PART IV

TOLD BY MAIDA DESTREY

XVII

A CHAPTER OF MOTOR MANIA

What becomes of the beautiful army of days marching away from us into

the past? The wonderful days, each one differing from all the others:

some shining in our memory, in glory of purple and gold, that we saw

only as they passed, with the setting of the sun; some smiling back at

us, in their pale spring dress of green and rose; some weeping in grey;

but all moving at the same pace along the same road? The strange days

that have given us everything they had to give, and yet have taken from

us little pieces of our souls. Where do the days go? There must be some

splendid world where, when they have passed down to the end of the long

road, they all live together like queens, waited upon by those black

slaves, the nights that have followed them like their shadows, holding

up their robes.

I've had this thought in my mind often since I have been flashing across

Europe in an automobile, grudging each day that slipped from me and

would not stay a moment longer because I loved it. I wish I knew the way

to the land where the days that have passed live; for when those that

are to come seem cold to me, I would like to go and pay the old ones a

visit. How well I would know their faces, and how glad I would be to see

them again in their own world!

Well, perhaps, even though I can never find the way there, I can see the

days' portraits painted in rows in the picture gallery of a house I own.

It isn't a very big house yet, but at least one new room is being built

onto it every year, and lately it has grown faster than ever before,

though the architecture has improved. Fancy my being a householder! But

I am, and so is everybody. We all have the House of our Past, of which

we alone have a key, and whenever we wish, we can steal softly, secretly

in, by dim passages, to enter rooms sealed to the whole world except

ourselves.

I have been making the picture gallery in mine, since I left America;

but the pictures I care for most have been put up since I began

motoring.

I suppose some very rich natures can be rich without travel, for they

are born with caskets already full of jewels; but ordinary folk have

empty caskets if they keep them shut up always in one safe, and I begin

to see that mine were but poor things. I keep them wide open now, and

every day, every hour, a beautiful new pearl or diamond drops in.

It seems strange to remember how reluctant I was to come away. I thought

there could be nothing more beautiful, more satisfying to eyes and

heart, than my home. The white, colonial house set back from the broad

Hudson River among locust trees and tall, rustling maples; the sloping

lawn, with the beds of geranium and verbena; the garden with its dear,

old-fashioned flowers--holly-hocks, sweet-williams, bleeding-hearts,

grass pinks, and yellow roses; the grey-green hills across the water;

that picture stood to me for all that was ideal on earth. And then, the

Sisters, with their soft ways and soft voices, their white robes and

pale blue, floating veils; how their gracious figures blended with and

accentuated the peaceful charm of the scene, shut away from the storms

of this world throughout their lives!

I was partly right, for of its kind there could be nothing more

beautiful than that picture, but my mistake was in the narrow-minded

wish to let one suffice. I rejoice now in every new one I have hung up,

and shall rejoice all the more when I am back again myself--just one of

those white figures that flit across the old canvas.

Yes, I shall be one of those figures, of course. The Mother has always

told me it was my true vocation; that peace and leisure for reflection

and concentration of mind were the greatest earthly blessings a woman

could have. Ever since, as a very small girl, I longed for the day when

I should be allowed to wear one of those pretty, trailing, white

cashmere dresses and long, pale blue veils, I have looked forward to

joining the Sisterhood of good women who alone have ever given me love

and the protection of home.

Nothing has happened to change my intentions, and they are _not_

changed. Only, I'm not homesick any more, as I used to be in the

feverish Paris days, or even on the Riviera, when we did very little but

rush back and forth between Monte Carlo and Cap Martin, with Prince

Dalmar-Kalm and his friends.

I shall go home and carry out the plans I've had for all these years,

but--I shall live--live--live--every single minute till the time comes

for my good-bye to the world.

I should have liked to stay a month at Bellagio (with the wonderful

garden of Serbelloni to explore from end to end), instead of the two

days that we did stop; still, the moment our start was arranged, I was

perfectly happy at the thought of being in the car again.

There was a discussion as to how we should begin the journey to Lecco

and Desenzano, where we were to sleep one night, for our difficulty lay

in the fact that there's but one road on which you can drive away from

the wooded, wedge-like promontory which Bellagio pushes out into the

lake; the steep, narrow road up to Civenna and down again to Canzo and

Asso, by which we had come. As our car had done the climb and descent so

well, Mr. Barrymore wanted to do it again, perhaps with a wicked desire

to force the Prince into accompanying us or seeming timid about the

capabilities of his automobile. But when Aunt Kathryn discovered how

easy the alternative was (simply to put the car on a steamer as far as

Varenna, then running along a good road from there southward to Lecco),

she said that Mr. Barrymore's way would be tempting Providence, with

whose designs, I must say she appears to have an intimate acquaintance.

Heaven had spared us the first time, she argued, but now if we

deliberately flew in its face, it would certainly not be considerate on

a second occasion.

I was ready so much earlier on the last morning than Aunt Kathryn or

Beechy, that I ordered coffee and rolls for myself alone on the terrace;

and they had just appeared when Mr. Barrymore came out. He was going

presently to see to the car, so naturally we had breakfast together,

with an addition of some exquisite wild strawberries, gleaming like

_cabouchon_ rubies under a froth of whipped cream. It was only eight

o'clock, when we finished, and he said there would be time for one last

stroll through the divinest garden in Italy, if I cared for it. Of

course I did care, so we walked together up the rose-bordered path from

the sweet-smelling flower-zone to the pine-belt that culminates in the

pirates' castle. While we stood looking down over the three arms of the

lake in their glittering blue sleeves, a voice spoke behind us: "Ah,

Miss Destrey, I've found you at last. Your cousin asked me to look for

you and bring you back as soon as possible. You are urgently wanted for

something, though what was not confided to me."

The Prince used to be troublesome when he first attached himself to our

party. If ever he happened to meet me in the big hall or the garden of

the hotel at Cap Martin, when neither Aunt Kathryn nor Beechy was with

me, he always made some pretext to talk and pay me stupid compliments,

though he would flee if my relations came in sight. After the trip

began, however, his manner was suddenly different, and he showed no more

desire for my society than I for his; therefore I was surprised by an

equally sudden change this morning. It was hardly to be defined in

words, but it was very noticeable. Even his way of looking at me was not

the same. At Cap Martin it used to be rather bold, as if I were the kind

of person who ought to be flattered by any attention from a Prince

Dalmar-Kalm. Later, if he glanced at me at all, it was with an odd

expression, as if he wished me to regret something, I really couldn't

imagine what. But now there was a sort of reverence in his gaze and

manner, as if I were a queen and he were one of my courtiers. As I'm not

a queen, and wouldn't care to have him for a courtier if I were, I

wasn't pleased when he attempted to keep at my side going down by the

narrow path up which Mr. Barrymore and I had walked together. He didn't

precisely thrust Mr. Barrymore out of the way, but seemed to take it for

granted, as it were by right of his rank, that it was for him, not the

others to walk beside me.

I resented this, for to my mind it is horribly caddish for a person to

snub another not his equal in fortune; and as Mr. Barrymore never pushes

himself forward when people behave as if he were their inferior, I

determined to show unmistakably which man I valued more. Consequently,

when the Prince persisted in keeping at my shoulder, I turned and talked

over it to Mr. Barrymore following behind. But on the terrace level with

the hotel he had to leave us, for the automobile was to be shipped on

board a cargo-boat that sailed for Varenna some time before ours.

"Why are you always unkind to me? Have I been so unfortunate as to vex

you in any way?" asked the Prince, when we were alone.

"I am neither kind nor unkind," I replied in a practical, dry sort of

tone. "I am going in now to see why they want me."

"Please don't be in such a hurry," said the Prince. "Perhaps I made Miss

Beechy's message too urgent, for I had seen you with the chauffeur, and

I could not bear that you should be alone with him."

"It is stupid to speak of Mr. Barrymore as the chauffeur," I exclaimed

in a rage. "And it's not your affair Prince, to concern yourself with my

actions."

With that I darted into the long corridor that opens from the terrace,

and left him furiously tugging at his moustache.

"Did you send the Prince to call me in, Beechy?" I asked, after I had

tapped at her door.

"I happened to see the Prince and have a little talk with him in the

garden a few minutes ago," said she, "and I told him if he saw you he

might say we'd be glad if you'd come. Mamma's in such a stew finishing

her packing, and it would be nice if you'd help shut the dressing-bag."

Aunt Kathryn hadn't been herself, it seemed to me, during our two days

at Bellagio. This morning she had a headache, and though I'd hoped that

she would walk down to the boat with the Prince, she decided to take the

hotel omnibus, so I was pestered with him once more. Beechy and Sir

Ralph were having an argument of some sort (in which I heard that funny

nickname "the Chauffeulier" occur several times), and as Mr. Barrymore

had gone ahead with the car and our luggage, the Prince kept with me all

the way through the terraced garden, then down the quaint street of

steps past the bright-coloured silk-shops, to the crowded little quay. I

should have thought that after my last words he would have avoided me,

but apparently he hadn't understood that he was being snubbed. He even

put himself out to be nice to the black dog from Airole, which is my

shadow now, and detests the Prince as openly as he secretly detests it.

It was scarcely half an hour's sail to Varenna, and ten minutes after

landing there, we were in the car, bowling smoothly along a charming

road close by the side of Lecco, the eastern arm of the triple lake of

Como.

For a time we ran opposite the promontory of Bellagio, with the white

crescent of the Villa Serbelloni conspicuous on the darkly wooded

hillside. Near us was an electric railway which burrowed into tunnels,

as did our own road now and then, to save itself from extinction in a

wall of rock. As we went on, we found the scenery of Lecco more wild and

rugged than that of Como with its many villas, each one of which might

have been Claude Melnotte's. Villages were sparsely scattered on the

sides of high, sheer mountains which reared their bared shoulders up to

a sky of pure ultramarine, but Lecco itself was big and not picturesque,

taking an air of up-to-date importance from the railway station which

connects this magic land with the rest of Italy.

"I shouldn't care to stop in this town," said Beechy, when Mr. Barrymore

slowed down before an imposing glass-fronted hotel with gorgeous

ornamentations of iron and a wonderful gateway. "After what we've come

from, Lecco _does_ look unromantic and prosaic, though I daresay this

hotel is nice and will give us a good lunch."

"Nevertheless it's the _Promessi Sposi_ country," answered Mr.

Barrymore.

"What's that?" asked Beechy and Aunt Kathryn together. But I knew; for

in the garret at home there's an old, old copy of "The Betrothed," which

is Manzoni's _I Promessi Sposi_ in English, and I found and read it when

I was a small girl. It was very long, and perhaps I should find it a

little dull now though I hope not, for I loved it then, reading in

delicious secrecy and stealth, because the Sisterhood doesn't allow

youthful pupils to batten on love stories, no matter how old-fashioned.

I hadn't thought of the book for years; but evidently its story had been

lying all this time carefully put away in a parcel, gathering dust on

some forgotten shelf in my brain, for down it tumbled at the mention of

the name. As Mr. Barrymore explained to Aunt Kathryn that this was the

country of _I Promessi Sposi_ because the scenes of Manzoni's romance

had been laid in the neighbourhood, I could see as plainly as if they

lay before my eyes the quaint woodcuts representing the beautiful

heroine, Lucia, her lover, Renzo, and the wicked Prince Innominato.

Nevertheless I took some credit to myself for remembering the old book

so well, and fancied that there weren't many other travellers nowadays

who would have it. But pride usually goes before a fall, as hard-hearted

nurses tell vain little girls who have come to grief in their prettiest

dresses; and at lunch it appeared that the humblest, most youthful

waiter at Lecco knew more about the classic romance of the country than

I did. Indeed, not a character in the book that wasn't well represented

in a picture on the wall or a painted post-card, and all seemed at

least as real to the people of Lecco as any of their modern

fellow-citizens.

The landlord was so shocked at the idea of our going on without driving

a few kilometres to Acquate, the village where Renzo and Lucia had

lived, and visiting the wayside shrine where Don Roderigo accosted

Lucia, that Aunt Kathryn was fired with a desire to go, though the

Prince (who had come the same way we had) would have dissuaded her by

saying there was nothing worth seeing. "I believe you don't approve of

stories about wicked Princes like Innominato," said Beechy, "and that's

why you don't want us to go. You're afraid we'll get suspicious if we

know too much about them." After that speech the Prince didn't object

any more, and even went with us in his car, when we had rounded off our

lunch with the Robiolo cheese of the country.

It was a short drive to Lucia's village; we could have walked in less

than an hour, but that wouldn't have pleased Aunt Kathryn.

Appropriately, we passed a statue of Manzoni on the way--a delightful

Manzoni seated comfortably on a monument (with sculptured medallions

from scenes in his books) almost within sight of the road to Acquate,

and quite within sight of Monte Resegno, where the castle of wicked

Innominato still stands. Then no sooner had we turned into the narrow

road leading up to the little mountain hamlet than our intentions became

the property of every passer-by, every peasant, every worker from the

wire factories.

"_I Promessi Sposi_," they would say to each other in a matter-of-course

way, with an accompanying nod that settled our destination without a

loophole of doubt.

In Acquate itself, a tiny but picturesque old village (draped with

wistaria from end to end, as if it were _en fête_), everything was

reminiscent and commemorative of the romance that had made its fame.

Here was Via Cristoforo; there Via Renzo; while naturally Via Lucia led

us up to the ancient grey _osteria_ where the virtuous heroine was born

and lived. We went in, of course, and Sir Ralph ordered red wine of the

country, to give us an excuse to sit and stare at the coloured

lithographs and statuettes of the lovers, and to peep into the really

beautiful old kitchen with the ruddy gleams of copper in its dusky

shadows, its bright bits of painted china, its pretty window and huge

fireplace.

On a shelf close by the fire sat a cat, and I attempted to stroke it,

for it looked old enough and important enough to have belonged to Lucia

herself. But I might have known that it would not suffer my caresses,

for it's nearly always so with foreign cats and dogs, I find. The lack

of confidence in their own attractions which they show is as pathetic as

that of a neglected wife; they never seem to think of themselves as

pets.

Aunt Kathryn would persist in talking of Innominato as "Abominato"

(which was after all more appropriate), and the generous display of

Lucia's charms in the pictures caused her basely to doubt that most

virtuous maiden's genuine merit. "If the girl hadn't worn such dresses,

they wouldn't have painted her in them," she argued. "If she _did_ wear

them, she was a minx who got no more than she might have expected,

prancing about lonely mountain roads in such shameless things. And I

don't want a piece of wood from the shutter of her bedroom to take away

with me. I should be mortified to tell any ladies in Denver what it was;

and what's the good of carting souvenirs of your travels around with

you, if you can't tell people about them?"

We got back to our lakeside hotel sooner than we had thought, and the

landlord prayed us to see one more of Lecco's great sights. "It is not

as if I asked you to go out of your way to look at some fine old ruin or

a beautiful view," he pleaded. "You have seen many such on your journey,

and you will see many more; but this thing to which I would send you is

unique. There is nothing like it anywhere else in the world; and to go

will take you five minutes."

This excited Aunt Kathryn's curiosity, but when she heard that "it" was

only a wonderful model of the cathedral at Milan, exact in every

smallest detail and made by one man, she thought that she would seize

the opportunity of lying down while the others went, and be fresh for

our start, in an hour's time.

The idea of a model in wood of such a masterpiece as the Milan Cathedral

didn't particularly recommend itself to me; but when we had arrived at a

curiosity shop, and been ushered into a huge inner room, I suddenly

changed my mind, for what I saw there was wonderful--as wonderful in its

way as the great Cathedral itself.

It was the father of the man who showed us the model, and owned the

shop, who had made the miniature _duomo_. His name was Giacomo

Mattarelli, and he was an extraordinary genius, worthy of a tomb in the

Cathedral to the worship of whose beauty he devoted twenty years of his

life and sacrificed those which remained.

The story of his self-appointed task struck me as being as marvellous as

the task's result, which stood there in the dim room, perfect in

proportion and delicately wrought as ivory carved by Chinese experts. I

don't know what the others thought, but the tale as told by the artist's

son was for me full of pathos and beautiful sentiment.

The man had been a cabinet-maker by trade, but he had money and could

gratify his craving for art. The glory of the Milan Cathedral, seen

once, became an obsession for him, and he went again and again. At last

the idea grew in his mind to express his homage in a perfect copy of the

great church which, as he said, "held his heart." There was no train

between Milan and Lecco in his day (1840), and he used to walk all those

miles to make drawings of the Cathedral. At first he meant to do the

work in iron, but iron was too heavy; then he began casting plates in

copper, but they were hollow behind, and he could not get the effect he

wanted, so after several wasted months he began again with olive wood.

Often he would work all night; and no trouble was too much for his

inexhaustible patience. Each statue, each gargoyle was copied, first in

a drawing, then with the carving tools, and no hand but that of the

artist ever touched the work. At the end of twenty-two years it was

completed; not a detail missing inside or out; and then when all was

done the modeller went blind.

Now his son had lighted up the model for us to see, and I was almost

aghast at the thought of the incredible labour it had meant--literally a

labour of love, for the artist had given his eyes and his best years to

his adoration of the beautiful. And the whole thing seemed the more of a

marvel when I remembered how Mr. Barrymore had called Milan Cathedral

the most highly ornamented building in the world. Nowhere else, he said,

existed a church so smothered with carving. Every point, every niche has

its statue. There, in the model, one could find each one. Through

magnifying glasses the little carved faces (hardly larger, some of them,

than a pin's head) looked at one with the same expression as the

original, and not a mistake had been made in a fold of drapery. Each

sculptured capital, each column, each decorative altar of the interior

had been carved with loving fidelity. All that, in the vast Cathedral

had taken centuries and many generations of men to plan and finish, this

one infinitely patient man had copied in miniature in twenty-two years.

It would have been worth visiting the town to see the model alone, even

if we had turned miles out of our path.

To go from there to Desenzano by way of Bergamo and Brescia was to go

from lake to lake--Lecco to Garda; and the road was beautiful. Castles

and ancient monasteries had throned themselves on hills to look down on

little villages cringing at their august feet. Along the horizon

stretched a serrated line of pure white mountains, sharply chiselled in

marble, while a thick carpet of wild flowers, blue and gold, had been

cut apart to let our road pass through. It was a biscuit-coloured road,

smooth as uncut velvet, and fringed on either side with a white spray of

heavenly-fragrant acacia, like our locust-trees at home. Rustic fences

and low hedges defining rich green meadows, were inter-laced with wild

roses, pink and white, and plaited with pale gold honeysuckle, a magnet

for armies of flitting butterflies. Every big farmhouse, every tiny

cottage was curtained with wistaria and heavy-headed roses. Wagons

passed us laden with new-mown hay and crimson sorrel; and we had one odd

adventure, which might have been dangerous, but was only poetic.

A horse drawing some kind of vehicle, piled high with fragrant clover,

took it into his head just as were side by side, that it was his duty to

punish his mechanical rival for existing. Calculating his distance

nicely, he gave a bound, flung the cart against our car, and upset half

his load of clover on our heads. What he did afterwards we had no means

of knowing, for we were temporarily extinguished.

It was the strangest sensation I ever had, being suddenly overwhelmed by

a soft, yet heavy wave of something that was like a ton of perfumed

feathers.

