UN PEU D'AMOUR
When I returned to the from my of the crater, I that I had the as as any being descend. No pass that of and vapour. Of that I was convinced.
Now, not only the but its was anything I had beheld. There was no of to be seen, or of pumice, ashes, or of in any whatever. There were no odours, no fumes, nothing to teach the nerves what might be the nature of the steam from the in a circle, its the slope.
Under this thin of steam a ring of yellow played and sparkled, the slope.
The was about a mile deep; the to the bottom.
But the odd of the entire was this: the of the to be free from fire and vapour. It was disk-shaped, sandy, and flat, about a of a mile in diameter. Through my field-glasses I see of and wild flowers in the here and there, and the of water, and a or two, and walking about.
I looked at the girl who was me, then a around at the very landscape.
We were on the of a some two thousand high, looking into a cup-shaped or crater, on the of which we stood.
This low, flat-topped mountain, as I say, was and treeless, although it rose like a sugar-cone out of a of trees which for miles us, north, south, east, and west, on the by mountains, their the as in a amphitheatre.
From the centre of this green of rose our hill, and it appeared to be the only which the level as as the of the the horizon.
Except for the of Mr. Blythe on the of this plateau, there was not a in sight, a of man's presence in the around us.
Again I looked at the girl me and she looked at me seriously.
"Shall we seat ourselves here in the sun?" she asked.
I nodded.
Very we settled by on the thick green grass.
"Now," she said, "I shall tell you why I you to come out here. Shall I?"
"By all means, Miss Blythe."
Sitting cross-legged, she her into her hands, settling herself as on the as a bird settles on its nest.
"The of nature," she said, "have always me intensely, not only from the but from the scientific point of view.
"It is different with father. He is a painter; he only for the of nature. Phenomena of a scientific nature him. Also, you may have noticed that he is of a—a disposition."
I had noticed it. He had been anything but to me when I the night before, after a five-hundred mile on a mule, from the nearest railroad—a performed alone and by compass, there being no after the fifty miles.
To Blythe as was him easy. He was a selfish, bad-tempered old pig.
"Yes," I said, her, "I did notice a of about your father."
She flushed.
"You see I did not my father that I had to you. He doesn't like strangers; he doesn't like scientists. I did not tell him that I had asked you to come out here. It was my own idea. I that I must you I am positive that what is in this is of scientific importance."
"How did you a out of this and place?" I asked.
"Every two months the at Windflower Station sends in a man and a of with for us. The man takes our orders and our to civilization."
I nodded.
"He took my to you—among one or two others I sent——"
A colour came into her cheeks. She was pretty. I liked that girl. When a girl when she speaks to a man he her colour as a personal tribute. This is not vanity: it is a proper of personal worthiness.
She said thoughtfully:
"The which that man to us last week a which, had I it earlier, would have my to you unnecessary. I'm sorry I you."
"I am not," said I, looking into her eyes.
I my into two points, my cuffs, and at her again, receptively.
She had a far-away in her eyes. I my necktie. A man, without being vain, ought to be of his own worth.
"And now," she continued, "I am going to tell you the why I asked so a scientist as to come here."
I thanked her for her encomium.
"Ever since my father retired from Boston to purchase this hill and the it," she on, "ever since he came here to live a hermit's life—a life to painting landscapes—I also have here all alone with him.
"That is three years, now. And from the very beginning—from the very day of our arrival, somehow or other I was that there was something about this of the world."
She forward, her voice a trifle:
"Have you noticed," she asked, "that so many to be out here?"
"Circular?" I repeated, surprised.
"Yes. That is circular; so is the of it; so is this plateau, and the hill; and the us; and the on the horizon."
"But all this is natural."
"Perhaps. But in those woods, there, there are, here and there, great circles of soil—perfect circles a mile in diameter."
"Mounds by man, no doubt."
She her head:
"These are not mounds."
"Why not?"
"Because they have been made."
"How do you know?"
"The earth is upheaved; great trees, uprooted, at every from the of the of newly earth; and are still from the ridges."
She nearer and her voice still lower:
"More than that," she said, "my father and I have one of these circles in the making!"
"What!" I exclaimed, incredulously.
"It is true. We have several. And it father."
"Enrages?"
"Yes, it the trees where he is painting landscapes, and them in every direction. Which, of course, his picture; and he is to start another, which him dreadfully."
I think I must have at her in astonishment.
"But there is something more than that for you to investigate," she said calmly. "Look at that circle of steam which makes a perfect ring around the bowl of the crater, down. Do you see the of fire under the vapour?"
