BOHEMIA.

Bohemia, o'er thy unatla.s.sed borders How many cross, with half-reluctant feet, And unformed fears of dangers and disorders.

To find delights, more wholesome and more sweet Than ever yet were known to the "_elite_."

Herein can dwell no pretence and no seeming; No stilted pride thrives in this atmosphere, Which stimulates a tendency to dreaming.

The sh.o.r.es of the ideal world, from here, Seem sometimes to be tangible and near.

We have no use for formal codes of fashion; No "Etiquette of Courts" we emulate; We know it needs sincerity and pa.s.sion To carry out the plans of G.o.d, or fate; We do not strive to seem inanimate.

We call no time lost that we give to pleasure; Life's hurrying river speeds to Death's great sea; We cast out no vain plummet-line to measure Imagined depths of that unknown To Be, But grasp the _Now_, and fill it full of glee.

All creeds have room here, and we all together Devoutly worship at Art's sacred shrine; But he who dwells once in thy golden weather, Bohemia--sweet, lovely land of mine-- Can find no joy outside thy border-line.

"That is just the fear which disturbs my heart, as I am about to cross the border-line and go back to the common-place world," sighed Percy, when the applause which succeeded the recitation died away. "I doubt my ability to enjoy anything, after this delightful experience."

"Well, now," said Homer Orton, "in response to the _encore_ I _ought_ to have received, I will give you a few verses appropriate to _that_ situation, my dear fellow. If you commit them to memory, they may serve to help you in those dark hours of mental and spiritual pain which come to every man--the morning after the club supper. They are called--

PENALTY.

Because of the fullness of what I had, All that I have seems poor and vain.

If I had not been happy, I were not sad-- Tho' my salt is savorless, why complain?

From the ripe perfection of what was mine, All that is mine seems worse than naught; Yet I know, as I sit in the dark, and pine, No cup could be drained which had not been fraught.

From the throb and thrill of a day that was, The day that now is seems dull with gloom; Yet I bear the dullness and darkness, because 'Tis but the reaction of glow and bloom.

From the royal feast that of old was spread, I am starved on the diet that now is mine; Yet, I could not turn hungry from water and bread, If I had not been sated on fruit and wine."

"Speaking of Bohemia," Dolores said, "with all its charms, I do not believe I am a Bohemian by nature. I am really fond of ceremonies and imposing forms. I enjoy the most impressive services in divine worship.

Had I been reared in the Roman Church, I would have made one of its most devout members. I like conventional life, but I do not like the people I meet in those circles."

"And yet," Percy answered, "it is generally supposed that in exclusive circles one finds all that is choice."

"But it is a great mistake," continued Dolores. "It may be true that whatever is choice is always exclusive; but whatever is exclusive is not always choice. One finds so little variety in the people one meets in the so-called best society anywhere. They are all after one pattern, and society does not tolerate individual tastes and ideas, you know. So you see I am obliged to select my congenial friends as I may, and create a Bohemia of my own."

"Which immediately becomes a Paradise," her listener answered gallantly.

"Don't," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Dolores with a pained expression, "it sounds so like--well, so like other men."

"And am I not like other men?" Percy asked, smiling and secretly pleased. Nothing flatters a man's vanity more than being told he is not like other men. "I never imagined myself to be a distinct type."

"But you are; or at least you have seemed so to me. And that is why I have liked you so well."

"Then you do like me?"

Dolores met his gaze without a blush or tremor, frankly, sweetly.

"I do not think I ever met any man before, whom I so thoroughly liked and respected," she said. "You are my ideal friend."

"Then, perhaps you will consent to correspond with me occasionally,"

Percy suggested. "I should have gone away not daring to ask the favor, believing myself only one of the many on whom you bestowed your hospitality, but for your kind speech."

As he sat in his room that night, Percy puzzled his brains, trying to a.n.a.lyze Dolores King's manner and words, and state of mind toward him.

"She is either the most perfect actress, or the coldest and most pa.s.sionless woman on earth," he said, "incapable of any strong emotion.

Or else--or else--she likes me better than she knows. At all events, it is fortunate for both, that I am going away."

CHAPTER XI.

A FREAK OF FATE.

Percy, who had long believed himself to be a perfect cosmopolitan, quite as much at home in one part of the globe as in another, was surprised to find that he was actually homesick after leaving Paris.

With an impatience he could hardly understand, he awaited Dolores'

response to his first letter. When it came, full of bright humor and sparkling cynicism, pleasant gossip and sincere expressions of regret at his absence, Percy sat and smoked, and dreamed over it for more than an hour.

He was trying to a.n.a.lyze his own feelings. When a woman does this, ten to one she is in love. When a man does it, ten to one he is not.

Percy did not believe himself to be in love.

"At least," he mused, "I could never, even were I a marrying man, contemplate marriage with Dolores King. She is too cold, too caustic, too skeptical. In fact, she understands human nature too well. I should want a wife who would idolize me, who would set me up as a hero, to worship. I think many a man becomes a hero, through having some woman over-estimate his worth. Rather than disillusion her, he acquires the qualities with which her loving imagination has invested him. Many a man has been saved from yielding to temptation at the last moment, because he could not shatter the perfect faith of some trusting heart. Dolores would not surround a man with any halo. She sees us all as we are--perhaps exaggerating our defects somewhat. She would suspect a man of evil on the slightest provocation, and that is the surest way to drive a human being into wrongdoing.

"But she is a delightful comrade, and so exquisitely beautiful that the plainest room would seem elegantly furnished if she occupied it.

"She understands the art of entertaining. And time hangs heavy on a fellow's hands, after he has lost her society. After all, life is too short to relinquish any pleasure within our grasp, for fear of consequences." And, rising and tossing aside his cigar, he added aloud:

"With the Persian poet I can say,

"O threats of h.e.l.l, and hopes of Paradise, One thing at least is certain, this life flies.

One thing is certain, and the rest is lies-- The flower that once has blown forever dies."

A few weeks later, Percy received letters from New York, requesting him to visit London, there to complete business arrangements with a large export house, and then to proceed to Copenhagen, where it would be necessary for him to remain several months in the interest of the firm.

When the letter arrived, he had just dispatched one to Dolores, which closed as follows:

"I expect to return to America next month. I go with regret, and yet no doubt it is for the best. It will cut short our delightful yet dangerous companionship, but I trust you will permit me to call upon you and say farewell before I go. In your last, you mentioned the possibility of leaving Paris soon, but you did not tell me what your plans were.

Wherever you are, I shall, with your permission, find you, before I sail for America."

What was his astonishment to receive in reply to his letter, the information that Dolores, accompanied by Mrs. Butler and Madame Volkenburg were about to start on a journey to the Land of the Midnight Sun.

"We go direct to Moscow first," wrote Dolores, "stopping there long enough to drop a tear on the tombs of the Czars; then on to St.

Petersburg; then by steamer down the Gulf of Finland and across the Baltic to Stockholm; thence by rail to Christiania, where we may linger some time, as Madame Volkenburg has dear friends there. From Christiania we go direct to the North Cape. It is our intention to return via Copenhagen and the Channels, as late in the season as we can safely make the trip. We do not leave Paris under three weeks; I hope you will call upon us before your return to America, as you have promised."

When Percy read this he laughed aloud.