She threw down her fountain pen and cupped her cheeks with her hands.
Straight before her on the wall was a long, narrow, copper-hued frame. Inside it, a liberal expanse of brown mapping. In the center of the mapping was a faded strip of news-print.
Why was she saving that poem? Who was Nathaniel Forge and why should he write such a poem?
Unconsciously she read over the lines again. And when she had come to the name signed at the bottom, Madelaine Theddon did a strange thing, for Madelaine Theddon. That wonder who Nathaniel Forge might be, and why he should have written such a poem, started her thoughts romancing. That romancing crystallized in a concrete decision. What harm could there be in making a trip up to this Paris, Vermont, in the week of vacation beginning Monday, and learning what she might of Nathaniel Forge—even looking into his face, perhaps—provided she did not declare her identity or divulge her errand?
The more she thought about it, the more the novelty of the proposal grew upon her. She had saved that poem so long, it had meant so much, that she wanted that wonderment answered.
Could it be possible that Kismet had ordained that the poem purposely should find its way into her life for a beautiful purpose? She would see. Why not?
She put away her ponderous books with their long, italicized words and abstruse meanings. She would go to Paris, Vermont, that following Monday, telling no one.
V
Madelaine arrived in our town at four o’clock of a drab, depressing winter’s afternoon. The weather was treacherously balmy. The snow was thin, hard-packed and dirty. Paris in no other season of year looked less attractive or more mediocre. She alighted from the Junction train and walked down the length of the station platform with a little dread. Did she want to know about Nathaniel Forge, after all? Did she really want to see him? Suppose he was hopeless, that the poem had simply been a trick of circumstance and coincidence? Would it not be better to let him remain ever as she had idealized him, whoever and whatever he was, perhaps the One-Who-Might-Have-Been. Then she condemned herself for an emotional, sentimental little weakling, afraid to face facts. She wandered up Depot Street to East Main, carrying a light traveling bag, looking for the hotel.
In her trim tailored suit of green worsted and small mannish hat, she resembled a hundred traveling saleswomen or demonstration women of the better class. Half a dozen drummers so “placed” her before she had been in the Whitney House ten minutes. With a room secured, she started out to see the town.