"Yes."
She so near and spoke in such a low voice that her upon my cheek:
"In the fire, under the vapours, there are little animals."
"What!!"
"Little live in the fire—slim, creatures, smaller than a weasel. I've them out of the fire and into it.... Now are you sorry that I you to come? And will you me for you out here?"
An me, me with a and unusual:
"I thank you from the of my heart!" I cried; "—from the of a the of which are and of scientific origin!"
In the of the moment I out my hand; she hers in it with diffidence.
"Yours is the discovery," I said. "Yours shall be the glory. Fame shall you; and if there any light in the of a by-product, some and little may to me."
Surprised and moved by my eloquence, I over her hand and it with my lips.
She thanked me. Her was rosy.
It appeared that she had three to milk, new-laid eggs to gather, and the of some fresh to be accomplished.
At the of the she me a curtsey, very to let me her paraphernalia.
So I on to the garden, where Blythe sat on a under a green umbrella, painting a picture of something or other.
"Mr. Blythe!" I cried, to my enthusiasm. "The of the scientific world are now open upon this house! The of Fame is about to be upon you—"
"I privacy," he interrupted. "That's why I came here. I'll be if you'll turn off that searchlight."
"But, my dear Mr. Blythe—"
"I want to be let alone," he irritably. "I came out here to paint and to privately my own paintings."
If what on his was a sample of his pictures, nobody was likely to his enjoyment.
"Your work," said I, politely, "is—is——"
"Is what!" he snapped. "What is it—if you think you know?"
"It is entirely, so to speak, se—by itself—"
"What the do you by that?"
I looked at his picture, appalled. The entire was one conflagration. I it with my on one side, then on the other side; I a with hands and through it at the picture. A came from him.
"Satisfying—exquisitely satisfying," I concluded. "I have often such sunsets—"
"What!"
"I such fires—"
"Damnation!" he exclaimed. "I'm painting a bowl of nasturtiums!"
"I was speaking purely in metaphor," said I with a smile. "To me a by the river is more than a flower. It is a broader, grander, more magnificent, more symbol. It may anything, everything—such as and and Götterdämmerungs! Or—" and my voice was to an and softness—"it may nothing at all—chaos, void, vacuum, negation, the of what has existed."
He at me over his shoulder. If he was by Cubist he had not what I said.
"If you won't talk about my pictures I don't mind your this district," he grunted, at his and a of upon his canvas; "but I object to any public of my until I am for it."
"When will that be?"
He pointed with one vermilion-soaked toward a long, low, building.
"In that structure," he said, "are packed one thousand and ninety-five paintings—all by me. I have one or two every day since I came here. When I have painted ten thousand pictures, no more, no less, I shall here a large to them all.
"Only lovers of art will come here to study them. It is five hundred miles from the railroad. Therefore, I shall have to the of the dilettante, the of the idler, the of the vulgar. Only those who will to make the pilgrimage."
He his at me:
"The of national is all well enough—the setting of reserves, game preserves, bird refuges, all these are very good in a way. But I have this as a last and only in all the world for true Art! Because true Art, for my pictures, is, I believe, now extinct!... You're in my way. Would you mind out?"
I had around him and his bowl of nasturtiums, and I aside. He at the flowers, mixed up a of colour on his palette, and away with satisfaction, no longer noticing me until I started to go. Then:
"What is it you're here for, anyway?" he abruptly. I said with dignity:
"I am here to those of earth up in the as by a mole." He to paint for a moments:
"Well, go and 'em," he snapped. "I'm not with your society."
"What do you think they are?" I asked, his manners.
"I don't know and I don't care, except, that sometimes when I to paint trees, the very trees I'm painting are up and in every direction, and all my work goes for nothing. That makes me mad! Otherwise, the has no for me."
"But what in the world cause—"
"I don't know and I don't care!" he shouted, and angrily. "Maybe it's an army of all together under the ground; maybe it's some of earthquake. I don't know! I don't care! But it me. And if you can any scientific means to stop it, I'll be much to you. Otherwise, to be perfectly frank, you me."
"The mission of Science," said I solemnly, "is to the of existence. Science, therefore, shall a helping hand to her sister, Art—"
"Science can't Art while I'm around!" he retorted. "I won't have it!"
"But, my dear Mr. Blythe—"
"I won't with you, either! I don't like to dispute!" he shouted. "Don't try to make me. Don't attempt to me into discussion! I know all I want to know. I don't want to know anything you want me to know, either!"
I looked at the old pig in silence, by his conceit.