Instantly the car stopped, for Mr. Barrymore, buried as he was, didn't

forget to put on the brakes. Then I felt that he was excavating me, and

almost before I knew what had swallowed me up I was emerging from green

and pink billows of clover, laughing, gasping, half-dazed, but wholly

delighted. "You're not drowned?" he asked quickly.

"No, I can swim," I answered, and set myself promptly to help him and

Sir Ralph rescue Beechy and Aunt Kathryn, which was rather like looking

for needles in a haystack.

By the time we had all got our breath and wiped the clover out of our

eyes, horse and cart had vanished comet-like into the horizon, leaving a

green trail behind. We bailed out the car and started gaily on once

more, but presently our speed slackened. Without a sigh the automobile

stopped precisely in the middle of the road, and gently, though firmly,

refused to go on again.

When Mr. Barrymore saw that this was more than a passing whim, he called

Sir Ralph to the rescue, Beechy and I jumped out, and the car was pushed

to one side. Then, with all of us standing round, he proceeded to search

for the mischief. Apparently nothing was wrong. The engine was cool;

the pump generously inclined, and fat yellow fireflies flew out of the

sparking-plugs when they were tested. Then Mr. Barrymore remembered the

cause of the Prince's first accident, and looked at the carburetter; but

there was not so much as a speck of dust. For a while he continued to

poke, and prod, and hammer, Sir Ralph offering humorous advice, and

pretending to be sure that, if his housekeeper Félicité were on the

spot, the car would start for her in an instant. The mystery only

thickened, however, and to make matters worse the Prince, who had been

proudly spinning on ahead, came tearing back to see what had happened.

Though he pretended to be sympathetic, he was visibly overjoyed at our

misfortune, which turned the tables upon us for once, and his

suggestions were enough to wreck the valvular system of a motor-car; not

to mention the nervous system of a distracted chauffeur.

"Perhaps the petrol's dead," said Mr. Barrymore, paying no heed to the

Prince's ideas. He opened a new tin and was about to empty its contents

into the reservoir, when he uttered an exclamation. "By Jove! Just look

at that, Miss Destrey!" he said; and I couldn't help feeling flattered

that he should appeal to me on a subject I didn't know anything about.

He was peering at the small round air-hole leading down to the

reservoir, so I peered too, and in spite of my ignorance I saw what he

meant. The hole was entirely stopped up with the body of a pinkish-grey

caterpillar, and Mr. Barrymore explained that the poor car had simply

stopped because it couldn't breathe. No air had been able to reach the

petrol in the reservoir, and therefore no spirit had trickled through to

the carburetter.

We had been delayed for more than half an hour by a mere worm, which had

probably arrived with the clover; but when the automobile could fill her

lungs again she started on at a great pace. We passed a wonderful old

riverside town, that had one of the most remarkable churches we had seen

yet; and by-and-by a fine city, set like a tiara on the forehead of a

distant hill, seemed to spring up, peer at us from its eminence, and

then dip down out of sight among other hills which made a dark

foreground against white mountains.

It was Bergamo; and not once did we see it again until we were almost in

the place, when it deigned to show itself once more--an old, old city on

a height, a newer city extended at its feet in a plain.

"This town is packed full of interesting things," said Mr. Barrymore. "I

stayed here two days once, at a nice old-fashioned hotel with domed,

painted ceilings, marble walls and mahogany mantle-pieces which would

have delighted you. And even then I hadn't half time for the two or

three really fine churches, and the Academy, where there are some

Bellinis, a Palma Vecchio, and a lot of splendid Old Masters. Bergamo

claims Tasso, perhaps you remember, because his father was born here;

and Harlequin, you know, was supposed to be a Bergamese."

"Oughtn't we to stop and see the pictures?" I asked.

"We ought. But one never does stop where one ought to, motoring.

Besides, you'll see the best work of the same artists at Venice and as

we want to reach Desenzano for dinner we had better push on."

We did push on but not far. Unless the main road runs straight into a

town and out of it again it is often difficult to discover the exit from

Italian cities like those through which we passed, and Mr. Barrymore

seemed always reluctant to inquire. When I remarked on this once,

thinking it simpler to ask a question of some one in the street rather

than take a false turn, he answered that automobilists never asked the

way; they found it. "I can't explain," he went on, "but I believe other

men who drive cars share the same peculiarity with me; I never ask help

from a passer-by if I can possibly fish out the way for myself. It isn't

rational of course. Sometimes I could save a détour if I would stop and

ask; but I prefer to plunge on and make a mistake rather than admit that

a mere man on legs can teach me anything I don't know. It seems somehow

to degrade the automobile."

The argument was too subtle for me, not being an automobilist; and on

trying to get out of Bergamo, Mr. Barrymore made one of his little

détours. The road twisted; and instead of finding the one towards

Brescia it happened that we went down a broad way which looked like a

high road, but happened to be only a _cul de sac_ leading to the railway

station. We were annoyed for a minute, but we were to rejoice in the

next.

Seeing his error, Mr. Barrymore had just turned the car and was circling

round, when two men stepped into the middle of the road and held up

their hands. They appeared so suddenly that they made me start. They

were very tall and very grave, dressed alike, in long black coats

buttoned to their chins, black gloves, and high black hats. Each carried

an oaken staff.

"They're mutes," said Sir Ralph as Mr. Barrymore put on the brake.

"They've come to warn us that there's going to be a funeral, and we must

clear out for the procession."

The pair looked so sepulchral, I thought he must be right, though I'd

never seen any "funeral mutes." But Mr. Barrymore answered in a low

voice, "No, they're policemen. I wonder what's up?" Then, aloud, he

addressed the melancholy black beanpoles; but to my surprise, instead of

using his fluent Italian to lubricate the strained situation, he spoke

in English.

"Good day. Do you want something with me?"

Of course they didn't understand. How could they have been expected to?

But they did not look astonished. Their black coats were too tight round

their necks for them to change expression easily. One began to explain

his object or intention, with gentle patience, in soft Italian--so soft

that I could have burst out laughing at the thought of the contrast

between him and a New York policeman.

Now almost my whole knowledge of Italian has been gained since Aunt

Kathryn decided to take this trip, for then I immediately bought a

phrase-book, a grammar, and "Doctor Antonio" translated into the native

tongue of hero and author, all of which I've diligently studied every

evening. Mr. Barrymore, on the contrary, speaks perfectly. I believe he

could even think in Italian if he liked; nevertheless _I_ could

understand a great deal that the thin giant said, while _he_ apparently

was hopelessly puzzled.

Even without an accompaniment of words, the policeman's pantomime was so

expressive, I fancy I should have guessed his meaning. With the grieved

dignity of a father taking to task an erring child, he taxed us with

having damaged a cart and injured a horse, causing it to run away. He

pointed to the distance. With an arching gesture he illustrated a mound

of hay (or clover?) rising from the vehicle; with a quick outward thrust

of hands and widespread fingers he pictured the alarm and frantic rush

of the horse; he showed us the creature running, then falling, then

limping as if hurt; he touched his knees to indicate the place of the

wound. What could the most elementary intelligence need more to

comprehend? Certainly it was enough for the crowd collected about us;

but it was not enough for Mr. Barrymore, who is an Irishman, and

cleverer about everything than any man I ever met. He sat still, with an

absolutely vacant though conscientious look on his face, as if he were

trying hard to snatch at an idea, but hadn't succeeded. When the

policeman finished, Mr. Barrymore sadly shook his head. "I wonder what

you mean?" he murmured mildly in English.

The Italian retold the story, his companion throwing a word into a pause

now and then. Both patient men articulated with such careful nicety that

the syllables fell from their mouths like clear-cut crystals. But Mr.

Barrymore shook his head again; then, suddenly, with a joyous smile he

seized a pocket-book from inside his coat. From this he tore out an

important-looking document stamped with a red seal, and pointed from it

to a lithographed signature at the foot.

"Foreign Secretary; Lansdowne--Lord Lansdowne," he repeated. "Inglese.

Inglese and Italiani sempre amici. Yes?" His smile embraced not only the

long-suffering policemen but the crowd, who nodded their heads and

laughed. Having made this effect, Mr. Barrymore whipped out another

impressive paper, which I could see was his _permis de Conduire_ from

the Department of Mines in Nice.

He pointed to the official stamp on this document, and with the

childlike pride of one who stammers a few words of a foreign tongue, he

exclaimed, "Nizza. Nizza la bella." With this, he looked the giants so

full and kindly in the face, and seemed to be so greatly enjoying

himself, that every one laughed again, and two young men cheered,

appearing to be rather ashamed of themselves afterwards. Then, as if

every requirement must at last be satisfied, he made as if to go on. But

the conscientious comrades, though evidently faint and discouraged,

hadn't yet given up hope or played their last card, despite the yards of

English red tape with which those two stamped papers had fed their

appetite for officialism.

The taller of the pair laid his black glove on our mud-guard, cracked by

the flapping tyre days ago, and to be mended (I'd heard Mr. Barrymore

say) at the garage in Mestre. With such dramatic gestures as only the

Latin races command, he attempted to prove that the mud-guard must have

been broken in the collision near Bergamo, of which his mind was full.

At last our Chauffeulier comprehended something. He jumped out of the

throbbing car, and in his turn went through a pantomime. From a drawer

under the seat he produced the rubber skin that had come off our tyre,

showed how it fitted on, how it had become detached, and how it had

lashed the mud-guard as we moved. Everybody, including the policemen,

displayed the liveliest interest in this performance. The instant it was

over, Mr. Barrymore took his place again, coiled up the rubber snake,

and this time without asking leave, but with a low bow to the

representatives of local law, drove the car smartly back into the town.

What could the thwarted giants do after such an experience but stand

looking after us and make the best of things?

"It was our salvation that we'd lost our way and were driving towards

Bergamo instead of out," said the conqueror triumphantly. "You see, they

thought probably they'd got hold of the wrong car, as the accused one

had been coming from Lecco. What with that impression, and their despair

at my idiocy, they were ready to give us the benefit of the doubt and

save their faces. Otherwise, though we were innocent and the driver of

the cart merely 'trying it on,' we might have been hung up here for ten

days."

"Oh, could they have hung us?" gasped Aunt Kathryn. "What a dreadful

thing Italian law must be."

Then we all laughed so much that she was vexed, and when Beechy called

her a "stupid little Mamma," snapped back that anyhow she wasn't stupid

enough to forget her Italian--if she knew any--just when it was needed.

She is too sweet-tempered to be cross for long, however, and the way

towards Brescia was so charming that she forgot her annoyance. Though

the surface was not so good as it had been, it was not too bad; and our

noble tyres, which had borne so much, seemed to spurn the slight

irregularities. With every twenty yards we had a new view, as if the

landscape slowly turned, to assume different patterns like the pieces in

a kaleidoscope. On our left the mountains appeared to march on with us

always, white and majestic, with strange, violet shadows floating

mysteriously.

Set back from the roadside, behind rich meadows rippling with gold and

silver grain, were huge farmhouses, with an air of dignity born of

self-respect and venerable age. We had pretty garden glimpses, too, and

once in a while passed a fine mansion, good enough to call itself a

château so long as there were no real ones in the neighbourhood. Often

chestnut-trees in full glory of white blossom, as if blazing with fairy

candles, lined our way for miles. There was snow of hawthorne

too--"May," our two men called it--and ranks of little feathery white

trees, such as I knew no name for, looking like a procession of brides,

or young girls going to their first communion. Then, to brighten the

white land with colour, there were clumps of lilac, clouds of rose-pink

apple blossoms, blue streaks that meant beds of violets, and a yellow

fire of iris rising straight and bright as flame along the edges of

green, roadside streams.

Just as we came into a splendid old Italian town, thunder began to growl

like a lion hiding in the mountains. A few drops of rain splashed on our

motor-hoods, and a sudden chill wind gathered up the sweet country

scents into one bouquet to fling at us.

"Here we are at Brescia. Shall we stop for the storm and have tea?"

asked Mr. Barrymore.

Aunt Kathryn said "yes" at once, for she doesn't like getting wet, and

can't bear to have the rain spray on her face, though I love it. So we

drove quickly through streets, each one of which made a picture with its

old brown palaces, its stone steps with pretty women chatting in groups

under red umbrellas, its quaint bridge flung across the river, or its

pergola of vines. Past a magnificent cathedral we went as the bells rang

for vespers, and children, young girls, old black-shawled women, smart

soldiers, and gallant-looking, tall officers answered their call. Thus

we arrived at a quaint hotel, with a garden on the river's edge; and

under a thick arbour of chestnut-trees (impervious to floods) we drank

coffee and ate heart-shaped cakes, while the thunder played wild music

for us on a vast cathedral organ in the sky.

"No wonder the soldiers are smart and the officers fine," said the

Chauffeulier, in answer to a remark of mine which Beechy echoed.

"Brescia deserves them more than most towns of Italy, for you know she

has always been famous for the military genius and courage of her men,

and once she was second only to Milan in importance. Venice--whose

vassal she was--had a right to be proud of her. The history of the great

siege, wherein Bayard got the wound which he thought would be mortal, is

as interesting as a novel. 'The Escape of Tartaglia' and 'The Generosity

of Bayard' are bits that make you want to shout aloud."

"And yet we'll pass on, and see nothing, except those panorama-like

glimpses," I sighed. "Oh motoring, motoring, and motor maniacs!"

"How often one has that half-pleasant, half-regretful feeling about

things or people one flashes by on the road," soliloquized Sir Ralph,

pleasantly resigned to the pain of parting. I have it continually,

especially about some of the beautiful, dark-eyed girls I see, and leave

behind before I've fairly catalogued their features. I say to myself,

"Lovely flower of beauty, wasted in the dust of the roadside. Alas! I

leave you for ever. What is to be your fate? Will you grow old soon,

under your peasant-burdens and cares? How sad it is that I shall never

know your history."

"It wouldn't be a bit interesting," said Beechy. "But I suppose that

theory won't comfort you any more than it did Maida the other day, when

she tried too late to save a fly from dying in some honey, and I

consoled her by saying it probably wasn't at all a nice fly, if one had

known it."

"No, it doesn't console me," Sir Ralph complained. "Still, there's a

certain thrill in the thought of bursting like a thunder-bolt into the

midst of other people's tragedies, comedies, or romances, just catching

a fleeting glimpse of their possibilities and tearing on again. But

there are some creatures we meet that I'm glad to lose sight of. Not

those who glare anarchically, unconsciously betraying their outlook on

life; not the poor slow old people who blunder in the way, and stare

vacantly up at our fiery chariot--so strange a development of the world

for them; not the dogs that yelp, and are furious if we don't realize

that they're frightening us. No, but the horrid little jeering boys, who

run beside the car at their best speed when we're forging up

perpendicular hills on _our_ lowest. These are the creatures I would

wipe out of existence with one fierce wish, if I had it in me. To think

that they--_they_--should have the power to humiliate us. I don't get

back my self-respect till we're on a level, or my _joie de vivre_ until

we're shooting downhill, and can hold our own with a forty horse-power

motor, to say nothing of a one-horse, Italian village boy."

"What a revelation of vindictiveness, where one would least expect it!"

exclaimed Mr. Barrymore. "But the rain's over. Shall we go on?" And we

all agreed eagerly, as we probably should in Paradise, if it were a

question of motoring.

XVIII

A CHAPTER ACCORDING TO SHAKSPERE

"Another Cuneo!" groaned Aunt Kathryn, at sight of the hotel in the

steep little town of Desenzano, on Lake Garda; but later she apologized

to the quaint courtyard for her misunderstanding, and was more than

tolerant of her vast bedroom draped with yellow satin, and opening on an

arboured terrace worthy even of a Countess Dalmar.

For miles our way towards Verona next morning was pink and white with

chestnut bloom. Even the shadows seemed warmly pink under the long

unbroken arch of flowering trees. Far away, behind the green netting of

their branches, we caught blue flashes of lake and mountain peaks of

amethyst, while Beechy wished for a dozen noses dotted about here and

there at convenient intervals on her body, so that she might make the

most of the perfumed air. "But you would want them all cut off when you

got to the nearest town," remarked Aunt Kathryn.

Ever since Brescia, the road had been so smooth and well kept that it

was as if we had come into a different country; but Mr. Barrymore said

it was because we were now under the jurisdiction of Venice--Venice, as

rich and practical as romantic. And I had to repeat the name over and

over in my mind--Verona and Padua too--to make myself believe that we

were actually so near.

Horses were better trained in this district, and "knew a motor when they

saw it." Even a drove of sheep (near the wonderful fortress of Peschiera

with its coiled python of a river) seemed comparatively indifferent as

they surged round us in a foaming wave of wool. But then, sheep have no

facial expression. All other four-footed things show emotion by a change

of countenance, just as human beings do--more, because they don't

conceal their feelings--but sheep look as if they wore foolishly smiling

masks. Even when, as their ranks closed in around the automobile, we

broke a chain with a pretty little tinkling noise, and some of the sheep

tripped up on it, they did nothing but smile and merely mention "ba-a"

in an indifferent, absent-minded way.

"If you only _knew_ how much nicer you are with mint sauce!" Beechy

taunted them, as we swept round a corner and were in the labyrinth of

the fortress, which was, our men told us, part of the once famous

quadrilateral that made trouble for Italy in '48.

"There's something pathetic about old, obsolete forts as grand as

Peschiera," Mr. Barrymore said to me. "So much thought and money spent,

the best military science of the day employed to make a stronghold as

feeble against modern arms as a fort of cards. Such a fortress seems

like an aged warrior, past his fighting days, or an old hunting dog, as

keen on the chase as ever, poor fellow, but too old to move from before

the fire, where he can only lie and dream of past triumphs."

"I was thinking almost exactly the same!" I exclaimed, and I liked Mr.

Barrymore all the better; for it draws you nearer to a person when you

find that your thoughts resemble each other in shape and colour. Oddly

enough, it's often so with Mr. Barrymore and me; which is the reason

it's so agreeable to have the place beside him when he drives.

No more than half a dozen miles from Peschiera we saw the Tower of San

Martino, raised on the great battlefield of Solferino. By this time we

had left the lake behind; but we had exchanged the low, amethyst

mountains for tall white ones, glorious pinnacles of snow which were the

higher Austrian Alps. Everything was impressive on this road to Verona,

even the farmhouses, of an entirely different character from those of

the "yesterday country;" and then, at last, we came in sight of Verona

herself, lying low within a charmed circle of protecting hills, on which

castles and white villas looked down from among cypresses and rose-pink

almond trees.

I was glad that the gateway by which we entered Verona was the finest

through which we had passed, for though Mr. Barrymore called the town

"an inn for the great travellers of history," it was more for me. It was

the home of romance; for was it not Juliet's home and Romeo's?

That gateway, and the splendid old crenellated bridge of dark red brick

(toning deliciously with the clear, beryl-green of the swift-rushing

Adda) made a noble, preface for the city. And then, each old, old street

into which we turned was a new joy. What lessons for modern architects

in those time-softened brick façades, with the moulded arches of

terra-cotta framing the green open-work of the shutters!

