always would come, you know, and I was merely polite.”

“He had the good taste to observe your own individual charm, dear, and perhaps your sweet courtesy was misunderstood.”

“That comes of being too amiable,” returned Sidney. “I am sure I didn’t intend to make him think I favored him, but he evidently thinks I did. I am sorry.”

“I shouldn’t let it bother me in the very least,” Gabriella was ready with advice. “I find that a very little affability goes a great way with these foreigners. I am constantly having to turn and rend the Russian or I am confident that I should be carried off willy-nilly. I don’t know yet that I shall escape. It is a great temptation, however, to see just how far you can go without damage.”

“I shouldn’t go too far, you might arouse the bear’s ugly side. I’ll be ready in a minute, Gem. I hope Madame Picot will not keep us an hour as she did the last time.” And Sidney left the room.

“I think I shall go to the Louvre,” remarked Gabriella, drumming thoughtfully on the table. “You are not likely to be back before _déjeuner_, I suppose. Perhaps I shall go to the Bon Marché to see if they have any more of those feathers that I have been yearning for ever since I saw them. Gem, do you suppose Sidney really has left her heart in America, and that is why she has that far-away look sometimes and seems so indifferent.”

“I think it is not unlikely. Sidney is not the expansive young person that you are, and does not discuss such matters with the freedom of Gabriella Thorne.”

“Do you think I tell everything?”

“I should not be far from wrong if I said I did.”

“Well, I don’t,” returned Gabriella, diving into a drawer for her gloves. “Good-by, Lovely. I shall probably be back to _déjeuner_, but if I am not don’t worry. I shall avoid international questions to-day, and shall give Monsieur Le Russe to understand that I cannot allow my fortune to be devoted to the development of Russian mines.” She went out, leaving the effect of her breezy presence behind her.

“Bless the child,” said Miss Cavendish to herself, “she is a joy even at her naughtiest.”

Into the clean street Gabriella stepped, passing the surly _concierge_ with a smile and a _bon jour_. In the doorway of the small _laiterie_ across the way stood the woman from whom Gabriella frequently bought a supply of cream for the afternoon tea which the three prepared in their own rooms. The girl gave a cheery nod to the little shopkeeper. At the corner was the boy from whom she bought her daily _Herald_, and he smiled at her recognition of him. As she made a dash across the Champs Élysées for the entrance to the “Met,” she ran into the arms of some one crossing from the opposite side. “Oh, pardon, monsieur,” she exclaimed. She was answered by a laugh, and looking up, she saw Mr. Morgan. “Oh, is it you?” she said. “I feel less embarrassed since you prove not to be a Frenchman. I was in such a hurry to get out of the way of that dreadful red automobile that was bearing down upon me. I had only just escaped from a string of clattering cabs and thought I was safe. Isn’t the Champs Élysées dreadful?”

“It isn’t so bad now as in the spring and fall.”

“It is bad enough. Oh, never mind. I can get the rest of the way without endangering my life.”

“It is my way, too.”

“But you were going in the opposite direction.”

“Until I saw you.”

“Then where are you going, now?”

“Wherever you are, if you will allow.”

“I thought of going to the Louvre.”

“To meet Mr. Rowtowsky?”

“No, for I have just been telling Gem that I had decided not to invest my fortune in Russia. It would be disloyal to America, you know.”

Mr. Morgan smiled and looked down at her. “I think myself it would be rather unsafe at this time of dissension and disruption.”

“Thanks for your opinion. It is always so assuring to have a man’s views of such questions. I don’t know what would become of me if I had to exist without a million at my command. It would be dreadful if I were to lose my large inheritance by allowing my sentiment to overbalance my discretion.”

An amused look came into Mr. Morgan’s eyes. “It must be a delightful experience to possess unlimited means,” he said. “You American girls are so frank. It is refreshing to hear you speak so candidly of your fortune. Most of us would be a little shy about it.”

“But I never am shy. I was not as a child; Gem can tell you that. Here comes our train, if you insist upon the Louvre this morning.”

“I don’t insist; I even would suggest the Luxembourg.”

“Then let us go there. I am glad of the chance, for I don’t know my way so well about that quarter, and you can take all the responsibility.”

“I shall be delighted.”

They retraced their steps, turned aside and found the proper tram for the Luxembourg quarter and were presently at the gallery. “You have not told me yet how you are pleased with the modern French school,” said Mr. Morgan. “Now that you have seen the Salon as well as the older exhibitions, what is your verdict?”

“I think the modern school has made a wonderful advance in landscape painting. It is as if they had only lately discovered atmosphere and color for out-door pictures, but when it comes to an expression on canvas of a spiritual truth, in genre painting, I cannot see that they have gained. I was disappointed in the Salon, I must confess.”

“Why?”