After he had a more of over his he down, and presently gave me an over his shoulder.
"Well," he said, "what else are you to investigate?"
"Those little animals that live in the fires," I said bluntly.
"Yes," he nodded, indifferently, "there are which live in the of that crater."
"Do you what an you are making?" I asked.
"It doesn't me. What do I it you or else? Nothing me Art."
"But—"
"I tell you nothing me Art!" he yelled. "Don't it! Don't answer me! Don't me! I don't anything in the fire or not! Let it live there!"
"But have you actually live in the flames?"
"Plenty! Plenty! What of it? What about it? Let 'em live there, for all I care. I've painted pictures of 'em, too. That's all that me."
"What do they look like, Mr. Blythe?"
"Look like? I don't know! They look like or or or cats or—stop me questions! It me! It me! Don't ask any more! Why don't you go in to lunch? And—tell my to me a bowl of out here. I've no time to myself. Some people have. I haven't. You'd go in to lunch.... And tell my to me seven of Chinese with my salad!"
"You don't to mix—" I began, then myself his fury.
"I'd eat paint on my than here talking to you!" he shouted.
I a at this man, and into the house. After all, he was her father. I had to him.
"Miss Blythe had to her father a large of leaves."
After Miss Blythe had to her father a large of leaves, she returned to the of the bungalow.
A us; I seated her, then took the chair opposite.
A omelette, fresh biscuit, salad, and preserves, and a tall of tea me with a of mild exhilaration.
Out of the of my I see Blythe in the garden, his like an ill-tempered rabbit, and away at his picture while he munched.
"Your father," said I politely, "is something of a genius."
"I am so you think so," she said gratefully. "But don't tell him so. He has been with in Boston. That is why we came out here."
"Art," said I, "is like science, or tobacco, or tooth-wash. Every man to his own brand. Personally, I don't for his kind. But who can say which is the best of anything? Only the consumer. Your father is his own consumer. He is the best judge of what he likes. And that is the only true test of art, or anything else."
"How you reason!" she said. "How logically, how generously!"
"Reason is the of Science, Miss Blythe."
She to me. Her quick me, I myself was not perfectly sure I had or an epigram.
As we ate our we and means of a of the little fire which, as she explained, so out at her from the fires, and, at her movement, again into the flames. Of I that this was only her imagination. Yet, for years I had a that fire supported unknown of life.
"I have long believed," said I, "that fire is by which the and temperature of active for their existence—microörganisms, but not," I added smilingly, "any higher type of life."
"In the fireplace," she diffidently, "I sometimes see things—dragons and and of and shapes."
I indulgently, by this offered to science. Then she rose, and I rose and took her hand in mine, and we over the toward the crater, while I to her the what we we see in the of a fire and my own that fire is the of animalculae.
On the of the we paused and looked the slope, where the circle of steam rose, the of fire underneath.
"How near can we go?" I inquired.
"Quite near. Come; I'll you."
Leading me by the hand, she over the and we to the easy together.
There was no about it at all. Down we went, nearer and nearer to the of steam, until at last, when but fifteen away from it, I the from the which the of vapour.
Here we seated ourselves upon the grass, and I my and my upon this phenomenon, to some for it.
Except for the and the fires, there was nothing about this spectacle, or in the surroundings.
From where I sat I see that the of fire which the crater; and the of which the flames, were about three hundred wide. Of this was impassable. There was no way of through it into the of the crater.
A pressure from Miss Blythe's my attention; I toward her, and she said:
"There is one more thing about which I have not told you. I a little guilty, that is the I asked you to come here."
"What is it?"
"I think there are on the of that crater."
"Emeralds!"
"I think so." She in the pocket of her apron, out a of mineral, and passed it to me.
I a jeweler's into my and it in silence. It was an emerald; a fine, large, valuable stone, if my for anything. One of it was with paint.
"Where did this come from?" I asked in an voice.
"From the of the crater. Is it an emerald?"
I my and at the girl incredulously.
"It this way," she said excitedly. "Father was painting a picture up there by the of the crater. He left his on the to go to the for some more of colour. While he was in the house, for the which he wanted, I out on the veranda, and I saw some near the and to about in the grass. One bird walked right over his wet palette; I out and my sun-bonnet to him off, but he had in a of Chinese vermilion, and for a moment was unable to free himself.
"I almost him, but he away over the of the crater, high above the of vapour, onto the floor, and alighted.
"But his him; he about on the of the crater, running, flying; and he took and rose up over the hill.
"As he above me, and while I was looking up at his feet, something from his and nearly me. It was that emerald."