I began to feel a sense of exaltation, as if I had listened to an anthem

played by a master hand on a cathedral organ. I couldn't have told any

one, but I happened to glance at Mr. Barrymore, and he at me, just as he

had driven into the _piazza_ where Dante's house looks down over the

tombs of the Scaligers. Then he smiled, and said, "Yes, I know. I always

feel like that, too, when I come here--but even more in Venice."

"How _am_ I feeling?" I asked, smiling with him.

"Oh, a little bit as if your soul had got out of your body and taken a

bath in a mountain spring, after you'd been staggering up some of the

steep paths of life in the dust and sun. Isn't that it?"

"Yes. Thank you," I answered. And we seemed to understand each other so

well that I was almost frightened.

"I want all these streets for mine," said Beechy, in a chattering mood.

"Oh, and especially the market-place, with that strange old fountain,

and the booths under the red umbrellas like scarlet mushrooms. Mamma,

have you got money enough to buy them for me, and have them packed up in

a big box with dried moss, like the toy villages, and expressed to

Denver?"

"Speaking of dried moss, all these lovely old churches and palaces and

monuments look as if history had covered them with a kind of delicate

lichen," I said, more to Mr. Barrymore than to Beechy. "And it enhances

their beauty, as the lace of a bride's veil enhances the beauty of her

face."

"Or a nun's veil," cut in Beechy. I wonder why she says things like that

so often lately? Well, perhaps it's best that I should be reminded of my

vocation, but it gives me a cold, desolate feeling for a minute, and

seems to throw a constraint upon us all.

We had made the Chauffeulier stop three or four times in every street to

look at some beautiful bit; a gate of flexible iron-work that even

Ruskin must have admired, the doorway of a church, the wonderful windows

of a faded palace; but suddenly I felt ready to go to the hotel, where

we were to stop for the night, that we might do our sight-seeing slowly.

It was a delightful hotel, itself once a palace, and to be there was to

be "in the picture," in such a place as Verona. The Prince had arrived

before us, as his motor is retrieving its reputation, and we all lunched

together, making plans for the afternoon.

As usual, he was _blasé_--so different from Mr. Barrymore, who has seen

the best things in Italy as often as Prince Dalmar-Kalm has, yet never

tires; indeed, finds something new each time.

The Prince began by announcing that Verona bored him. But one could

always go to sleep.

"That's what I mean to do," said Aunt Kathryn, who generally takes her

cue from him. "I consider that I've seen Verona now, and I shall lie

down this afternoon. Perhaps later I shall write a few letters in the

hall."

I was unkind enough to fancy this a hint for the Prince, but perhaps I

wronged her. And anyway, why should she not give him hints if she likes?

He has been very attentive to her, although for the last few days I

don't think they have been quite so much in "each others' pockets" (as

Beechy calls it) as before.

A little attention was needed by the automobile, it appeared--such as a

tightening up of chains, and a couple of lost grease-cups to replace;

therefore Mr. Barrymore's time would be filled up without any

sight-seeing. But Sir Ralph offered to take Beechy and me anywhere we

liked to go. I was very glad that the Prince said nothing about

accompanying us, for somehow I'd been afraid he would.

We consulted guide-books until we were bewildered, but in the midst of

confusion I held fast to two things. We had seen Romeo's house, towering

picturesquely behind the Scaligers' tombs; but I wanted to see where

Juliet had lived, and where she had been buried.

"The Prince says it's all nonsense," exclaimed Aunt Kathryn. "If there

was a slight foundation for the story in a great family scandal here

about Shakspere's time, anyhow there's none for the houses or the

tomb--"

Beechy stopped her ears. "You're _real mean_," she said, "you and the

Prince both. It's just as bad as when you thought it your duty to tell

me there was no Santa Claus. But I don't care; there _is_. I shall

believe it when I'm _seventeen_; and I believe in the Romeo and Juliet

houses too."

But when we were in the street of Juliet's house--she and Sir Ralph and

I--Beechy pouted. Standing with her hands behind her, her long braids of

hair dangling half-way down her short skirt as she threw back her head

to gaze up, she looked incredibly modern and American. "There were no

tourists' agencies in those days," she remarked, regretfully, "so I

suppose Shakspere _had_ to trust to hearsay, and somebody must have told

him a big tarradiddle. I guess Juliet was really on a visit to an aunt

in the country when she first met Romeo, for fancy a girl in her senses

yelling down from that balcony up at the top of a tall house to _any_

lover, let alone a secret one? Besides, there wouldn't have been enough

rope in Verona to make the ladder for Romeo to climb up."

After this speech, I decided that, fond as I really am of her, I could

_not_ visit Juliet's tomb in Beechy's society. I gave no hint of my

intentions, but after an exquisite hour (which nobody could spoil) in

that most adorable of churches, San Zenone, and another in Sant'

Anastasia, I slipped away while Beechy and Sir Ralph were picking out

the details of St. Peter's life on the panels of a marvellous pilaster.

We had had a cab by the hour; and when they should discover my absence,

they would take it for granted that I had got tired and gone home. They

would then proceed to carry out their programme of sight-seeing very

happily without me, for Beechy amuses Sir Ralph immensely, child as she

is, and she makes no secret of taking pleasure in his society. She

teases him, and he likes it; he draws her out, and her wit brightens in

the process.

I hurried off when their backs were turned. Not far away I found a

prowling cab, and told the man to drive me to Juliet's tomb. He stared,

as if in surprise, for I suppose girls of our class don't go about much

alone in Italian towns; but he condescended to accept me as a fare.

However, to show his disapproval maybe, he rattled me through streets

old and beautiful, ugly and modern (why should most modern things be

ugly, even in Italy?) at a tremendous pace. At last he stopped before a

high, blank wall, in a most dismal region, apparently the outskirts of

the town. I would hardly believe that he had brought me to the right

place, but he reassured me. In the distance another cab was approaching,

probably on the same errand. I rang a bell, and a gate was opened by a

nice-looking woman, who knew well what I wanted without my telling, and

she spoke so clearly that I was able to understand much of what she

said. Instead of feeling that the romance of visiting Juliet's

burial-place was destroyed by traversing the great open square of the

communal stables, where an annual horse show is held, I was conscious of

a strange charm in the unsuitable surroundings. It was like coming upon

a beautiful white pearl in a battered old oyster-shell, to pass through

this narrow gateway at the far end of a dusty square, and find myself

face to face with a glimmering tomb in a quiet cloister.

The strong contrast between the sordid exterior and this dainty, hidden

interior was nothing less than dramatic. The lights and shadows played

softly at hide-and-seek, like dumb children, over the grass, among the

pillars of the little cloister, over the tomb itself. I was thankful to

be alone, troubled by no fellow-tourists, safe from little Beechy's too

comical fancies, free to be as sentimental as I liked. And I liked to be

very sentimental indeed.

I stood by the tomb, feeling almost like a mourner, when a voice made me

start. "Is it Juliet's spirit?" asked Prince Dalmar-Kalm.

I would rather it had been any one else. "How odd that you should come

here!" I exclaimed, while my face must have shown that the surprise was

not too pleasant.

"It is not at all odd. You are here," answered the Prince. "You said at

_déjeuner_ that you were coming, if you had to come alone. _Eh bien?_ I

saw Miss Beechy and Sir Ralph Moray driving together, deep in Baedeker.

My heart told me where you were; and I arrive to find you looking like

Juliet come to life again. Perhaps it is so indeed. Perhaps you were

Juliet in another incarnation. Yes, I feel sure you were. And I was

Romeo."

"I'm sure you were not," I replied; but I could not help laughing at his

stagey manner, though I was more annoyed than ever now, and annoyed with

myself too. "I particularly wished to be alone here, or I wouldn't have

slipped away from Beechy and Sir Ralph, so--"

"And I particularly wished to be alone here with you, or I wouldn't have

followed when you _had_ slipped away from them," he broke in. "Oh, Miss

Destrey--my Madeleine, you must listen to me. There could be no place in

the world more appropriate to the tale of a man's love for a woman than

this, where a man and woman died for love of one another."

"I thought you called all this 'nonsense'?" I cut him short. "No,

Prince, neither here nor anywhere must you speak of love to me, for I

don't love you, and never could."

"I know that you mean to shut yourself away from the world," he

interrupted me again. "But you shall not. It would be sacrilege.

You--the most beautiful, the most womanly girl in the world--to--"

"No more, please!" I cried. "It doesn't matter what my future is to be,

for you will not be in it. I--"

"I must be in it. I adore you. I can't give you up. Haven't you seen

from the first how I loved you?"

"I _thought_ I saw you liked trying to flirt when no one was looking.

That sounds rather horrid, but--it's the truth."

"You misjudged me cruelly. Have you no human ambition? I could place you

among the highest in any land. With me, your beauty should shine as it

never could in your own country. Is it nothing to you that I can make

you a Princess?"

"Less than nothing," I answered, "though perhaps it would be pretty of

me to thank you for wanting to make me one. So I do thank you; and I'll

thank you still more if you will go now, and leave me to my thoughts."

"I cannot go till I have made you understand how I love you, how

indispensable you are to me," he persisted. And I grew really angry; for

he had no right to persecute me, when I had refused him.

"Very well, then, _I_ shall go," I said, and would have passed him, but

he seized my hand and held it fast.

It was this moment that Mr. Barrymore chose for paying his respects to

Juliet's tomb; and I blushed as I have never blushed in my life, I

think--blushed till the tears smarted in my eyes. I was afraid he would

believe that I'd been letting Prince Dalmar-Kalm make love to me. But

there was nothing to say, unless I were willing to have a scene, and

that would have been hateful. Nor was there anything to do except the

obvious thing, snatch my hand away; and that might seem to be only

because some one had come. But how I should have loved to box the

Prince's ears! I never dreamed that I had such a temper. I suppose,

though, there must be something of the fishwife in every

woman--something that comes boiling up to the surface once in a while,

and makes _noblesse oblige_ hard to remember.

The one relief to my feelings in this situation was given by my queer

little new pet--the wisp of a black doggie I've named Airole, after the

village where he grew. I'd brought him into the cloister in my arms

hidden under a cape, because he had conceived a suspicious dislike of

the cabman. Now he said all the things to the Prince that I wanted to

say, and more, and would have snapped, if the Prince had not retired his

hand in time.

The process of quieting Airole gave me the chance to make up my mind

what I should do next. If I went away, I couldn't prevent Prince

Dalmar-Kalm from going with me, and Mr. Barrymore would have a right to

imagine that I wished to continue the interrupted scene. If I stayed it

was open for him to fancy that I wanted to be with _him_; but between

two evils one chooses the less; besides, a nice thing about Mr.

Barrymore is that, notwithstanding his good looks and cleverness, he's

not conceited--not conceited enough, I sometimes think, for he lets

people misunderstand his position and often seems more amused than angry

at a snub.

Acting on my quick decision, I said, "Oh, I'm glad you've come. You know

so much about Verona. Please talk to me of this place--only don't say it

isn't authentic, for that would be a jarring note."

"I'm afraid I don't care enough whether things are authentic or not," he

answered, both of us ignoring the Prince. "You know, in my country,

legend and history are a good deal mixed, which makes for romance.

Besides, I'm inclined to believe in stories that have been handed down

from generation to generation--told by grandfathers to their

grandchildren, and so on through the centuries till they've reached us.

When they're investigated by the cold light of reason, at least they can

seldom be disproved."

I agreed, and the conversation went on, deliberately excluding the

Prince. Each minute I said to myself, "Surely he'll go." But he did not.

He stayed while Mr. Barrymore and I discussed the genius of Shakspere,

chiming in now and then as if nothing had happened, and remaining until

we were ready to go.

At the cab there was another crisis. I hadn't yet entirely realized the

Prince's stupendous capacity for what Beechy would put into one short,

sharp word "Cheek." But I fully appreciated it when he calmly manifested

his intention of getting into my cab, as if we had come together.

Something had to be done instantly, or it would be too late.

Leaning from my seat so that the Prince had to wait with his foot on the

step, I exclaimed, "Oh! Mr. Barrymore, won't you let me give you a lift?

Prince Dalmar-Kalm has his own cab, and I'm alone in this."

"Thanks very much, I shall be delighted," said the Chauffeulier.

Even the Prince's audacity wasn't equal to the situation created by

these tactics. He retired, hat in hand, looking so furious that I could

hardly help laughing. Mr. Barrymore got in beside me, and we drove off

leaving the Prince with nobody but his own cabman to vent his rage on.

I rather hoped, for a minute, that Mr. Barrymore would say something

which would give me the chance for a vague word or two of explanation;

but he didn't. He simply talked of indifferent things, telling me how

the work on the car was finished, and how he had had time after all to

wander among his favourite bits of Verona. And then, in a flash of

understanding, I saw how much more tactful and manly it was in him not

to mention the Prince.

XIX

A CHAPTER OF PALACES AND PRINCES

What a pity clocks don't realize the interesting work they do in the

making of history, as they go on ticking out moments which never before

have been and never will be again! It would be such a reward for their

patience; and I should like my watch to know how often I've thanked it

lately for the splendid moments it has given me.

Some of those I had in Verona (no thanks to the Prince!) have really

helped to develop my soul, and it used to need developing badly, poor

dear; I see that now, though I didn't then. I never thought much about

the development of souls, except that one must try hard to be good and

do one's duty. But now I begin dimly to see many things, as if I caught

glimpses of them, far away, and high up on some of the snowy

mountain-tops we pass.

Must one live through several incarnations, I wonder, for true

development? Are some people great-minded because they have gone through

many such phases, and are the wondrous geniuses of the world--such as

Shakspere--the most developed of all? Then the poor commonplace or

stupid people, who never have any real thoughts of their own, are they

the undeveloped souls who haven't had their chance yet? If they are, how

kind those who have gone further ought to be to them, and what generous

allowances they ought to make, instead of being impatient, and pleased

with themselves because they are cleverer.

I think I should like to send whole colonies of those poor "beginners"

to Italy to live for a while, because it might give them a step up for

their next phase. As for myself, I'm going further every day, almost as

fast, I hope, as the automobile goes.

"She," as the Chauffeulier affectionately calls her, went especially

fast and well the morning we swept out of Verona. There was an

entrancing smell of Italy in the air. There is no other way to describe

it--it is that and nothing else.

As long as Verona was still within sight, I kept looking back, just as

you drink something delicious down to the last drop, when you know there

can be no dregs. Only to see how the town lay at the foot of the

mountains of the north, was to understand its powers of defence, and its

importance to the dynasties and princes of the past. With Mr.

Barrymore's help, I could trace one line of fortification after another,

from the earliest Roman, through Charlemagne and the Scaligers, down to

the modern Austrian.

No wonder that Verona was the first halting-place for the tribes of

Germans, pouring down from their cold forests in the north to cross the

Alps and rejoice in the sunshine of Italy! For Verona's nearness to the

north and her striking difference to the north impressed me sharply, as

a black line of shadow is cut out by the sun. Up a gap in the dark

barrier of mountains I gazed where Mr. Barrymore pointed, towards the

great Brenner Pass, leading straight to Innsbruck through Tyrol. How

close the northern nations lay, yet in the warm Italian brightness how

far away they seemed.

But soon Verona disappeared, and we were speeding along a level road

with far-off purple peaks upon our left, and away in front some floating

blue shapes which it thrilled me to hear were actually the Euganean

Hills. The Chauffeulier set them to music by quoting from Shelley's

"Lines Written in Dejection in the Euganean Hills"--a sweet

old-fashioned title of other days, and words so beautiful that for a

moment I was depressed in sympathy--though I couldn't help feeling that

_I_ should be happy in the Euganean Hills. They called across the plain

with siren voices, asking me to come and explore their fastnesses of

blue and gold, but Aunt Kathryn couldn't understand why. "They're not

half so imposing as lots of mountains we've passed," she said. "And

anyway, I think the beauty of mountains is overestimated. What are they

to admire so much, anyhow, when you think of it, more than flat places?

They are only great lumps at best."

"Well," replied Sir Ralph, "if it comes to that, what's the sea but a

big wet thing?"

"And what are people but a kind of superior ant, and the grandest

palaces but big anthills?" Beechy chimed in. "I've often thought,

supposing there were--well, Things, between gods and men, living here

somewhere, invisible to us as we are to lots of little creatures, what

kind of an idea _would_ They get of us and our ways? They'd be always

spying on us, of course, and making scientific observations, as we do on

insects. I used to believe in Them, and be awfully afraid, when I was

younger, because I used to think all the accidents and bad things that

happened might be due to Their experiments. You see They'd be wondering

why we did certain things; why lots of us all run to one place--like

Venice, or any show city--instead of going to another nest of anthills;

or why we all crowded into one anthill (like a church or theatre) at a

particular time. So a theatre-fire would be when They'd touched the

anthill with one of their cigars, to make the ants run out. Or a volcano

would have an eruption because They'd poked the mountain with a great

pin to see what would happen. Or when we're cut or hurt in any way, it's

because They've marked us to know one from the other, as we run about. I

do hope They're not thinking about _us_ now, or They'll drop something

and smash the automobile."

"Oh, don't, Beechy! You make my blood run cold!" cried Aunt Kathryn. "Do

let's talk of something else quickly. How gracefully the vines are

trained here, draped along those rows of trees in the meadows. It's much

prettier than ordinary vineyards. You might imagine fairies playing tag

under these arbours."

"Or fauns chasing nymphs," said Sir Ralph. "No doubt they did a few

years ago and caught them too."

"I'm glad they don't now," replied Aunt Kathryn, "or this would be no

fit place for ladies to motor."

But I wasn't glad, for the whole country was one wide background for a

pre-Raphaelite picture, and the mountains to which Aunt Kathryn had

applied so insulting a simile were even grander in size and nobler in

shape than before. We had seen many old châteaux (though never a

surfeit), but the best of all had been reserved for to-day. Far away on

our left, as we drove towards Padua, it rose above the little town that

crawled to the foot of the castle's hill to beg protection; and it was

exactly like a city painted by Mantegna or Carpaccio, Mr. Barrymore

said. Up the hill ran the noblest and biggest wall that an Old Master's

imagination could have conceived. Many men might walk on it abreast; and

at every few yards it bristled with sturdy watch-towers, not ruined, but

looking as ready to defy the enemy to-day as they were six hundred years

ago. The culmination was the castle itself, so magnificently

proportioned, so worthily proud of its place, that it seemed as if the

spirit of the Middle Ages were there embodied, gazing down in haughty

resignation upon a new world it did not even wish to understand.

The name of the castle was Soave; but when I heard that nothing

startling enough to please me had happened there, I wouldn't know its

history, for my fancy was equal to inventing one more thrilling. There

was plentiful sensation, though, in the stories the Chauffeulier could

tell of Napoleon's battles and adventures in this neighbourhood. I

listened to them eagerly, especially to that which covered his falling

into a marsh while fighting the Austrians, and standing there, unable to

get out, while the battle of Arcole raged around him. We were at the

point of the rescue and the victory of the French, when we arrived at

another gateway, another octroi, another city, to enter which was like

driving straight into an old, old picture.

In a long street of palaces, all with an elusive family resemblance to

one another, we paused for consultation. This was Vicenza, the

birthplace and beloved town of Palladio; these palaces with fronts

crusted with bas relief; these Corinthian pillars, these Arabesque

balconies, these porticoes that might have been stolen from Greek

temples, all had been designed by Palladio the Great. And the beautiful

buildings seemed to say pensively, like lovely court ladies whose day is

past, "We are not what we were. Time has changed and broken us, it is

true; but even so we are worth seeing."