“Oh, because there was such an evidence of a materialistic spirit. After coming from a study of those old Italian paintings I missed the real fervor, the real divine spark. These modern men know how to put on paint, I admit, but they have no soul, and after all when it comes to technique, who can equal Franz Hals? And as to color, where can Titian be excelled, or Palma Vecchio, or Rubens? And as to the intense spirituality of the old masters it can never be approached in this age. Even old Cimabue and Giotto have a far greater charm for me than these modern flesh painters, who are not artists after all.”

“Do you include all in that assertion? What of your own Sargent?”

“Oh, I don’t mean to say that I think there are no artists nowadays, but that there are very few, and I do maintain that there was more real artistic feeling, more of the divine spark, in that long ago, before faith grew cold and Mammon was god of all.”

“Yet you couldn’t exist without a million at your command, you said a while ago.”

“Did I? Oh, well, I am not an artist. Genius always burns more brightly in a garret than in a palace, and thrives better on a crust than on a _pâté-de-foies-gras_, though, for my own part, I prefer the latter. I might make a compromise, however, and be perfectly willing to subsist for the rest of my life upon _spaghetti pomo d’ora_.”

“It isn’t half bad, I admit, and I know of a little place off the Boulevard des Italiennes where they cook it to perfection. Suppose we go there and have a dish of it for our luncheon. Can’t we do that?”

“I confess it tempts me. Would it-- Do you think-- Could Gem object?”

“If you think so, of course we will not go.”

Gabriella thought he looked a little hurt and answered quickly: “On second thoughts I don’t see how anyone could possibly object, and I think it would be great fun. I shouldn’t hesitate at home, so why here?”

“Why indeed? Then when you have had your fill of the Luxembourg pictures let us go into the garden and watch the people.”

“I am ready now, for I like the gardens,” returned Gabriella, “they are the very expression of _liberté_, _fraternité_ and _égalité_. It does me good to see families congregating there, mothers with their sewing and mending, chatting to their neighbors, and the little children playing around. The little things come to no harm, for when they are not directly under the eyes of the mothers they have the guardianship of the gendarmes. These people know how to get fresh air and be sociable at the same time.”

“The Latins are very different from the Anglo-Saxons in the matter of sociability. We put hedges around our gardens and lock our gates to keep out the rabble, while here the green parks are free to all, and the Frenchman prefers to take his breakfast in the eyes of the world instead of behind closed doors. How do you manage such things in America?”

“Oh, we close the doors. Our parks and squares are generally open, however, though they are generally given over to the nursemaids and their charges, with a sprinkling of tramps. An American woman would no more think of doing her week’s mending in the public square than she would think of flying. See that dear creature over there putting a patch upon her husband’s blue blouse; she looks as placid and content as possible; and that little body next her with the knitting has evidently an interesting tale to tell. This is a much better way to get the neighborhood news than to leave the breakfast dishes in order to hang over the back fence or to shut oneself up in a stuffy little room while the children squabble in the gutter.”

“You are not the aggressive upholder of American institutions that one sometimes meets.”

“I hope not. I am aggressive when persons attack those things of which they know nothing, but I see our faults and I can admire good wherever I see it.”

“I wonder what you will think of England and Wales.”

“I expect to love them. I have gone wild over every country even when I had the disadvantage of not knowing the languages, so what will I do when I get to England? I hope we can go to Wales, but Gem is not sure that we can. Sidney is only lent to us for six months, though Miss Cavendish means to stretch the time and call it six months from the time we landed till we sail for home. We are due in London the first of August, a stupid time to be there, they tell me, but we cannot be in each place in May and June, which we are always told are the proper months, and what is one to do?”

“It does seem rather an intricate question, but I am sure you will find enough to interest you in London at any season of the year.”

The bells rang out the noonday hour and they started forth through the historic old streets where long-haired students passed them and smiling little maidens, in gay fripperies, tripped along, where fruit vendors cried their wares and flower girls offered bouquets, until they had crossed the river, the square towers of Notre Dame looming up to their right and the Arc de Triomphe, a reminder of past glories, on their left. “It is a beautiful city.” Gabriella gave utterance to the fact as if it had newly come to her knowledge. “It seems to me that it grows more beautiful each time I view it from a new point, yet I should never care to make my home here. A season, a year, yes, I’d like that, but after all, when one wants steady satisfaction it must be furnished by a place which is something more than merely gay and amusing.”

“Yet Paris has its sober side, its intellectual enjoyment to offer. Down there at the Sorbonne you can fancy there is some serious thinking.”

“Yes, but one scarcely ever confronts that side unless he makes a business of seeking it. Even the poor here appear to take their poverty in a less self-absorbed way than with us. They don’t look so utterly and hopelessly miserable, but as if they could take their thoughts off themselves and be amused if anything came along.”

“Yet there is wretchedness enough.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that, but it isn’t so palpable as in some cities. Is this the place? Isn’t it queer?”

It was the haunt of foreigners, of artists, authors and journalists, so there was a Bohemian smack to the occasion which pleased Gabriella’s love of the unconventional. The presence of two or three respectable American ladies, however, gave her a sense of safety, and she felt no compunctions. Over their dish of sphaghetti, with a straw-covered flask of Chianti, the two lingered, imagining themselves back in Italy, and the talk grew reminiscent and personal, so that they tarried long and only left the place with reluctance.

