The Laughing Girl

Robert Chambers

Robert W. Chambers

The Laughing Girl

FOREWORD

I

Here's a pretty tale to tell

All about the beastly boche —

How the Bolsheviki fell

Out of grace and in the wash!

– How all valiant lovers love,

How all villains go to hell,

Started thither by a shove

From the youth who loved so well,

Virtue mirrored in the glass

Held by his beloved lass.

II

He who grins in clown's disguise

Often hides an aching heart —

Sadness, sometimes worldly-wise,

Dresses for a motley part —

Cap, and bells to cheat the ears,

Chalk and paint to hide the tears

Lest the world, divining pain,

Turn to gape and stare again.

III

You who read but may not run

Where the bugles summon youth,

You who when the day is done

Ponder God's eternal Truth

Ere you fold your hands to rest,

Sheltered from the fierce huns' ruth,

Here within the guarded West

Safe from swinish tusk and tooth

Laugh in God's name, if you can! —

Serving so the Son of Man.

IV

Gorse is growing, poppies bloom

Where our bravest greeted Christ.

Is His dwelling, then, the tomb?

Has the sacrifice sufficed?

What is all we have then worth

In Thy sight, Lord, in Thy sight?

Take our offered heart-sick mirth —

Let our laughter fight Thy fight.

В В В В R. W. C.

I

AN INHERITANCE

There was a red-headed slattern sweeping the veranda – nobody else visible about the house. All the shutters of the stone and timber chalet were closed; cow-barn, stable, springhouse and bottling house appeared to be deserted. Weeds smothered the garden where a fountain played above a brimming basin of gray stone; cat-grass grew rank on the oval lawn around the white-washed flag-pole from which no banner flapped. An intense and heated silence possessed the place. Tall mountains circled it, cloud-high, enormous, gathered around the little valley as though met in solemn council there under the vast pavilion of sky.

From the zenith of the azure-tinted tent hung that Olympian lantern called the sun, flooding every crested snow-peak with a nimbus of pallid fire.

In these terms of belles-lettres I called Smith's attention to the majesty of the scene.

"Very impressive," remarked Smith, lighting a cigarette and getting out of the Flivver; – "I trust that our luncheon may impress us as favorably." And he looked across the weedy drive at the red-headed slattern who was now grooming the veranda with a slopping mop.

"Her ankles might be far less ornamental," he observed. I did not look. Ankles had long ceased to mean anything to me.

After another moment's hesitation I handed Smith his suit-case, picked up my own, and descended from the Flivver. The Swiss officer at the wheel, Captain Schey, and the Swiss officer of Gendarmerie beside him, Major Schoot, remained heavily uninterested in the proceedings. To think of nothing is bovine; to think of nothing at all, and do that thinking in German, is porcine. I inspected their stolid features: no glimmer of human intelligence illuminated them. Their complexions reminded me of that moist pink hue which characterizes a freshly cut boiled ham.

Smith leisurely examined the buildings and their surroundings, including the red-headed girl, and I saw him shrug his shoulders. He was right; it was a silly situation and a ridiculous property for a New Yorker to inherit. And the longer I surveyed my new property the more worried I became.

I said in English to Major Schoot, one of the ample, pig-pink gentlemen in eye-glasses and the uniform of the Swiss Gendarmerie: "So this is Schwindlewald, is it?"

He blinked his pale little eyes without interest at the low chalet and out-buildings; then his vague, weak gaze flickered up at the terrific mountains around us.

"Yes," he replied, "this is now your property, Mr. O'Ryan."

"Well, I don't want it," I said irritably. "I've told you that several times."

"Quite right," remarked Smith; "what is Mr. O'Ryan going to do wi