It was that view which our Chauffeulier urged, but Aunt Kathryn was for

going on without a stop, until Sir Ralph said, "It's not patriotic of

you to pass by. Palladio built your Capitol at Washington, and all the

fine old colonial houses you admire so much in the East."

"Dear me, did he?" exclaimed Aunt Kathryn. "Why, I never heard of him."

"Moray doesn't mean his words to be taken undiluted," said Mr.

Barrymore. "If it hadn't been for Palladio, there would have been no

Inigo Jones and no Christopher Wren, therefore if you'd had a Capitol at

all, it wouldn't be what it is now. And to understand the colonial

architecture of America, you have to go back to Palladio."

"Well, here we are at him," sighed Aunt Kathryn. "But I hope we won't

have to get _out_?"

Mr. Barrymore laughed. "The Middle Ages revisited, _en automobile_!

However, I'll do my best as showman in the circumstances."

So he drove us into a splendid square, where Palladio was at his

grandest with characteristic façades, galleries, and stately colonnades.

Then, slowly, through the street of palaces and out into the open

country once more--a rich country of grain-fields (looking always as if

an unseen hand softly stroked their silver hair) and of hills swelling

into a mountainous horizon. There was a bright little flower-bordered

canal too, and I've grown fond of canals since the neighbourhood of

Milan, finding them as companionable as rivers, if more tame. Indeed,

they seem like rivers that have gone to live in town, where they've

learned to be a bit stilted and mechanical in manner.

The farmhouses, standing but a short distance back from the level of the

road, were manorial in a queer way; two or three of them, exquisite old

things, their great roofed balconies covered with ivy and blossoming

creepers. The women we met were pretty, too--so pretty often that, as

Sir Ralph said, it wouldn't have been safe for them to walk out in the

feudal ages, as they would promptly have been kidnapped by the nearest

seignior. We might have guessed that we were not far out from Venice by

the gorgeous Titian hair of the peasant children playing by the wayside,

or a copper coil twisted above a girl's dark eyes.

"How long a time shall we spend in Padua, Countess?" asked the

Chauffeulier as we came within sight of a gateway, some domes and

campanili.

"Oh, don't let's make up our mind till we get there," replied Aunt

Kathryn comfortably.

"But we are there," said he. "In another minute the little men of the

_dazio_ will be tapping our bags as a doctor taps his patient's lungs."

Padua! Each time that we actually arrived in one of these wonderful old

places, it was an electric shock for me. I had to shake myself,

mentally, to make it seem true. But if it was like a dream to enter the

place of Petruchio's love story, what would it be by-and-by--oh, a very

quick-coming by-and-by--to see Venice? I hardly dared let my thoughts go

on to that moment for fear they should get lost in it, and refuse to

come back. Sufficient for the day was the Padua thereof.

Not so beautiful as Verona, still the learned and dignified old city had

a curiously individual charm of its own, which I felt instantly. I loved

the painted palaces, especially those where most of the paint had worn

off, leaving but a lovely face, or some folds of a velvet robe, or a

cardinal's hat to hint its story to the imagination. The old arcaded

streets were asleep, and grass sprouted among the cobbles. Where they

followed the river we had glimpses of gardens and arbours backed with

roses, or an almond tree--like a rosy bride leaning on a

soldier-lover's neck--peeped at us, side by side with a dark ilex, over

a high brick wall.

"How long _ought_ we to stay in Padua?" Aunt Kathryn deigned to ask, as

if in delayed answer to the Chauffeulier's question, when he helped her

out of the car at the Stella d'Oro, where we were to lunch.

"A week," said Mr. Barrymore, his eyes twinkling.

Her face fell, and he took pity.

"If we weren't motor maniacs," he went on. "In that case we would have

come here on a solemn pilgrimage to do full justice to the adorable

Giotto, to the two best churches--not to be surpassed anywhere--and the

dozen and one other things worth seeing. But as we are mad we shall be

able to 'do' Padua, and satisfy our consciences though not our hearts,

in three hours. My one consolation in this deplorable course, lies in

the thought that it will make it possible to give you your first sight

of Venice between sunset and moonrise."

Beechy clapped her hands, and my heart gave a throb. Somehow, my eyes

happened to meet Mr. Barrymore's. But I must not get into the habit of

letting them do that, when I'm feeling anything deeply. I can't think

why it seems so natural to turn to him, as if I'd known him always; but

then we have _all_ got to be great friends on this trip, and know each

other better than if we'd been meeting in an ordinary way for a year.

All except the Prince. I leave him out of that statement, as I would

leave him out of everything concerning me nearly, if I could. I believe

that _none_ of us know him, or what is in his mind. But sometimes

there's a look in his eyes if one glances up suddenly, which would

almost frighten one, if it were not silly and melodramatic. That is the

only way in which he has troubled me since the horrid little incident at

Juliet's tomb--with these occasional, strange looks; and as he wrote me

a note of apology for his bad conduct then, I ought to forgive and

forget.

The hotel where we lunched was not in a quaint riverside street, but in

a square so modern it was hard to realize for the moment that we were

in the oldest city of Northern Italy, dating from before Roman days.

However, the Stella d'Oro was old enough to satisfy us, and I should

have been delighted with the nice Italian dishes Mr. Barrymore knew so

well how to order, if I hadn't been longing to rush off with a bit of

bread in my hand, not to waste a Paduan moment on so dull a deed as

eating.

It was only twelve when we arrived, and before one we were out of the

huge, cool dining-room, and in the May sunlight again. The Prince was

with us; had been just ahead of us, or just behind us, all through the

journey from Verona. But I thought by keeping close to Aunt Kathryn and

Beechy there would be no danger that he would trouble me. Unfortunately,

the pattern of our progress arranged itself a little differently from my

plan.

All was simple enough in the churches, which we visited first, not to

give them time to close up for their afternoon siesta. Mr. Barrymore was

of the party, and we all listened to him--the Prince because he must, we

others because we wished--while he ransacked his memory for bits of

Paduan history, legend or romance. He showed us the Giottos (which he

had done well to call adorable) at the Madonna of the Arena; he took us

to pay our respects to St. Anthony of Padua (that dear, obliging Saint

who gives himself so much trouble over the lost property of perfect

strangers) in his extraordinary and well-deserved Basilica of bubbly

domes and lovely cloisters. He guided us to Santa Giustina, where I

would stop at the top of the steps, to pet two glorious old red marble

beasts which had crouched there for four centuries. One of them--the

redder of the two--had been all that time wrestling with an

infinitesimal St. George whom he ought to have polished off in a few

hours; while the other--the one with an unspeakable beard under his chin

and teeth like the gearing of our automobile--had been engaged for the

same period in eating a poor little curly lion.

The inside of the church--too strongly recommended by Baedeker to

commend itself to me--made me feel as if I had eaten a lemon water-ice

before dinner, on a freezing cold day; and it was there that the

Chauffeulier departed to get ready the motor-car. There it was, too,

that the pattern disarranged itself.

When we had finished looking at a splendid Paolo Veronese, we hurried

out into the Prato della Valle (which has changed its name to something

else not half so pretty, though more patriotic), and Sir Ralph took

Beechy away, so that Aunt Kathryn and I were left to the Prince. He

hardly talked to her at all, which hurt her feelings so much that she

turned suddenly round, and said she must speak to Beechy.

I could have cried, for the piazza was so beautiful that I wanted some

one congenial with me, to whom I could exclaim about it. It was girdled

by a belt of clear water, with four stone bridges and a double wall on

which stood a goodly company of noble gentlemen. There was the history

of Padua's greatness perpetuated in marble--charming personages, one and

all, if you could believe their statues, and it would have seemed

treacherous not to. Each stood to be admired or revered in the attitude

most expressive of his profession: Galileo pointing up, graceful,

spiritual, enthusiastic; a famous bishop blessing his flock; some great

poet dreaming over a book--his own, perhaps, just finished; and so on,

all along the happy circle of writers, priests, scientists, soldiers,

artists. I felt as if I wanted to know them--those faithful friends of

all who love greatness, resting now in each others' excellent society,

their sole reflection those in the watery mirror.

But Prince Dalmar-Kalm thought himself of importance even in this king's

garden. "Did you get my letter?" he asked. "And do you forgive me?" he

said. "And will you trust me, and not be unkind, now that I've promised

to think of you only as a friend?" he persisted.

I didn't see why he should look upon me even as a friend; but a cat may

look at a king, if it doesn't fly up and scratch; so why not a prince at

an American girl? To save argument and not to be unchristian, I pledged

myself to some kind of superficial compact almost before I knew. When it

was done, it would have been too complicated to undo again; and so I let

it go.

XX

A CHAPTER IN FAIRYLAND

"Nobody can ever quite know Venice who goes by rail from Padua," said

the Chauffeulier to me, when we had started in the car. "The sixteen

miles of road between the two places is a link in Venetian history, and

you'll understand what I mean without any explanation as you pass

along."

This made me post my wits at the windows of my eyes, and tell them not

to dare sleep for an instant, lest I should disappoint expectations.

But, after all, the meaning I had to understand was not subtle, though

it was interesting.

The way was practically one long street of time-worn palaces and

handsome villas which had once been the summer retreats of the rich

Venetians; and I guessed it without being told. I guessed, too, that the

owners came no more or seldom; that they were not so rich as they had

been, or that, because of railways and automobiles, it was easier and

more amusing to go further afield. But what I didn't know without

telling was that the proprietors had been accustomed, in the good old

leisurely days, to step into their gondolas in front of their own

palaces in Venice and come up the Brenta to their summer homes without

setting foot to ground.

If I hadn't been told, too, that the Brenta was a river big in Venetian

history if not in size, I should have taken it for one of my favourite

canals, with its slow traffic of lazy barges, and its hundred canals

crossing it with long green arms that stretched north and south to the

horizon. But at Stra I must have respected it in any case; and it was

near Stra, also, that we passed the most important palace of any on that

strange, flat road. The very garden wall told that here was a house

which must have loomed large in historic eyes, and through magnificent

gateways we caught flashing glimpses of a noble building in a neglected

park.

"It belonged to the Pisani, a famous family of Venice," said the

Chauffeulier as we sailed by. "But Napoleon took it--as he took so many

other good things in this part of the world--and gave it to his stepson

Eugène Beauharnais."

"I've never thought about Napoleon in connection with Venice, somehow,"

I said.

"But you will, when your gondola takes you under the huge palace where

he lived," he answered.

"Talking of gondolas, I forgot to tell you what a nice plan the Prince

has for us," said Aunt Kathryn, with the air of breaking news. "As soon

as I mentioned at what time you had arranged to leave Padua, he said he

would telegraph to some dear friends of his at Venice, the Conte and

Contessa Corramini, to send their beautiful gondola to meet us at Mestre

(wherever that is) so that we needn't go into Venice by train across the

bridge. Isn't that lovely of him?"

No one would have answered if it hadn't been for Mr. Barrymore. He said

that it was a very good plan indeed, and would be pleasanter for us than

the one he had made, which he'd meant for a surprise. He had telegraphed

from Padua to the Hotel Britannia, where we would stay, ordering

gondolas to the tram-way station in Mestre to save our sneaking into

Venice by the back-door. Now those gondolas would do very well for our

luggage, while the party of five made the journey more luxuriously.

"Party of six, you mean, unless the Prince has had an accident," amended

Beechy.

"No; for I shan't be with you. I must drive the car to the garage at

Mestre, and see that she's all right. Moray'll be with you to arrange

everything at the Britannia, which you'll find one of the nicest places

in the world, and I'll come when I can. Now, here's the turning for

Mestre, and you must look for something interesting on the sky-line to

the right, before long."

I couldn't help being disappointed, because I'd wanted the Chauffeulier

to be with us when I saw Venice first; but I couldn't say that; and I'm

afraid he thought, as everybody was silent, that nobody cared.

There was nothing to show the turning to Mestre, except a small tablet

that we might easily have missed; and the road was laughably narrow,

running along a causeway with a deep ditch on either hand. Aunt Kathryn

was so afraid that a horse would come round one of the sharp bends

walking on its hind legs, that she was miserable, but I trusted Mr.

Barrymore and enjoyed the country--real country now, with no more

palaces, villas, or beautiful arcaded farmhouses.

The distance was hidden by long, waving grasses, over which the blue

line of the Corinthian Alps seemed to hover like a cloud. There was a

pungent smell of salt and of seaweed in the air, that meant the nearness

of the lagoon--and Venice. Then, suddenly, the "something" Mr. Barrymore

had told us to look for, grew out of the horizon--dim and mysterious,

yet not to be mistaken; hyacinth-blue streaks that were pinnacles and

campanili, bubbles that were domes, floating between the gold of the

sunset and the grey-green of the tall grass, for no water was visible

yet.

"Venice!" I whispered; but though Beechy and Aunt Kathryn each cried:

"Oh, there it is! _I_ saw it first!" they were so absorbed in a

discussion as to what the Prince's friends ought to be called, and they

soon lost interest in the vision.

"Conte! It's like Condy's Fluid!" said Beechy. "I won't call him

'Conte.' I should laugh in his face. If plain Count isn't good enough

for him, and Countess for her, I shall just say 'You'--so there!"

Soon we saw a great star-shaped fortress as we ran into a town, which

was Mestre; and at the same time we lost shadow-Venice. Passing a

charming villa set back behind an avenue of cypresses and plane trees

that gave an effect of dappling moonlight even in full day, some one in

the tall gateway waved his hand.

"By Jove, it's Leo Bari, the artist!" exclaimed Sir Ralph. "I forgot his

people lived here. I know him well; he comes to the Riviera to paint. Do

slow down, Terry."

So "Terry" slowed down, and a handsome, slim young man ran up, greeting

Sir Ralph gaily in English. He was introduced to us, and his sister, a

lovely Italian girl with Titian hair, was invited to leave the becoming

background of the gateway to make our acquaintance.

They were interested in the details of our tour, especially when they

heard that, after a week in Venice, we were going into Dalmatia.

"Why, I'm going down to Ragusa to paint," said he. "I've been before,

but this time I take my sister Beatrice. She paints too. We go by the

Austrian Lloyd to-morrow. Perhaps we see you there?"

"Have you ever been down as far as Cattaro?" asked Aunt Kathryn, from

whose tongue the names of Dalmatian towns fall trippingly, since she

"acquired" a castle and a title there.

"Oh, yes, and to Montenegro," replied the artist.

"And do you remember the houses of the neighbourhood?" went on Aunt

Kathryn.

"It is already but two years I was there, so a house would have to be

young for me not to remember," replied the young man, unconscious of the

funny little twist of his English.

"I am thinking of a very old house; Slosh--er--the Castle of Hrvoya.

Have you seen it?"

"Ah, that old ruin!" exclaimed the artist. "I seen it, yes. But there is

not more much Schloss Hrvoya to see, only the rock for it to stand."

Poor Aunt Kathryn! I was sorry for her. But she bore the blow well, and,

after all, it's the title, not the castle for which she cares

most--that, and the right to smear everything with crowns.

"Perhaps I'll ask you to paint Hrvoya for me some day," she said. But

afterwards, when we had bidden the handsome brother and sister _au

revoir_, she remarked that she was afraid Mr. Bari hadn't an artistic

eye.

The good-byes said, we swept through the picturesque town to make up for

lost time, and presently encountered a little electric tram running

seaward on a causeway. We followed over a grass-grown road, and suddenly

found Venice again, so near that we could actually distinguish one

building from another. Beyond a broad stretch of water the dream city

floated on the sea.

"Look; I did this for _you_, so that you would go into Venice in a way

worthy of yourself," the Prince murmured in my ear, when the car had

stopped, joining his which was waiting. He waved his hand towards a

wonderful gondola, with a gesture such as Aladdin's Genie might have

used to indicate the magic palace. The glossy black coat of the

swan-like thing brought out the full value of the rich gold ornaments. A

long piece of drapery trailed into the water behind, and two gondoliers,

like bronze statues dressed in dark blue, crimson, and white, stood up

tall and erect against a background of golden sea and sky.

They helped us in, hat in hand; and not the Chauffeulier's absence nor

the Prince's presence could spoil for me the experience that followed.

Sunk deep in springy cushions, I half sat, half lay, while the bronze

statues swayed against the gold, softly plying their long oars, and

wafting me--_me_--to Venice.

I felt as if I were moving from the wings of a vast theatre onto the

stage to play a heroine's part. Evening bells, chanting a paen to the

sunset, floated across the wide water faint as spirit-chimes, and they

were the _leitmotif_ for my entrance.

"What a shame to be in motoring things!" I said to Beechy. "Women should

have special gondola dresses; I see that already--a different one each

day. I should like to have a deep crimson gown and a pale green

one--lilac too, perhaps, and sunrise-pink, all made picturesquely, not

in any stiff modern way."

"The costume of your Sisterhood would be pretty in a gondola," Beechy

answered. And again that coldness fell upon me which I always feel at a

reminder, intentional or unintentional, of the future. But the chill was

gone in a moment--lost in the luminous air, which had a strange

brilliancy, as if reflected from a stupendous mirror. I had never seen

anything even remotely resembling it before. It was as though we were

living inside a great opal, like flies in amber. And it seemed that in a

world so wonderful everything one did, or looked, or thought, ought to

be wonderful too, lest it should be out of tune with all surrounding

beauty.

Sea and sky were of one colour, except that the sea appeared to be on

fire underneath its glassy surface. The violet sky was strewn with blown

rose-petals and golden feathers; the tiny waves were of violet ruffled

with rose and gold, and spattered with jewelled sparks which might be

flashes from a Doge's vanished ring.

In the distance, sails of big ships were beaten into gold leaf by the

sinking sun; and nearer, there were other sails bright as flowers--a sea

picture-gallery of Madonnas, of arrow-wounded hearts, of martyred

saints, or bright-robed earthly ladies.

We were rowing straight into the sunset, straight into fairy-land, and I

knew it; but--what would happen when the rose-and-golden glory had

swallowed us up?

The sparkle of the water and air got into my blood, and I felt that it

must be sparkling too, like champagne. I was more alive than I had ever

been when I was on earth; for of course this was not earth--this Venice

to which I was going.

No other road but this water-road could have consoled me for the thought

that there would be no more motoring for a week. And clearly it was a

road of which it was necessary for the gondoliers to know every

oar-length; for it was defined by stakes, standing up out of the lagoon

singly, or gathered into clusters like giant bunches of asparagus.

Turning my back to the arched railway bridge, which accompanied us too

far, I looked only at sky and water, and at Venice rising from the sea.

The tide was running out, the Prince said (among other chatterings,

while I wished everybody woven in a magic spell of silence) and the

gondola made swift progress, rocking lightly like a shell, over the

bright ripples of the lagoon.

The nearer we drew to Venice the more like a vision of enchantment did

the city seem. Not a sound came to us, for the music of the bells had

died. All was still as in a dream--for in dreams, does one ever hear a

sound? I think I never have. And now the gold had faded from the clouds,

leaving them pink and violet, transparent as gauze, through which the

rising moon sifted silver dust. How could the others talk? I did not

understand.