“It is such charming weather,” said Mr. Morgan, as they issued from the dim little restaurant, “that it seems a shame to waste any time in-doors. What do you say to making a day of it and of going to the Bois? I’d be willing to listen even to Browning if I could hear you read it out-of-doors. We can stop in at Brentano’s and get a copy of anything you may prefer, as a reminder of Florence, and we will add a bit of poetry to our reminiscence of this day. Will you agree?”

Gabriella consented. She would live for the hour, she told herself. It would soon be over, so why not enjoy it while she could? She would not stop to consider what might be the outcome. Sufficient unto the day was the pleasure thereof, and with this decision made, she was ready to be her gayest, her happiest, her most charming.

Under the shadow of a great tree the hours of the afternoon passed quickly for both. If there were not much poetry read, there was much felt, and when Mr. Morgan scribbled Gabriella’s name and the date on the fly-leaf of the book he had bought, and asked her to keep it as a remembrance of the day, she accepted without demur, and gave him, at his asking for a keepsake, a quaint silver bauble, the tiniest of silver frames, into which she had stuck a miniature photograph of a Fra Angelica angel. She had carried the wee frame, in her pocketbook ever since the day when the two had been together at San Miniato; she had bought the little souvenir that same afternoon on the Ponto Vecchio.

It was six o’clock before the truant entered the room where Miss Cavendish was preparing for dinner. “Well, you little runaway,” exclaimed she, “you did make a day of it. Give an account of yourself. Where have you been?”

“Where I shall never go again,” replied Gabriella unsteadily. “It has been a heavenly day, Gem dear, but it is over. It has passed into the has beens; it will never come back again. The glory of Paris has departed, and I don’t care how soon we leave it.”

Miss Cavendish put down the brush she was holding. She saw the tear-drops shining on Gabriella’s long lashes. She looked at the quivering lips which tried to smile and she opened her arms and gathered the girl close to her. “Dear baby,” she whispered, “what has gone wrong?”

For a moment Gabriella rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, then she choked back a rising sob and answered: “Everything has gone wrong, and it is not any better because it is all my own fault. I have been the entire day with Mr. Morgan.”

“Why, Gabriella Thorne!”

“Yes, I may as well ’fess. Let me keep my face so against your shoulder, Gem, and don’t look at me while I am telling you. I am safe here, but if it were not for you I could not do without my mother. I met Mr. Morgan just as I was going out this morning. We went to the Luxembourg and then to a funny little foreign place to luncheon; it was all so dear and queer and unusual. We talked a great deal, of course, and became very confidential, so that we seemed to know each other better than ever before. I felt myself going, but I just let myself go, and jumped, yes, actually jumped at the idea of spending the afternoon with him at the Bois reading. We didn’t read much, but I shall never forget what we did read. I have the comfort of possessing the little book at least; there it is on the bed; he gave it to me. Before we came away he--he-- Oh Gem, I was a fool to pretend that I was an heiress, for somehow I couldn’t seem to find a chance to tell him differently or else I was contrary, I don’t know which, and of course he thought I was rich; he wouldn’t have asked me else, I am afraid; and of course I had to refuse him because I knew he thought I had money, and he is going to leave the city to-night and I shall never see him again, never.”

Miss Cavendish held her closer. “And do you care, sweetheart?”

Gabriella lifted her wet eyes and looked past the taller woman. “Care, of course I care, but I didn’t know how much till I saw him turn the corner and knew I couldn’t call him back. Now I am caring more and more every minute the further he gets from me, and I can never let him know, for he considers what I said as final, and so it is; it has to be, you see.”

“I don’t exactly see, for if he really loves you he will not care whether you are rich or not.”

“But he wouldn’t have loved me unless he had thought me rich, and when he finds out that I have deceived him, that I have been playing the adventuress, don’t you see he must despise me?”

“Not if he understands that it was all a joke.”

“But it wasn’t so much of a joke that I couldn’t have told him when we were getting so confidential.”

“Then why didn’t you tell him?”

“Because, as I told you, I was a contrary fool, and because I was determined to think he was thinking of the money side of it, and that made me mad.”

“I cannot yet see that the matter is hopeless.”

“It is very nice of you to try to comfort me, but it is quite hopeless, for either he was attracted by my supposed wealth, in which case he is quite impossible, or else he would be disillusioned if he knew what a fraud I had been, in which case I am quite impossible, so there is an end of it.”

“It seems dreadful that our journey of joy must be turned to one of sorrow for you, dearie. I cannot but feel that you will see him again, for there are the Baileys, you know.”

“Do you suppose I could ever mention the subject to them? I’d die first. Never mind, Gem, I shall get along. Don’t feel too sorry for me, perhaps it won’t hurt as much as I think it will. No, I don’t want any dinner, please.”