Aunt Kathryn was saying, "If I hire a gondolier, I want to get a

singer." As if he were a sewing-machine, or a canary-bird! And Beechy

was complaining that she felt "very funny;" she believed the motion of

the gondola was making her seasick, just as she used to be in her

cradle, when she was too young to protest except by a howl.

It was a relief to my feelings when we turned out of the wide lagoon

into a canal, for then they did at least speak of the scene around them,

asking questions about the tall palaces that walled us in; who lived

here; who lived there; what was the name or history of that?

The odour of seaweed was more pungent, and there was a smell of water

mingling with it too; something like fresh cucumbers, and the roots of

flowers when they have just been pulled out of the earth. I could not

have believed that water could have such clearness and at the same time

hold so many colours, as the water in this, my first canal of Venice. It

was like a greenish mirror, full of lights, and wavering reflected tints

from the crumbling palaces whose old bricks, mellow pink, gold, and

purple, showed like veins through the skin of peeling stucco. Down

underneath the shining mirror, one could see the old marble steps,

leading up to the shut mystery of water gates. There were shimmering

gleams of pearly white and ivory yellow, under beardy trails of moss old

as the marble out of which it grew. And over high walls, delicate

branches of acacia and tamarisk beckoned us, above low-hung drapery of

wistaria, that dropped purple tassels to the lapping water's edge.

So we wound through one narrow, palace-walled Rio after another, until

Venice began to seem like a jewelled net, with its carved precious

stones intricately strung on threads of silver; and then suddenly, to my

surprise, we burst into a great canal.

I saw a bridge, which I knew from many pictures must be the Rialto, but

there was no disappointment, no flatness in the impression of having

seen this all before, for not the greatest genius who ever lived could

paint Venice at her every day best. Palace after palace; and by-and-by a

church with a front carved in ivory by the growing moonlight, thrown up

against a background of rose.

"Palladio, it must be!" I cried.

"Yes; it's San Georgio Maggiore, Terry Barrymore's favourite church in

Venice," said Sir Ralph, who had been almost as silent as I. "And here

we are at the Hotel Britannia."

"Why, it has a garden!" exclaimed Aunt Kathryn. "I never thought of a

garden in Venice."

"There are several of the loveliest in Italy," replied Sir Ralph. "But

the Britannia's the only hotel that has one."

"My friend's palazzo has a courtyard garden with a wonderful old marble

well-head, and beautiful statues," said the Prince. "He and his wife are

coming to call on you to-morrow, and you will have the opportunity of

thanking them for their gondola. Also, they will probably invite you to

leave the hotel, and visit them during the rest of your stay, as they

are very hospitable."

"I'll wager you won't want to leave the Britannia, once you are settled

there," said Sir Ralph quickly. "It's the most comfortable hotel in

Venice, and Terry and I have wired for rooms with balconies overlooking

the Grand Canal, and the garden. There isn't a palace going that I

would forsake the Britannia for."

By this time the gondola had slipped between some tall red posts, and

brought us to the steps of the hotel. I was glad that they were marble

steps and that the house had once been a palace, otherwise I should not

have felt I was making the most of Venice.

If I live to be a hundred (one of the Sisters is close on eighty) I

shall never forget that first night in the City of the Sea.

It was good to see Mr. Barrymore back again for dinner in the big red

and gold, brightly frescoed dining-room; and it was he who suggested

that we should have coffee in the garden, at a table on a balcony built

over the water, and then go out in gondolas.

We hired three; and as there are only two absolutely delightful seats in

a gondola, I was trembling lest the Prince should fall to my unlucky

lot, when Aunt Kathryn called to him, "Oh, do sit with me, please. I

want to ask about your friends who are coming to see us." So of course

he went to her, and Sir Ralph jumped in with Beechy; therefore the

Chauffeulier was obliged to be nice to me, whether he liked or not. We

all kept close together, and soon the three gondolas, following many

others, grouped round a lighted music-barge like a pyramid of

illuminated fruit floating on the canal.

Either the voices were sweet, or they had the effect of being sweet in

the moonlight on the water; but the airs they sang got strangely tangled

with the songs in other barges, so that I longed to unwind one skein of

tunes from another, and wasn't sorry to steal away into the silence at

last.

We were not the only ones who flitted. The black forms of gondolas moved

soundlessly hither and thither on the surface of the dark lagoon, their

single lights like stars in the blue darkness.

Far away twinkled the lamps of the Lido, where Byron and Shelley used to

ride on the lonely sands. Near-by, on the Piazzetta where the twin

columns towered against the silver sky, white bunches of lights

glimmered like magic night-blooming flowers, with bright roots trailing

deep down into the river.

We talked of the countless great ones of the world who had lived and

died in Venice, and loved it well; of Byron, who slept in Marino

Faliero's dreadful cell before he wrote his tragedy; of Browning, whose

funeral had passed in solemn state of gondolas down the Grand Canal; of

Wagner, who found inspiration in this sea and sky, and died looking upon

them from his window in the Palazzo Vendramin. But through our talk I

could hear Aunt Kathryn in her gondola close by, saying how like the

Doge's palace was to a big bird-cage she once had; and the Prince was

continually turning his head to see if we were near, which was

disturbing. We had nothing to say that all the world might not have

heard, yet instinctively we spoke almost in whispers, the Chauffeulier

and I, not to miss a gurgle of the water nor the dip of an oar, which in

the soft darkness made the light flutter of a bird bathing.

I remembered suddenly how Sir Ralph had said one day, "You'll like Terry

in Venice." I did like Terry in Venice; and I liked him better than ever

at the moment of our return to the hotel, for there began a little

adventure of which he became the hero.

As I stepped out of the gondola there was a flash and a splash. "Oh my

gold bag!" I exclaimed. "Your present, Aunt Kathryn. It's in the canal;

I shall never see it again."

"Yes, you will," said Mr. Barrymore. "I--"

"If there was much money in it, you had better have a professional diver

come early to-morrow morning from the Arsenal," the Prince broke in.

"I know an amateur diver who will get back the bag to-night--now, within

the next half-hour I hope," went on the Chauffeulier.

"Indeed? Where do you propose to find him at this time?" asked the

Prince.

"I shall find him inside the hotel, and have him out here, ready for

work in ten minutes," said Mr. Barrymore.

"What fun!" exclaimed Beechy. "We'll wait here in the moonlight and see

him dive. It will be lovely."

Mr. Barrymore was gone before she finished.

It was nearly eleven o'clock. The music-barges had gone; the hotel

garden was deserted, and scarcely a moving star of light glided over the

canal. Our three gondolas, drawn up like carriages at the marble steps

of the Britannia, where the water lapped and gurgled, awaited the great

event. The Prince pooh-poohed the idea that Mr. Barrymore could find a

diver, or that, if he did, the bag could be retrieved in such an

amateurish way. But I had learned that when our Chauffeulier said a

thing could be done, it _would_ be done, and I confidently expected to

see him returning accompanied by some obviously aquatic creature.

What I did see however, was a great surprise. Something moved in the

garden, under the curtain of creepers that draped the nearest

overhanging balcony. Then a tall, marble statue, "come alive," vaulted

over the iron railing and dropped into the lagoon.

It didn't seem at all strange that a marble statue should "come alive"

in Venice; but what did seem odd was that it should exactly resemble Mr.

Barrymore, feature for feature, inch for inch.

"Hullo, Terry, I didn't know you meant to do that!" exclaimed Sir Ralph.

"You _are_ a lightning change artist."

For it was the Chauffeulier, in a bathing suit which he must have

hurriedly borrowed from one of the landlord's tall young sons, and he

was swimming by the side of my gondola.

"I meant nothing else," laughed the statue in the water, the moon

shining into his eyes and on his noble white throat as he swam. "Now,

Miss Destrey, show me exactly how you stood when you dropped your bag,

and I think I can promise that you shall have it again in a few

minutes."

"If I'd dreamed of this I wouldn't have let you do it," I said.

"Why not? I'm awfully happy, and the water feels like warm silk. Is

this where you dropped it? Look out for a little splash, please. I'm

going down."

With that he disappeared under the canal, and stayed down so long that I

began to be frightened. It seemed impossible that any human being could

hold his breath for so many minutes; but just as my anxiety reached

boiling point, up he came, dripping, laughing, his short hair in wet

rings on his forehead, and in his hand, triumphantly held up, the gold

bag.

"I knew where to grope for it, and I felt it almost the first thing," he

said. "Please forgive my wet fingers."

"Why, there's something red on the gold. It's blood!" I stammered,

forgetting to thank him.

"Is there? What a bore! But it's nothing. I grazed the skin of my hands

a little, grubbing about among the stones down there, that's all."

"It's a great deal," I said. "I can't bear to think you've been hurt for

me."

"Why, I don't even feel it," said the Chauffeulier. "It's the bag that

suffers. But you can have it washed."

Yes, I could have it washed. Yet, somehow, it would seem almost

sacrilegious. I made up my mind without saying a word, that I would not

have the bag washed. I would keep it exactly as it was, put sacredly

away in some box, in memory of this night.

XXI

A CHAPTER OF STRANGE SPELLS

"Never since Anne Boleyn has a woman so lost her head over a man with a

title as Mamma over Prince Dalmar-Kalm," said Beechy, after our week at

Venice was half spent. And I wished that, in fair exchange, he would

lose his over Aunt Kathryn instead of wasting time on me, and casting

his shadow on beautiful days.

Roses and lilies appeared on my writing-desk; they were from him.

Specimens of Venetian sweets (crystallized fruits stuck on sticks, like

fat martyrs) adorned large platters on the table by the window--gifts

from the Prince. If I admired the little gargoylish sea-horses, or the

foolish shell ornaments at the Lido, I was sure to find some when I came

home. And the man hinted in whispers that the attentions of the Comte

and Contessa were for me.

All this was annoying though he put it on the grounds of friendship; and

I didn't like the Corraminis, although their influence opened doors that

would otherwise have been closed. Through them we saw the Comte de

Bardi's wonderful Japanese collection of the Palazzo Vendramin, the

finest in the world; through them we had glimpses of the treasures in

more than one old palace; they gave us a picnic dinner in their lighted

gondola, on the lagoon, with many elaborate courses cooked in

chafing-dishes, which the gondoliers served. They took us to Chioggia on

their steam yacht which--it seemed--they must let half the year to

afford the use of it the other half.

The "County" (as Aunt Kathryn pronounces him) must have been handsome

before his good looks were ravaged by small-pox. As it is, Beechy

compares his dark face to a "plum cake, from which somebody has picked

out all the plums;" and the black eyes, deep set in this scarred mask,

gaze out of it with sinister effect. Yet his manner is perfect, witty,

and gracious. He speaks English fluently, and might be of any age

between thirty-five and fifty. As for the Contessa, she has the profile

of a Boadicea (with which I could never feel thoroughly at home if it

were mine) and the walk of a bewitched table, so stout she is, and so

square. Her principal efforts at conversation with me were in praise of

Prince Dalmar-Kalm, so I scarcely appreciated them. Indeed, the

Corraminis repelled me, and I was glad to spare all their distinguished

society to Aunt Kathryn.

Each day in Venice (not counting the hours spent with them and the

Prince) was more wonderful, it seemed, than the day before.

First among my pictures was San Marco, which I went out to see alone

early in the morning, but met Mr. Barrymore as I inquired my way. I

could have wished for that, though I wouldn't have dreamed of asking him

to take me. As we went through the narrow streets of charming shops, we

played at not thinking of what was to come. Then, Mr. Barrymore said

suddenly, "Now you may look." So I did look, and there it was, the

wonder of wonders, more like a stupendous crown of jewels than a church.

Like a queen's diadem, it gleamed in the grey-white Piazza, under the

burning azure dome of the sky.

"Oh, we've found the key of the rainbow, and come close to it!" I cried.

"What a marvel! Can human beings really have made it, or did it make

itself as gems form in the rocks, and coral under the sea?"

"The cornice does look as if it were the spray of the sea, tossing up

precious stones from buried treasures beneath the waves," he answered.

"But you're right. We've got the key of the rainbow, and we can go in."

I walked beside him, awe-struck, as if I were passing under a spell.

There could be no other building so beautiful in the world, and it was

harder than ever to realize that man had created it. The golden mosaic

of the domed roof, arching above the purple-brown of the alabaster

walls, was like sunrise boiling over the massed clouds of a dark

horizon. Light seemed generated by the glitter of that mosaic; and the

small white windows of the dome gained such luminous blues and pale gold

glints, from sky without and opal gleams within, that they were changed

to stars. The pavement was opaline, too, with a thousand elusive tints

and jewelled colours, waving like the sea. It was all I could do not to

touch Mr. Barrymore's arm or hand for sympathy.

We didn't speak as we passed out. I was almost glad when the spell was

broken by the striking of the great, blue clock opposite San Marco, and

the slow procession of the life-size mechanical figures which only open

their secret door on fête days, such as this chanced to be.

Watching the stiff saints go through their genuflexions put me in a good

mood for an introduction to the pigeons, which I longed to have for

friends--strange little stately ruffling things, almost as mechanical in

their strut as the figures of the clock; so metallic, too, in their

lustre, that I could have believed them made of painted iron.

Some wore short grey Eton jackets, with white blouses showing behind;

these were the ladies, and their faces were as different as possible

from those of their lovers. So were the dainty little coral feet, for

alas! the masculine shoes were the pinker and prettier; and the males,

even the baby ones, were absurdly like English judges in wigs and gowns.

It was charming to watch the developments of pigeon love-stories on that

blue-and-gold day, which was my first in the Grand Piazza of San Marco.

How the lady would patter away, and pretend she didn't know that a

rising young judge had his eye upon her! But she would pause and feign

to examine a grain of corn, which I or some one else had thrown, just

long enough to give him a chance of preening his feathers before her,

spreading out his tail, and generally cataloguing his perfections. She

would pretend that this demonstration had no effect upon her heart, that

she'd seen a dozen pigeons within an hour handsomer than he; but the

instant a rival belle chanced (only it wasn't chance really) to hop that

way and offer outrageous inducements to flirtation, she decided that,

after all, he was worth having--and, alas! sometimes decided too late.

That same afternoon Mr. Barrymore took me to the little church of San

Giorgio degli Schiavoni to see the exquisite Carpaccios, because he was

of opinion that Aunt Kathryn and Beechy would prefer to go shopping.

Yet, after all, who should appear there but Beechy and Sir Ralph!

Beechy thought the dragon a delightful beast, with a remarkable eye for

the picturesque, judging from the way in which he had arranged the

remains of his victims; and she was sorry for him, dragged into the

market-place, so pitifully shrunken, beaten, and mortified was he. She

wanted to live in all the mediæval castles of the picture-backgrounds,

and was of opinion that the basilisk's real intentions had been

misunderstood by the general public of his day. "I should love to have

such a comic, trotty beast to lead about in Central Park," said she.

"Why the octopi that the people cook and sell in the streets here now,

are ever so much horrider. One might run away from them, if you like.

Loathsome creatures! I do draw the line at an animal whose face you

can't tell from its--er--waist. And only think of _eating_ them! I'd a

good deal rather eat a basilisk."

Beechy was also convinced--before she crossed the Bridge of Sighs--that

many people, especially Americans, would pay large sums or even commit

crimes, in order to be put in prison at Venice. "Such a lovely

situation," she argued, "and lots of historical associations too." But

afterwards, when she had seen where Marino Faliero lay, and the young

Foscari, she was inclined to change her mind. "Still," she said, "it

would be an experience; and if you couldn't afford to stop at a hotel,

it might be worth trying, if you didn't have to do anything very bad,

and were sure of getting a cell on the canal."

Neither Beechy nor Aunt Kathryn cared much for the churches or the

pictures, so they and Sir Ralph bargained for Venetian point or the lace

of Burano, or went to the glass makers', or had tea at the Lido with the

Corraminis, while Mr. Barrymore took me to the Frari, the Miracoli, and

other churches that he loved best, or wandered with me among the

glorious company of artists at the Accademia, and in the Doges' Palace.

But Beechy did join in my admiration and respect (mingled with a kind of

wondering pity) for the noble army of marble lions in Venice.

Oh, those poor, splendid lions! How sad they look, how bitter is the

expression of their ponderous faces. Especially am I haunted by the

left-hand lion in the Piazza degli Lioni, hard by San Marco. What can

have happened to him, that he should be so despairing? Whatever it was,

he has never got over it, but has concentrated his whole being in one,

eight-century-long howl ever since. He is the most impressive of the

tribe; but there are many others, big and little, all gloomy, sitting

about in Piazzas, or exposed for sale in shops, or squatting on the

railings of balconies. When I think of that fair city in the sea, I

shall often want to run back and try to comfort some of those lions.

Beechy was with me in this; and as for Aunt Kathryn, even the flattering

attentions of the Corraminis did not please her more than our experience

at the antiquaries', which we owed to Mr. Barrymore.

We hadn't been in Venice for twenty-four hours before we saw that the

Chauffeulier knew the place almost as if he had been born there. He was

even well up in the queer, soft Venetian _patois_, with hardly a

consonant left in it, so well up that he announced himself capable of

bandying words and measuring swords with the curiosity-shop keepers, if

we liked to "collect anything."

At first Aunt Kathryn thought that she wouldn't bother; there would be

too much trouble with the custom house at home; but, when Beechy

happened to say what a rare thing a marble well-head or a garden statue

five hundred years old would be considered in Denver, she weakened, and

fell.

The idea popped into Beechy's head just as our gondola (it was towards

the end of our week in Venice) was gliding by a beautiful, shabby old

palace in a side canal.

A canopy of grape-vines, heavy with hanging clusters of emeralds and

here and there an amethyst, shadowed a carved water-gate. Under the

jade-green water gleamed the yellow marble of the steps, waving with

seaweed like mermaids' hair; and in the dim interior behind the open

doors there were vague gleams of gilded chairs, pale glints of statuary,

and rich streaks of colour made by priests' vestments or old altar

hangings.

"I don't believe even Mrs. Potter Adriance has got anything like this in

her house, though they call it so elegant," remarked Beechy.

That speech was to Aunt Kathryn what valerian is to a pussy cat; for

Mrs. Potter Adriance (as I've often heard since I made acquaintance with

my relations) is the leader of Denver society, and is supposed once to

have said with a certain emphasis: "_Who_ are the Kidders?"

"Perhaps I'll just step in and see what they've got here," said Aunt

Kathryn.

"It isn't a cheap place," replied Mr. Barrymore. "This man knows how to

charge. If you want any marbles, he has some fine ones; but for other

things I'll take you somewhere else, where I promise you shall be amused

and not cheated."

"I think our yard at home is big enough for two or three statues; and a

marble well-head and a sundial would be lovely," exclaimed Aunt Kathryn.

"We'll look at some," said Mr. Barrymore, motioning to the gondolier.

"But now, unless you're to pay six times what everything's worth, you

must put yourselves in my hands. Remember, you don't care to glance

either at statues, well-heads, or sun-dials."

"But that's what we're here for!" cried Aunt Kathryn.

"Ah, but the man mustn't guess that for the world! We appear to be

searching for--let's say, mirrors; but not finding the kind we want, we

_may_ deign to look at a few marbles as we pass. We don't fancy the

fellow's stock; still, the things aren't bad; we may decide to save

ourselves the trouble of going further. Whatever you do, don't mention a

price, even in English. Appear bored and indifferent, never pleased or

anxious. When I ask if you're willing to pay so and so, drawl out 'no'

or 'yes' without the slightest change of expression."

As we landed on the wet marble steps and passed into the region of

gilded gleams and pearly glints, our hearts began to beat with

suppressed excitement, as if we were secret plotters, scheming to carry

through some nefarious design.

Immediately on entering, I caught sight of two marble baby lions sitting

on their haunches side by side on the floor with ferocious expressions

on their little carved faces.

"I must have those for myself," I murmured to Mr. Barrymore in a

painfully monotonous voice, as we passed along a narrow aisle between

groves of magnificent antique furniture. "They appeal to me. Fate means

us for each other."

But at this moment an agreeable and well-dressed Italian was bowing

before us. He was the proprietor of the antiques, and he looked more

like a philanthropic millionaire than a person with whom we could haggle

over prices. Without glancing at my lions (I knew they were mine; and

wanted them to know it) or Aunt Kathryn's statues and well-heads, Mr.

Barrymore announced that he would glance about at paintings of old

Venice. What had Signore Ripollo of that sort? Nothing at present? Dear

me, what a pity! Lacquered Japanese temples, then? What, none of those?

Very disappointing. Well, we must be going. Hm! not a bad well-head,

that one with the procession of the Bucentaur in _bas relief_. Too

obviously repaired; still, if Signore Ripollo would take three hundred

lire for it, the thing might be worth picking up. And that little pair

of lions. Perhaps the ladies might think them good enough to keep a door

open with, if they didn't exceed fifteen lire each.

Signore Ripollo looked shocked, but laughed politely. He knew Mr.

Barrymore, and had greeted him on our entrance as an old acquaintance,

though, in his exaggerated Italian way, he gave the Chauffeulier a title

more exalted than Beechy had bestowed.

"Milord will always have his joke; the well-head is two thousand lire;

the lions fifty each," I thought I understood him to remark.

But not at all. Milord was not joking. Would the Signore sell the things

for the price mentioned--yes or no?

The philanthropic millionaire showed now that he was hurt. Why did not

Milord ask him to give away the whole contents of his shop?

After this the argument began to move at express speed, and I would have

lost track of everything had it not been for the gestures, like danger

signals, all along the way. Mr. Barrymore laughed; Signore Ripollo

passed from injured dignity to indignation, then to passion; and there

we sat on early Renaissance chairs, our outward selves icily regular,

splendidly null, our features as hard as those of the stone lions, our

bodies in much the same attitudes, on our uncomfortable seats. But

inwardly we felt like Torturers of the Inquisition, and I knew by Aunt

Kathryn's breathing that she could hardly help exclaiming, "Oh, _do_ pay

the poor man whatever he asks for everything."

"Will you give five hundred lire for the well-head?" Mr. Barrymore

finally demanded, with a reminder of past warnings in his eye.

"Yes," answered Aunt Kathryn languidly, her hands clenched under a lace

boa.

"And will you give twenty lire each for the lions? They are very good."

(This to me, drawlingly.)

"Ye-es," I returned, without moving a muscle.

The offers were submitted to Signore Ripollo, who received them with

princely scorn, as I had felt sure he would, and my heart sank as I saw

my lions vanishing in the smoke of his just wrath.

"Come, we will go; the Signore is not reasonable," said Mr. Barrymore.

We all rose obediently, but our anguish was almost past hiding.

"I can't and won't live without the lions," I remarked in the tone of

one who says it is a fine day.

"I will _not_ leave this place without that well-head, the statue of

Neptune, and the yellow marble sundial," said Aunt Kathryn in a casual

tone which masked a breaking heart.

Nevertheless, Mr. Barrymore continued to lead us towards the door. He

bowed to Signore Ripollo; and by this time we were at the steps of the

water-gate. The gondoliers were ready. Driven to desperation we were

about to protest, when the Italian, with the air of a falsely accused

Doge haled to execution, stopped us. "Have your way, milord, as you

always do," he groaned. "I paid twice more for these beautiful things

than you give me, but--so be it. They are yours."

True to our instructions we dared not betray our feelings; but when the

business had actually been arranged, and our gondola had borne us away

from the much-injured antiquary, Aunt Kathryn broke out at the

Chauffeulier.

"How _could_ you?" she exclaimed. "I never was so sick in my life. That

poor man! You've made us rob him. I shall never be able to hold up my

head again."

"On the contrary, he's delighted," said Mr. Barrymore jauntily. "If we'd

given him what he asked he would have despised us. Now we've earned his

respect."

"Well, I never!" gasped Aunt Kathryn inelegantly, forgetful for the

moment that she was a Countess. "I suppose I can be happy, then?"

"You can, without a qualm," said Mr. Barrymore.

"Where's that other place you spoke of?" she inquired, half-ashamed.

"There's a--a kind of excitement in this sort of thing, isn't there? I

feel as if it might grow on me."

"We'll go to Beppo's," replied the Chauffeulier, laughing.

Beppo was a very different man from Signore Ripollo, nor had he a palace

with a water-gate to show his wares. We left the gondola, and walked up

a dark and narrow rioterrà with coquettish, black-shawled grisettes

chatting at glowing fruit-stalls and macaroni shops. There, at a barred

iron door, Mr. Barrymore pulled a rope which rang a jangling bell. After

a long interval, a little, bent old man in a shabby coat and patched

trousers appeared against a background of mysterious brown shadow. Into

this shadow we plunged, following him, to be led through a labyrinth of

queer passages and up dark stairways to the top of the old, old house.

There, in the strangest room I ever saw, we were greeted by a small

brown woman, as shabby as her husband, and a supernaturally clever black

cat.

A grated window set high up and deep in the discoloured wall, allowed a

few rays of yellow sunlight to fall revealingly upon a motley collection

of antiquities. Empire chairs were piled upon Louis Quinze

writing-desks. Tables of every known period formed a leaning tower in

one corner. Rich Persian rugs draped huge Florentine mirrors; priests'

vestments trailed from half-open chests of drawers. Brass candlesticks

and old Venetian glass were huddled away in inlaid cabinets, and

half-hidden with old illuminated breviaries and pinned rolls of lace.

A kind of madness seized Aunt Kathryn. She must have thought of Mrs.

Potter Adriance, for suddenly she wanted everything she saw, and said

so, _sotto voce_, to Mr. Barrymore.

Then the bargaining began. And there was nothing Dog-like about Beppo.

He laughed high-keyed, sardonic laughter; he scolded, he quavered, he

pleaded, he was finally choked with sobs; while as for his wife, she,

poor little wisplike body, early succumbed to whatever is Venetian for

nervous prostration.

Surely the Chauffeulier could not bear the strain of this agonizing

scene? Our consciences heavy with brass candlesticks and Marquise sofas,

we stood looking on, appalled at his callousness. Beppo and Susanna

cried weakly that this would be their ruin, that we were wringing the

last drops of blood from their hearts, we cruel rich ones, and in

common humanity I would have intervened had the pair not suddenly and

unexpectedly wreathed their withered countenances with smiles.

"What has happened? Are you giving them what they wanted?" I asked

breathlessly; for long ago I had lost track of the conversation.

"No; I promised them twenty lire over my first offer for that whole

lot," said Mr. Barrymore, indicating a heap of miscellaneous articles

reaching half-way to the ceiling, for which, altogether, Beppo had

demanded two thousand lire, and our offer had been seven hundred.

I could have prayed the poor old peoples' forgiveness, but to my

astonishment, as we went out they beamed with pleasure and thanked us

ardently for our generosity.

"Is it sarcasm?" I whispered.

"No, it's pure delight," said Mr. Barrymore. "They've done the best

day's work of the season, and they don't mind our knowing it--now it's

over."

"Human nature is strange," I reflected.

"Especially in antiquarians," he replied.

But we arrived at the hotel feeling weak, and were thankful for tea.

XXII

A CHAPTER BEYOND THE MOTOR ZONE

We all felt when we had said good-bye to Venice that we had a definite

object in view, and there was to be no more pleasant dawdling. It was ho

for Schloss Hrvoya! Aunt Kathryn had suddenly discovered that she was

impatient to see the ancient root from which blossomed her cherished

title, and nothing must delay her by the way.

I should have wondered at her change of mood, and at the Prince's new

enthusiasm for the Dalmatian trip--which, until our arrival in Venice,

he'd tried to discourage--but Beechy explained frankly as usual. It

seemed that Count Corramini (said by Prince Dalmar-Kalm to possess vast

funds of legal knowledge) had intimated that the Countess Dalmar-Kalm

was not rightfully a Countess until every penny was paid for the estate

carrying the title. That same day, without waiting to be asked, she had

given the Prince a cheque for the remaining half of the money. Now if

she finds scarce one stone left upon another at Schloss Hrvoya, she

can't cry off her bargain, so it's easy to understand why the Prince is

no longer anxious. Exactly why he should seem so eager to get us to our

destination is more of a puzzle; but perhaps, as Beechy thinks, it's

because he hopes to influence Aunt Kathryn to rebuild. And certainly he

has influenced her in some way, for she could hardly wait to leave

Venice at the last.

We went as we had come, by water, for we wouldn't condescend to the

railway; and at the landing-place for Mestre our grey automobile stood

waiting for us, so well-cared for and polished that it might just have

come from the makers, instead of having charged at full tilt "up the

airy mountains and down the rushy glens" of half Europe.

It was goddess-like to be in the car again, yet I regretted Venice as

I've regretted no other place I ever saw. Even when there, it seemed too

beautiful to be real, but when we lost sight of its fair towers and

domes, in bowling northward along a level road, I grew sadly convinced

that Venice was a fairy dream.

We saw nothing to console us for what we had lost (though the scenery

had a soft and melancholy charm) until we came to old fortified Treviso,

with its park, and the green river Dante knew, circling its high walls.

At Conegliano--where Cima lived--we ran into the town between its

guardian statues, gave a glance at the splendid old castle which must

have given the gentle painter many an inspiration, and then turned

eastward. There was a shorter way, but the route-book of the Italian

Touring Club which the Chauffeulier pinned his faith to in emergencies,

showed that the surface of the other road was not so good. Udine tried

to copy Venice in miniature, and I loved it for its ambition; but what

interested me the most was to hear from Mr. Barrymore how, on the spot

where its castle stands, Attila watched the burning of Aquileia. That

seemed to take me down to the roots of Venetian history; and I could

picture the panic-stricken fugitives flying to the lagoons, and

beginning to raise the wattled huts which have culminated in the queen

city of the sea. From Udine we went southward; and at the Austrian

custom house, across the frontier, we had to unroll yards of red tape

before we were allowed to pass. Almost at once, when we were over the

border, the scenery, the architecture, and even the people's faces,

changed; not gradually, but with extraordinary abruptness, or so it

seemed to me.

Just before dark we sailed into a great, busy town, with a surprising

number of enormous, absolutely useless-looking buildings. It was

Trieste, Austria's biggest port; and the Prince, who had kept near us

for the hundred and thirty miles from Venice, began to wear an air of

pride in his own country. He wanted us to admire the fine streets and

shops, and made us notice how everywhere were to be seen Greek, Russian,

Polish, French, German, Italian, and even English names. "That proves

what a great trade we do, and how all the world comes to us," he said.

Our hotel was close to the quay, and there were a thousand things of

interest to watch from the windows when we got up next morning, as there

always are in places where the world "goes down to the sea in ships."

At breakfast there was a discussion as to our route, which, owing to

suggestions and counter-suggestions from the Prince, hadn't been

decided. The Chauffeulier wanted to run through Istria and show us

Capodistria (another copy of Venice), Rovigno, and Pola, which he said

had not only a splendid Roman amphitheatre, but many other sights worth

making a détour for. I was fired by his description, for what I've seen

of Northern Italy has stimulated my love for history and the

architecture of the ancients; but Prince Dalmar-Kalm persuaded Aunt

Kathryn that, as the neighbourhood of Cattaro is our goal, it would be a

waste of time to linger on the threshold of Dalmatia.

"Why, a little while ago you thought it stupid to go into Dalmatia at

all," said Beechy. "You warned us we'd have trouble about petrol, about

roads, about hotels, about everything."

"I have been talking since with Corramini," replied the Prince

unruffled. "He has motored through the country we are going to, and I

see from his accounts, that the journey is more feasible than I had

thought, knowing the way as I did, only from a yacht."

"Funny he should be more familiar with the country than you, as you've

got a castle there," Beechy soliloquized aloud.

"I make no secret that I have never lived at Hrvoya," the Prince

answered. "Neither I, nor my father before me. The house where I was

born is at Abbazzia. That is why I want you to go that way. It is no

longer mine; but I should like you to see it, since you cannot at

present see Schloss Kalm, near Vienna."

"You seem so fond of selling your houses, why don't you offer Mamma the

one near Vienna, if it's the best?" persisted naughty Beechy.

"I could not sell it if I would," smiled the Prince, who for some reason

is almost always good-natured now. "And if I offer it to a lady, she

must be the Princess Dalmar-Kalm."

I felt that a glance was thrown to me with these words, but I looked

only at my plate.

The conversation ended by the Prince getting his way, as he had made

Aunt Kathryn think it _her_ way: and we gave up Istria. Soon after ten

we were _en route_ for Abbazzia--close to Fiume--slanting along the neck

of the Istrian peninsula by a smooth and well-made road that showed the

Austrians were good at highways.

It was but thirty miles from sea to sea, and so sweetly did the car run,

so little were we troubled by cantankerous creatures of any sort, that

we descended from high land and before twelve o'clock ran into as

perfect a little watering place as can exist on earth.

Aunt Kathryn was prepared to like Abbazzia before she saw it, because it

was the scene of Prince Dalmar-Kalm's birth, and also because she'd been

told it was the favourite resort of Austrian aristocracy. I hadn't

listened much, because I had clung to the idea of visiting historic

Pola; but Abbazzia captured me at first glance.

Everywhere was beauty and peace. The Adriatic spread itself pure and

clean as a field of spring flowers, and as full of delicate changing

colour. Away on a remote horizon--remote as all trouble and worry

seemed, in this fair spot--hovered islands, opaline and shimmering, like

a mirage. Nearer rose a stretch of green hills, travelling by the

seashore until they fell back for Fiume, a white town veiled with a

light mist of smoke.

But for Abbazzia itself, it seemed the most unconventional pleasure

place I ever knew. Instead of a smart "parade" all along the rocky

indentations which jutted into or receded from the sea, ran a winding

rustic path, tiny blue waves crinkling on one side; on the other,

fragrant groves of laurel, olives, magnolias, and shady chestnut-trees.

We walked there, after lunching at quite a grand hotel, which, the

Prince told Aunt Kathryn, was full of "crowned heads" in winter and

earlier spring. Nowhere else have I seen the beauty of sea and shore so

exquisitely mingled as on this path overhanging the Adriatic, nor have I

smelled more heavenly smells, even at Bellagio. There was the salt of

the sea, the rank flavour of seaweed, mingled with the sharp fragrance

of ferns, of young grass, of budding trees, and all sweet, woodsy

things.

Along the whole length of the gay, quaint town, ran the beautiful path,

winding often like a twisted ribbon, but never leaving the sea. Behind

it, above and beyond, was the unspoiled forest only broken enough for

the cutting of shaded streets, and the building of charming houses,

their fronts half windows and the other half balconies.

The dark rocks starred with flowers to the water's edge, looked as if

there had been a snow-storm of gulls, while the air was full of their

wistful cries, and the singing of merry land birds that tried to cheer

them.

Each house by the sea (the one where Prince Dalmar-Kalm first saw the

light, among others) had its own bathing place, and pretty young girls

laughed and splashed in the clear water. Up above, in the town, were

public gardens, many hotels, theatres, and fascinating shops displaying

embroideries and jewelry from Bosnia, which made me feel the nearness of

the East as I hadn't felt it before, even in Venice.

We could not tear ourselves away in the afternoon, but spent hours in a

canopied boat, dined in the hotel garden, and bathed in the creamy sea

by late moonlight, the Chauffeulier giving me a lesson in swimming. Aunt

Kathryn grudged the time, but we overruled her, and atoned by promising

to go on each day after this to the bitter end, whatever that might be.

Next morning, by way of many hills and much fine scenery we travelled

towards a land beyond the motor zone. Though the roads were good enough,

if steep sometimes, judging by the manners of animals four-legged and

two-legged, automobiles were unknown. Only children were not surprised

at us; but then, children aren't easily surprised by new things, I've

noticed. They have had so few experiences to found impressions on, that

I suppose they would think a fiery chariot nothing extraordinary, much

less a motor-car. The costumes began to change from ordinary European

dress to something with a hint of the barbaric in it. Here and there we

would see a coarse-featured face as dark as that of a Mongolian, or

would hear a few curious words which the Chauffeulier said were Slavic.

The biting, alkaline names of the small Dalmatian towns through which we

ran seemed to shrivel our tongues and dry up our systems. There was much

thick, white dust, and, to the surprise of the amateurs of the party, we

once or twice had "side slip" in it.

How we hated the "mended" roads with their beds of stone, though near

rivers they were not so bad, as the pebbles instead of being sharp were

naturally rounded. But Aunt Kathryn wouldn't hear a word against the

country, which was _her_ country now. Once, when the cylinders refused

to work, for some reason best known to themselves or the evil spirits

that haunt them, we were "hung up" for twenty minutes, and surrounded

with strange, dark children from a neighbouring hamlet, Aunt Kathryn

insisted on giving each a coin of some sort, and received grinning

acknowledgments with the air of a crowned queen. "I daresay I shall have

tenants and retainers like these people," said she, with a wave of her

hand.

For a part of our journey down the narrow strip of strange coast, we had

on one side a range of stony mountains; on the other, only a little way

across the sea, lay desolate islands rising in tiers of pink rock out of

the milk-white Adriatic. But before long we lost the sea and the lonely

islands; for at a place named Segna our road turned inland and climbed a

high mountain--the Velebit--at whose feet we had been travelling.

As we were trying to make a run of more than a hundred and twenty-five

miles--a good deal for a heavily-loaded car of twelve horse-power--the

Chauffeulier kept the automobile constantly going "for all she was

worth." He had planned that we should spend the night at the sea-coast

town of Zara--that place so inextricably tangled up in Venetian

history--for there we might find a hotel fit to stop at.

About midday we lunched at a mean town called Gospic, and vast was the

upheaval that our advent caused.

As we drove in, looking right and left for the cleanest inn, every

able-bodied person under seventy and several considerably over ran to

follow, their figures swarming after us as a tail follows a comet. At

the door of our chosen lunching-place they surged round the car,

pressing against us, and even plucking at our dresses as we pushed

through into the house. Spray from this human wave tossed into the

passage and eating-room in our wake, until the burly innkeeper, his

large wife, and two solid handmaidens swept it out by sheer weight.

Mr. Barrymore was afraid to leave the car, lest it should be damaged, so

he sat in it, eating bread and cheese with imperturbable good humour,

though every mouthful he took was watched down his throat by a hundred

eager eyes.

The landlord waited upon us himself, and could speak German and Italian

as well as his own Croatian or Slavish dialect. We were surprised at the

goodness of the luncheon, and Sir Ralph was surprised at the cheapness

of the bill. "It will be different when they've turned this coast into

the Austrian Riviera, as they 're trying to do," he said.

When we appeared at the door again, ready to go on, there fell a heavy

silence on the Chauffeulier's audience. Not only had they had the

entertainment of watching him feed, but had observed with fearful awe

the replenishing of the petrol and water-tanks and examination of the

lubricators. Now they had the extra pleasure of seeing us put on our

motor-masks and take our places. When all was ready Mr. Barrymore seized

the starting handle, and gave it the one vigorous twist which wakes the

engine when it is napping. But almost for the first time the motor was

refractory. The handle recoiled so violently and unexpectedly that the

Chauffeulier staggered back and trod on the toes of the fat man of the

crowd, while at the same time there burst from the inner being of the

car a loud report. At this sign of the motor's power and rebellion

against him whom it should have obeyed, the audience uttered cries,

scattering right and left, so as to leave a large ring round the

automobile which before had not had room to breathe.

"Misfire, that's all," said Mr. Barrymore, laughing and showing his nice

white teeth in a comforting way he has when anything alarming has

happened. Next instant the motor was docile as a lamb; the engine began

to purr; the Chauffeulier jumped to his seat, and, followed by a vast

sigh from the crowd, we darted away at thirty miles an hour.

The rest of the day was a changing dream of strange impressions, which

made Aunt Kathryn feel as if Denver were at least a million miles away.

We climbed once more up to the heights of the Velebit, seeing from among

the dark, giant pines which draped it in mourning, the great forests of

Croatia, Lika, and Krabava, with their conical mountains, and far off

the chains of Bosnia. Then, at a bound, we leaped into sight of the

Adriatic again and sped down innumerable _lacets_ overlooking the

beautiful land-locked sea of Novigrad, to tumble at last upon the little

town of Obrovazzo. Thence we flew on, over an undulating road, towards

Dalmatia's capital, Zara.

Just as anachronistic electric lights had shown us the way through

curiously Italian streets, with beautifully ornamented windows, past a

noble Corinthian column and out onto a broad space by the sea, without a

warning sigh the automobile stopped.

"Our last drop of petrol!" exclaimed Mr. Barrymore. "Lucky it didn't

give out before, as I began to be afraid it might, owing to the hills."

"By Jove! this doesn't look the sort of town to buy food and drink for

motors!" remarked Sir Ralph ruefully.

The Chauffeulier laughed. "Ours won't starve," said he. "I thought you

knew I'd ordered tins of petrol to meet us at every big town, for fear

of trouble. It will come down by boat, and I shall find the Zara lot

waiting for me at the Austrian Lloyd's storehouse. You'd have remembered

that arrangement if your wits hadn't been wool-gathering a bit lately."

"I wonder if they have?" soliloquized Sir Ralph. "Well, here we are

within three yards of a hotel which, if I've any brains left, is the

very one you selected from Baedeker."

We all got out as if we had stopped on purpose, and the hotel which Fate

and our Chauffeulier had chosen proved very fair, though too modern to

be in the picture.

If the automobile had flashed us to Mars things could hardly have been

more unfamiliar to our eyes than when we walked out next morning to find

ourselves in the midst of a great fête.

Flags were everywhere: in arched windows, rich with sculptured stone;

flying over the great gates of the city; festooned in the charming

little houses with fountain courts surrounded by columns. The peasants

of the country round had flocked to town for the holiday. Dark,

velvet-eyed girls in short dresses of bright-coloured silk heavy with

gold embroidery, their hair hidden by white head-dresses flashing with

sequins, and tall men in long frock coats of dark crimson or yellow,

were exactly like a stage crowd in some wonderful theatre; while

handsome Austrian officers wearing graceful blue cloaks draped over one

shoulder, might have been operatic heroes.

There was strange music in the streets, and a religious procession,

which we followed for some time on our way to the maraschino factory

which Mr. Barrymore said we must see. Of course, some monks had invented

the liqueur, as they always do, but perhaps the cherries which grow only

among those mountains, and can't be exported, had as much to do with

the original success of the liqueur as the existence of the recipe.

If Aunt Kathryn had listened to Mr. Barrymore and me we would have gone

from Zara inland to a place called Knin, to visit the cataract of Krka,

described as a combination of Niagara and the Rhine Falls. But she said

that the very sound of the names would make a cat want to sneeze, and

she was sure she would take her death of cold there. So the proposal

fell to the ground, and we kept to the coast route, the shortest way of

getting to Ragusa and Cattaro.

When we had climbed out of Zara by the old post road, begun by Venice

and finished by Austria, our way lay among the famous cherry-trees which

have made Zara rich. There were miles of undulating country and fields

of wheat, interspersed with vines and almond trees which mingled with

the cherries. The pastures where sheep and goats grazed were blue and

pink with violets and anemones; here and there was an old watch-tower,

put up against the Turks; and the rich peasants drove in quaint flat

chaises, which looked as if the occupants were sitting in large

pancakes.

With a motor it was not far to Sebenico, which called itself modestly a

"little Genoa;" and it was so pretty, lying by the sea, with its

narrowest streets climbing up a hill to an ancient fortress, that I

should have loved to linger, but Aunt Kathryn was for pushing on; and,

of course, it is her trip, so her wishes must be obeyed when they can't

be directed into other channels. We stopped only long enough for an

omelette, and passed on after a mere glimpse of close-huddled houses

(with three heads for every window, staring at the motor) and a

cathedral with an exquisite doorway. Then we were out of the town,

spinning on through the wild, unreal-looking country towards Spalato.

"What new ground for honeymooners!" exclaimed Sir Ralph, enchanted with

everything, in his half-boyish, half-cynical way. "I shall recommend it

in _The Riviera Sun_ for a wedding trip _en automobile_. Shouldn't you

like to do it, Miss Beechy--dawdling, not scorching?"

"I think when I get married," Beechy replied judicially, "I shan't want

to _go_ anywhere. I shall just _stay_ somewhere for a change."

"It's early to decide," remarked Sir Ralph.

"I don't know. It's always well to be prepared," said Beechy, with the

enigmatical look she sometimes puts on, which (in spite of her

ankle-short dresses and knee-long tails of hair) makes her appear at

least sixteen.

Beyond Sebenico the Dalmatian landscape frowned upon us, but we liked

its savage mood. The road, winding inland, was walled with mountains

which might have struck a chill to the heart of Childe Roland on his way

to find the Dark Tower. On a rocky shoulder here and there crouched a

sinister little hamlet, like a black cat huddling into the neck of a

witch. Sometimes, among the stony pastures where discouraged goats

browsed discontentedly, we would spy a human inhabitant of one of those

savage haunts--a shepherd in a costume more strange than picturesque,

with a plait of hair almost as long as Beechy's, hanging down his

back--a sullen, Mongolian-faced being, who stared or scowled as we flew

by, his ragged dog too startled by the rush of the motor even to bark,

frozen into an attitude of angry amazement at his master's feet. One

evidence only of modern civilization did we see--the railway from

Sebenico to Spalato, the first we had come near in Dalmatia; and we

congratulated ourselves that we were travelling by automobile instead.

No tunnels to shut out some wonderful view, just as our eyes had

focussed on it, no black smoke, no stuffy air, no need to think of time

tables!

When at last we sighted the Adriatic again, a surprise awaited us. The

land of desolation lay behind; beyond, a land of beauty and full summer.

We ran beside an azure sea, transparent as gauze, fringing a tropical

strand; and so came into the little town of Trau, which might have been

under a spell of sleep since mediæval days. Its walls and gates, its

ornate houses, its fort and Sanmicheli tower, all set like a mosaic of

jewels in a ring of myrtles, oleanders, and laurels, delighted our

eyes; and the farther we went on the way to Spalato, keeping always by

the glittering sea, the more beautiful grew the scene. The walls along

our road were well-nigh hidden with agaves and rosemary. Cacti leered

impudently at us; palms and pomegranates made the breeze on our faces

whisper of the south and the east. Not a place we passed that I would

not have loved to spend a month in, studying in the carved stones of

churches and ruined castles the history of Venetian rule, or the wild

romance of Turkish raids.

Spalato we reached at sunset, as the little waves which creamed against

the pink rocks were splashed with crimson; and Spalato was by far the

most imposing place Dalmatia had shown us yet. As in Italy, the ancient

and modern towns held themselves apart from one another, as if there

could be no sympathy between the two, though the new houses were pushing

and would have encroached now and then if they could. We stayed all

night; and by getting up at sunrise Beechy and I, with Mr. Barrymore and

Sir Ralph, had time for a glimpse of Diocletian's palace, grand in

ruinous desolation.

Still we went on beside the sea, and from Spalato to Almissa--sheltered

under high rocks at the mouth of a river, was a splendid run leading us

by the territory of an ancient peasant republic--Poljica; one of those

odd little self-governing communities, like San Marino, which have

flourished through troubled centuries under the very noses of great

powers. Poljica had had its Jeanne d'Arc, who performed wondrous feats

of valour in wars against the Turks, and I bought a charming little

statuette of her.

At Almissa we bade good-bye to the blue water for a while to run by the

banks of the Cetina, a big and beautiful river; for the range of the

Biokovo Hills had got between us and the sea; but we threaded our way

out to it again, after switchbacking up and down an undulating road

close to the frontier of Herzegovina; and at the end of a wonderful day

descended upon a harbour in an almost land-locked basin of water. It was

Gravosa, the port of Ragusa, still hidden by an intervening tongue of

land. It was a gay scene by the quay, where native coasting ships were

unloading their queer cargoes. Dark-faced porters in rags carried on

their shoulders enormous burdens; men in loose knickerbockers,

embroidered shirts, and funny little turbans lounged about, and stared

at us as if they were every-day people and we extraordinary. And the

setting for the lively picture was the deeply-indented bay, surrounded

with quaintly pretty houses among vineyards and olive groves, which

climbed terrace after terrace to a mountainous horse-shoe, hemming in

the port.

All this we saw in the moment or two that we halted by the quay, before

turning up the road to Ragusa. It was a mile-long road, and like a

pleasure garden all the way, with the whiteness of wild lilies flung

like snow drifts against dark cedars, and trails of marvellous roses,

strangely tinted with all shades of red and yellow from the palest to

the deepest, clambering among the branches of umbrella pines. There were

villas, too, with pergolas, and two or three dignified old houses of

curious architecture, of which we had a flashing glimpse through

doorways in enormous walls.

We bounded up the saddle of a hill, then down again, and so came to a

charming hotel, white, with green verandahs, set in a park that was half

a garden. We were to spend the night and go on next day, after seeing

the town; but the Chauffeulier said that we should not see it to the

same advantage by morning light as in this poetic flush of sunset. So

after greeting Signore Bari and his sister, who were painting in the

park, we drove on, through a crowded _place_ where music played, crossed

a moat, and were swallowed by the long shadow of the city gate, black

with a twisted draping of ancient ivy.

A throng of loungers, theatrically picturesque, fell back in

astonishment to give us passage, and a moment later we were caught in a

double row of fortifications with a sharp and difficult turn through a

second gate. It was almost like a trap for a motor-car, but we got out,

and sprang at the same instant into the main street of a town that

might have been built to please the fancy of some artist-tyrant.

"It's a delicious mixture of Carcassonne and Verona set down by the sea,

with something of Venice thrown in, isn't it?" said Mr. Barrymore: and I

thought that part of the description fitted, though I had to be told

about splendid, fortified Carcassonne with its towering walls and

bastions, before I fully understood the simile.

"Yes, a Verona and Venice certainly," I answered, "with a sunny coast

like that of the French Riviera, and inhabited by people of the Far

East."

I think one might search the world over in vain to find just such

another fascinating street as that broad street of Ragusa, with its

exquisitely proportioned buildings that gave one a sense of gladness,

the extraordinary great fountain, the miniature palace of the Doges, the

noble churches and the colourful shops brilliant with strange,

embroidered costumes exposed for sale, Eastern jewelry, and quaint,

ferocious-looking weapons. And then, the queer signs over the shops, how

they added to the bewildering effect of unreality! Many of the letters

were more like hooks and eyes, buckles and bent pins, than respectable

members of an alphabet, even a foreign one. And the people who sold, and

the people who bought, were more wonderful than the shops themselves.

There were a few ordinary Europeans, though it was past the season now;

and plenty of handsome young Austrian officers in striking uniforms,

pale blue and bright green; but the crowd was an embroidered, sequined,

crimson and silver, gold and azure crowd, with here and there a

sheepskin coat, the brown habit of a monk, and the black veil of a nun.

Through half-open doorways we peeped into courtyards where fountains

flashed a diamond spray, all pink with sunset, between arcaded columns.

We saw the cathedral planted on the site of the chapel where Richard

Coeur de Lion worshipped; then, wheeling at the end of the street, we

returned as we had come while the rose-pink air was full of chiming

church bells and cries of gulls, whose circling wings were stained with

sunset colour.

Altogether this day had been one of the best days of my life. So good a

day, that it had made me sad; for I thought as I leaned on the rail of

my balcony after dinner, there could not be many days so radiant in my

life to come. Many thoughts came to me there, in the scented darkness,

and they were all tinged with a vague melancholy.

There was no moon, but the high dome of the sky was crusted with stars,

that flashed like an intricate embroidery of diamonds on velvet. From

the garden the scent of lilies came up with the warm breeze, so

poignant-sweet that it struck at my heart, and made it beat, beat with a

strange tremor in the beating that was like vague apprehension, and a

kind of joy as strange and as inexplicable.

Far away in the _place_ some one was singing a wild, barbaric air, with

a wonderful voice that had in its _timbre_ the same quality the lilies

had in their fragrance. For some reason that I didn't understand, my

whole spirit was in a turmoil, yet nothing had happened. What was the

matter? What did it mean? I couldn't tell. But I wanted to be happy. I

wanted something from life that it had never given, never would give,

perhaps. There was a voice down below in the garden--Mr. Barrymore

talking to Sir Ralph. I listened for an instant, every nerve tingling as

if it were a telegraph wire over which a question had been sent, and an

answer was coming. The voice died away. Suddenly my eyes were full of

tears; and surprised and frightened, I turned quickly to go in through

my open window, but something caught my dress and drew me back.

"Maida!" said another voice, which I knew almost as well as that other I

had heard--and lost.

Prince Dalmar-Kalm had come out of a window onto a balcony next mine,

and leaning over the railing had snatched at a fold of my gown.

"Let me go, please," I said. "And that name is not for you."

"Don't say that," he whispered, holding me fast, so that I could not

move. "It must be for me. _You_ must be for me. You shall. I can't live

without you."

His words jarred so upon my mood that I could have struck him.

"If you don't let me go, I'll cry out," I said, in a tone as low as his,

but quivering with anger. "I would be nothing to you if you were the

last man in the world."

"Very well. I _will_ be the last man in your world. Then--we shall see,"

he answered; and dropped my dress.

In another instant, I was in my room and had fastened the shutters. But

the words rang in my ears, like a bell that has tolled too loud.

XXIII

A CHAPTER OF KIDNAPPING

Beechy was ill next morning; nothing serious; but the Prince, it seemed,

had brought her in the evening a box of some rich Turkish confection;

and though she doesn't care for the man, she couldn't resist the sweet

stuff. So she had eaten, only a little, she said; but the box

contradicted her, and the poor child kept her bed.

Aunt Kathryn and I were with her until eleven o'clock. Then she was

sleepy, and told us to go away. So we went, and took a drive to the

pretty harbour of Gravosa, with Mr. Barrymore and Sir Ralph in the

motor, unaccompanied by the Prince, whose car was said to be somehow

disabled.

We expected, if Beechy were well, to get on next day; but the

Chauffeulier was troubled about the road between Ragusa and Cattaro--and

no proper "route-book" existing for that part of the world, unexplored

by motors, he could find out surprisingly little from any one. Prince

Dalmar-Kalm was as ignorant as others, or appeared to be, although this

was his own land; and so it seemed doubtful what would be our next

adventure.

The spin was a very short one, for the day was hot, and we didn't care

to leave Beechy long alone. But when we came back she was asleep still;

and I was getting rid of my holland motor-coat in my own room when Aunt

Kathryn tapped at the door. "Don't take off your things," she said, "but

come out again--that's a dear--for a drive to Gravosa."

"We've just come back from Gravosa," I answered, surprised.

"Yes, but we didn't see the most interesting thing there. You know the

yacht standing out at a little distance in the harbour, that I said

looked like the Corraminis'? Well, it _is_ the Corraminis'. The Prince

wants us to drive with him--not on the automobile, for it isn't mended

yet, but in a cab, and go on board the yacht for lunch with the County

and Contessa."

"Oh, you'd better go without me," I said.

Aunt Kathryn pouted like a child. "I can't," she objected. "The Prince

_says_ I can't, for it would be misunderstood here if a lady drove out

alone with a gentleman. Do come."

"I suppose I shall have to, then," I answered ungraciously, for I hated

going. At the last minute little Airole darted after me, and to save the

trouble of going back I caught him up in my arms. I was rewarded for the

sacrifice I had made by being let alone during the drive. The Prince was

all devotion to Aunt Kathryn, and scarcely spoke a word to me.

At the harbour there was a little boat sent out from the Corraminis'

"Arethusa" to fetch us, so it was evident that we had been expected and

this was not an impromptu idea of the Prince's.

On board the yacht, which we had visited once or twice in Venice, Count

Corramini met us, his scarred face smiling a welcome.

"I am more than sorry that my wife is suddenly indisposed," he said, in

his careful English. "She is subject to terrible headaches, but she

sends messages and begs that Countess Dalmar will take the head of the

table in her absence."

We lunched almost at once, and as it was a simple meal, finished soon.

Coffee was served on deck under the awning, and its shadow was so cool,

the air so fresh on the water, and the harbour so lovely that I was

growing contented, when suddenly I grew conscious of a throb, throb of

the "Arethusa's" heart.

"Why, we're moving!" I exclaimed.

"A short excursion the Prince and I have arranged for a little

surprise," explained Count Corramini. "We hoped it might amuse you. You

do not object, Countess?"

"I think it will be lovely, this hot afternoon," said Aunt Kathryn, who

was radiant with childish pleasure in the exclusive attentions of the

two men.

"But poor little Beechy!" I protested.

"Probably she will sleep till late, as she couldn't lunch," said Aunt

Kathryn comfortably. "And if she wakes, the 'other Beatrice' as she

calls Signorina Bari, will sit with her. She offered to, you know."

I raised no further objection to the plan, as evidently Aunt Kathryn was

enjoying herself. But when we had steamed out of the Bay of Ombla, far

away from Ragusa's towering fortifications, and on for more than an

hour, I ventured to suggest to Count Corramini that it was time to turn

back. "We shan't get to the hotel till after three, as it is," I said,

glancing at my watch.

"Let us consult the Countess," he replied. "Here she comes now."

Aunt Kathryn and the Prince had left us twenty minutes before, to stroll

up and down the deck, and had been leaning over the rail for some time,

talking in low voices, but with great earnestness. As the Count answered

me, they had moved and were coming slowly in our direction, Aunt Kathryn

looking excited, as if the Prince had been saying something strange.

"Don't you think we ought to go back to Beechy?" I asked, as she came

nearer.

She sat down in the deck chair without replying for a moment, and then

she said, in an odd, quavering tone, "Maida, I've just heard a thing

from the Prince, that I'll have to talk to you about. County, can I take

her into the sallong?"

The Count jumped up. "It is for Dalmar-Kalm and me to go, if you wish to

speak with Mees Destrey alone," he exclaimed. And laying his hand on the

Prince's shoulder, the two men walked away together.

My only thought was that Prince Dalmar-Kalm must have told Aunt Kathryn

of my refusal and asked her to "use her influence." But her first words

showed me that I was mistaken.

"I'm very angry with the Prince, but I can't help thinking what he's

done is romantic. He and the County have _kidnapped_ us."

"What do you mean?" I exclaimed.

"Oh, you needn't look so horrified. They're only taking us to Cattaro by

yacht instead of our going by automobile, that's all."

"All?" I echoed. "It's the most impudent thing I ever heard of. Didn't

you tell him that you wouldn't go, that you--"

"Well, I'd like to know what good my saying _'Wouldn't'_ could do? I

can't stop the yacht."

"It's Count Corramini's yacht, not the Prince's," I said, "and whatever

else they may be, they're gentlemen, at least by birth. They can't run

off with us like this against our wills."

Aunt Kathryn actually chuckled. "Well, they _have_, anyhow," she

retorted. "And the Prince says, if only we knew what the road to Cattaro

was like, I'd thank instead of scolding him."

"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "We must go back. What's to become of Beechy

left alone in Ragusa ill, with nobody but Mr. Barrymore and Sir Ralph to

look after her? It's monstrous!"

"Yes, of course," said Aunt Kathryn, more meekly. "But Signorina Bari's

there. It isn't so dreadful, Maida. Beechy isn't _very_ sick. She'll be

well to-morrow, and when they find we're gone, which they can't till

late this afternoon, they won't waste time motoring down; they'll take a

ship which leaves Ragusa in the morning for Cattaro. The Prince says

they're sure to. We'll all meet by to-morrow noon, and meanwhile I guess

there's nothing for us to do but make the best of the joke they've

played on us. Anyway, it's an exciting adventure, and you like ad--"

"You call it a joke!" I cried. "I call it something very different. Let

me speak to the Prince."

I sprang up, forgetting poor Airole asleep on my lap, but Aunt Kathryn

scrambled out of her low chair also, and snatched my dress. "No, I'm not

going to have you insult him," she exclaimed. "You shan't talk to him

without me. He's _my_ friend, not yours, and if I choose to consider

this wild trick he's playing more a--a compliment than anything else,

why, it won't hurt you. As for Beechy, she's _my_ child, not yours."

This silenced me for the moment, but only until the men appeared. "Are

we forgiven?" asked the Prince.

"Maida's very angry, and so am I, of course," replied Aunt Kathryn,

bridling, and showing both dimples.

"Dear ladies," pleaded the Count, "I wouldn't have consented to help

this mad friend of mine, if he hadn't assured me that you were too much

under the influence of your rather reckless chauffeur, who would

probably break your bones and his companion's car, in his obstinate

determination to go down to Cattaro by motor."

"Why, lately the Prince has been encouraging it!" I interrupted.

"Ah, you have misunderstood him. A wilful fool must have his way; that

was what he thought of your gentleman chauffeur, no doubt. This will

give the self-willed young man an excuse to take the boat to Cattaro

to-morrow. You will have a run on Dalmar-Kalm's motor (which he has put

on board on purpose) this afternoon from Cattaro to Schloss Hrvoya. It

will not be serious for Miss Beechy. You can wire, and get her answer

that Signorina Bari is playing nurse and chaperon very nicely."

"You must understand, Miss Destrey, as I have made the Countess

understand already," put in Prince Dalmar-Kalm, "that I only chose this

course because I knew it would be useless trying to dissuade Mr.

Chauffeur Barrymore from attempting the trip by road; but this will

effectually stop him."

"You are very, very naughty, Prince," chattered Aunt Kathryn; and I was

so angry with her for her frivolity and vanity that I should hardly have

dared to speak, even if words hadn't failed me.

"At least, we have thought of your comfort," said Count Corramini.

"There are two cabins ready for your occupation, with everything you

will need for the toilet, so that you can sleep in peace after your trip

to Hrvoya."

"I must protest," I said, just able to control my voice. "I think this

an abominable act, not worthy of gentlemen. Knowing that one of us feels

so strongly, Count, won't you order your yacht to turn back to Ragusa?"

He bowed his head, and shrugged his eyebrows. "If I had not given my

word to my friend," he murmured. "For to-day "Arethusa" is his."

"I believe he's bribed you!" the words sprang from my lips, without my

meaning to speak them; but they hit their mark as if I had taken close

aim. The scarred features flushed so painfully that they seemed to

swell; and with the lightning that darted from under the black

thundercloud of his brows, the man was hideous. He bit his lip to keep

back an angry answer, and Aunt Kathryn screamed at me, "Maida! I'm

_ashamed_ of you. You'd better go to your cabin and not come out till

you're in a--a more _ladylike_ frame of mind."

I took her at her word and walked sharply away with Airole trotting at

my heels.

There were six cabins on "Arethusa", as I knew, because I had been shown

them all. I knew also which was Count Corramini's, which his wife's,

which her maid's, and which were reserved for guests. Now I walked into

one of the spare cabins, of which the door stood open, and whether it

was meant for me or for Aunt Kathryn I wasn't in a mood to care.

Various toilet things had been ostentatiously laid out, and there was a

bunch of roses in a glass, which in my anger I could have tossed out of

the window; but I hate people who are cruel to flowers almost as much as

those who are cruel to animals, and the poor roses were the only

inoffensive things on board.

"Oh, Airole," I said, "she takes it as a _compliment_!

Well--well--_well_!"

My own reflections and the emphasis of Airole's tiny tail suddenly

brought my anger down from boiling point to a bubbly simmer; and I went

on, thrashing the matter out in a conversation with the dog until the

funny side of the thing came uppermost. There was a _distinctly_ funny

side, seen from several points of view, but I didn't intend to let

anybody know that I saw it. I made up my mind to stay in the cabin

indefinitely; but it was not necessary to the maintenance of dignity

that I should refrain from enjoying as much of the scenery as the

porthole framed in a picture. Accordingly I knelt on the bed, looking

out, too excited to tire of the strained position.

We had passed a long tongue of land, beaten upon by white rollers of

surf, that seemed as if they strove to overwhelm the old forts set far

above their reach. A rocky island too, rising darkly out of a golden

sea; and then we entered the mouth of a wonderful bay, like the pictures

of Norwegian fords. As we steamed on, past a little town protected by a

great square-towered, fortified castle, high on a precipitous rock, I

guessed by the formation of the bay, which Mr. Barrymore had shown me on

a map, that we were in the famous Bocche di Cattaro.

"Yes," I told myself, "that must be Castelnuovo. Mr. Barrymore said the

bay was like the Lake of Lucerne, with its starfish arms. This can't be

anything else."

The yacht glided under the bows of two huge warships, with officers in

white, on awninged decks, and steamed into a long canal-like stretch of

water, only to wind out again presently into a second mountain-ringed

bay. So we went from one to another, passing several pretty towns, one

beautiful one which I took to be Perasto, if I remembered the name

aright, and two exquisite islands floating like swans on the shining

water, illuminated by the afternoon sun. Then, at last we were slowing

down within close touch of as strange a seaside place as could be in the

world. Close to the water's edge it crept, but climbed high on the rocks

behind the houses of the foreground, with a dark belt of ancient wall

circling the lower town and upper town, and finishing at the top with

fortifications marvellous enough for a dream. In the near background

were green hills; but beyond, towered desolate grey mountains crowned

with dazzling snow, and on their rugged faces was scored a tracery of

white lines seemingly scratched in the rock. I knew that they must mean

the twistings of a road, up and up to the junction of mountain and sky,

but the wall of grey rock looked so sheer, so nearly perpendicular, that

it was impossible to imagine horses, or even automobiles mounting there.

In my interest and wonder as to whether we had arrived at Cattaro

already I had forgotten my injuries for the moment, until I was reminded

of them by Aunt Kathryn's voice.

"It's Cattaro," she called through the door. "Let me in, please. I've

something to say."

I slipped back the bolt and she came in hurriedly, as if she were afraid

of being kept out after all.

"See here, Maida," she said, "to save time the Prince is having his

motor put on shore the minute we get in to the quay, and he'll drive us

up to Schloss Hrvoya this afternoon. It's only four o'clock, and he

says, though it's away up in the mountains and we'll be two hours

getting there, we shall run down in half the time, so we shall be back

soon after seven and can dine on board. It's quite appropriate that I

should be with the Prince, whose ancestral home it was, when I look on

Hrvoya first. He's fully persuaded me of that. I think the whole thing's

most dramatic, and I do hope you won't spoil it by being disagreeable

any longer."

"I think you're the--the _unwisest_ woman I ever saw!" I couldn't help

exclaiming.

"Well, I think _you're_ very rude. I do believe you're jealous of me

with the Prince. That's _his_ idea, anyway, though he'd be vexed if he

thought I'd told you, and I wouldn't if you hadn't aggravated me. Oh

dear, you do make me so nervous and miserable! _Will_ you come to

Schloss Hrvoya or will you not?"

I thought very quickly for a few seconds before answering. Perhaps it

would be better to go than to stay on "Arethusa" without Aunt Kathryn,

especially as I had now made Count Corramini my enemy. Mr. Barrymore and

Sir Ralph and Beechy couldn't arrive at Cattaro by ship till to-morrow,

even if they found out what had become of us, and followed at the

earliest opportunity without waiting to hear. No, there was nothing to

keep me on the yacht, or in the town of Cattaro, and hateful as the

whole expedition was, it would be better to cling to Aunt Kathryn than

be anywhere else alone in a strange place, among people whose language I

neither spoke nor understood.

"Yes, I will come," I said.

"Arethusa" touched the quay as I spoke, and there was a great bustle on

deck, no doubt landing the Prince's motor, which had stood concealed on

the forward deck under an enormous tarpaulin.

Aunt Kathryn, triumphant, hurried off to get ready, and I began slowly

to follow her example.

XXIV

A CHAPTER ON PUTTING TRUST IN PRINCES

When I had put on my hat and coat, which I'd taken off in the cabin, I

went on deck with Airole tucked under my arm, expecting to find Aunt

Kathryn, as I had not made haste. She was not there, but on shore close

to the quay stood the automobile, which had been put off in a kind of

sling; and on the front seat was the familiar, plump figure in its long,

light brown coat, and the mushroom-like mask with the talc window.

I had not brought my mask, but evidently Aunt Kathryn must have had hers

stuffed into one of the big pockets of her coat, as she often did. The

Prince stood talking to her, and seeing that all was ready I crossed the

gang-plank and walked quickly to the car.

Aunt Kathryn neither spoke to me nor turned her head, which scarcely

surprised me, considering the bad terms we were upon, for the first time

in all the months of our acquaintance.

The Prince "hoped that I wouldn't mind sitting in the tonneau," and

explained a pile of rugs on the seat opposite mine by saying that it

would grow chilly as we ascended into the mountains, and he did not wish

his passengers to suffer.

"Where's Joseph?" I asked, addressing him for the first time since

taking him to task on deck.

"I left him in Ragusa," replied the Prince. "He will not be needed."

With this, the tonneau door was shut, the car started, and we bounded

away. A few men and women, in very interesting, Eastern costumes, quite

different from anything we had seen yet, watched our progress in

silence and with imperturbable faces, dark and proud.

Angry as I still was with Prince Dalmar-Kalm for the trick he had so

impudently played upon us, and the part forced upon me for Aunt

Kathryn's sake, I could not be blind to the beauty of this strange

world, or suppress all joy in it.

Cattaro seemed to lie plastered against a tremendous wall of sheer rock

rising behind the ringed town and its fortress; and I saw, soon after

starting, that we must be bound for the mountain with the silken skein

of road, which I had gazed at in wonder from my porthole. We had not

long left Cattaro, when our way began to mount in long zigzags, doubling

back again and again upon itself. Presently we could look down upon the

town, prone at the foot of its fortified hill on the very edge of the

sea, which as we climbed, assumed the shape and colour of a great

shimmering blue silk sleeve.

Mountains towered all around us, mountains in every direction as far as

the eye could reach, many crowned by low, green forts, connected with

the lower world by the lacings of thread-like roads.

Still we mounted, the car going well and the Prince driving in silence.

Though the gradient was steep--sometimes so steep as to be terrible for

horses--we seemed to travel so fast that it was surprising to find

ourselves apparently no nearer the mountain-tops than when we started.

Though we gazed down so far that all things on the sea level had shrunk

into nothingness, and the big warship we had seen in coming was no

larger than a beetle, we gazed still farther up to the line where sky

and mountain met. And always, there were the grey-white, zigzag lines

scored on the face of the sheer rock.

I longed for some one to talk with, some one sympathetic to exclaim to;

in fact, I wished I were driving up this magnificent, this appalling

road, beside the Chauffeulier instead of in Prince Dalmar-Kalm's

tonneau. I wondered that Aunt Kathryn--usually so impulsive--could

restrain herself here, and expected at any moment to have her turn to

me, our differences forgotten. But no, she neither moved nor spoke, and

I realized how angry she must be with me, to visit her vexation upon

herself, and the Prince also.

I had thought the Col di Tenda wonderful, and the way down to Bellagio

over the mountains still more thrilling; but here, they were dwarfed

into utter insignificance. I could have imagined nothing like this feat

of engineering, nothing so wild, so majestic as the ever-changing views

from these incredible heights.

My respect for Schloss Hrvoya and its environment increased with every

ascending mile; but the distance was proving itself so great that I did

not see how it would be possible for the Prince to keep his promise, and

get us back to Cattaro before eight. And we had left summer warmth as

far behind as the level which it enriched with tropical flowers. The

Prince suggested to Aunt Kathryn that she should wrap round her a

shawl-like rug, and though I hated to follow his advice or take any

favours from him, I decided that it would be foolish to make myself a

martyr. So I, too, swaddled myself in woolly folds, and was thankful.

Now the windings of the Bocche di Cattaro revealed themselves

completely. The bay was no longer a silk sleeve; but a vast star,

seemingly cut out of a _lapis lazuli_, was set mosaic-like in the midst

of green and blue-grey mountains that soared up from it--up, up, in

shapes strange as a goblin's dream. Then, the azure star vanished, and

rocky heights shut away the view of the distant sea. Vegetation grew

sparse. At last we had reached the desolate and stony top of the

mountain-range which a little while ago had touched the sky. Clouds like

huge white swans swam in the blue air below us, where we could look down

from some sheer precipice. But where was Schloss Hrvoya? And would Aunt

Kathryn never speak to me?

Almost as if he read my thoughts, Prince Dalmar-Kalm turned his head,

checking the speed of the motor. "Don't be discouraged," he said,

cheerfully. "We shall be going down now, for a time, instead of up; and

shortly we shall be at our journey's end."

"But soon it will be twilight," I answered. "Do you know, it is after

six, and you said we would be back in Cattaro before eight. That's

impossible now; and I'm afraid that there won't be much daylight for

Aunt Kathryn to have a first look at her castle."

"It will be more imposing by twilight," replied the Prince; and though

my words had been a bid for notice from Aunt Kathryn, she made no sign

of having heard.

Once more Prince Dalmar-Kalm turned his attention to driving, and, as he

had prophesied, we began to plunge down heights almost as tremendous as

those we had climbed. The road, though splendidly engineered, was

covered with loose, sharp stones; and the surging mountain-tops on every

side were like the tossing waves of a desolate sea, turned to stone in

some fierce spasm of nature. Then, in the midst of this petrified ocean,

we flashed through a tiny village, and my hopes of reaching Schloss

Hrvoya before nightfall brightened.

From the little group of low, stone buildings, men who must have sprung

from a race of giants, rushed out in answer to the voice of our motor. I

had never seen such wonderful men, unless, perhaps, Mr. Barrymore might

be like them, if dressed as they were. Not one of the splendid band was

under six feet in height, and many were much taller. On their handsome,

close-cropped heads they wore gold-braided turbans over one ear. Their

long coats, falling to the knee, were of green, or red, or white, open

to show waistcoats crusted with gold embroidery. Round their slim waists

were wound voluminous sashes stuck full of sheathed knives and huge

pistols. Some had richly ornamented leather boots reaching half way up

their long, straight legs, while others wore white leggings, with

knitted stockings pulled up over them.

In a moment these gorgeous giants and their mean village were gone for

us; but our road took us past persons walking towards the town; men,

young and old, tall, beautiful boys, and white-clad women driving sheep,

who knitted their husbands' stockings as they walked.

Here and there in a deep pit among the tumbled grey rocks would be a

little vivid green dell, with a fairy ring of cultivated vegetation.

This would be guarded, perhaps, by a hut of stone, almost savage in the

crudeness of its construction. It was as if the proud people of this

remote, mountain world, wishing to owe their all to their own country,

nothing to outsiders, had preferred to make their houses with their own

hands out of their own rocks, hewing the walls and roofing them with

thatch from grass grown in their own pastures.

Impressed, almost terrified by the loneliness of this desolate land of

giants, lit fiercely now by the lurid glow of sunset, I searched the

distance for some towering hill crowned by a castle which might be

Hrvoya. But there were no castles, even ruined castles, in this region

of high rocks and lonely huts, and the red horizon was hemmed coldly in

by a range of ghostly, snow-clad mountains.

"What mountains are those, far away?" I could not resist asking.

"They are the mountains of Albania," the Prince answered.

"Why, but that sounds as if we were at the end of the world!" I cried,

startled.

He laughed over his shoulder. "And I am the last man in it! What did I

say to you yesterday?"

This reminder brought back the anger I was forgetting in my need of

human fellowship, and I did not speak again, but hugged little Airole

the closer, nestled under the warm rug.

At the end of a long, straight road that stretched before us I could see

a single, pale yellow light suddenly flash up in the twilight like a

lonely primrose, and farther on a little knot of other lights blossomed

in the dusk.

"We shall be there now in a few minutes," I was saying to myself, when

suddenly I was startled by a loud report like a pistol-shot. Aunt

Kathryn gave a shriek which was quite hoarse and unlike her natural

voice, but I was silent, holding Airole trembling and barking under my

arm.

The car swerved sharply, and my side of the tonneau seemed to settle

down. I was sure that an invisible person must have shot at us, and

wished sincerely that the Prince would drive on instead of slacking

pace. But he stopped the engine, exclaiming in an angry voice, "A tyre

burst! Thousand furies, why couldn't it have waited twenty minutes

more?"

"Is it serious?" I asked; for we had never had this experience before,

on any of the rough roads we had travelled.

"No," he answered shortly, "not serious, but annoying. We can crawl on

for a little way. I was a fool to stop the motor; did it without

thinking. Now I shall have the trouble of starting again."

Grumbling thus, he got out; but the motor wouldn't start. The engine was

as sullenly silent as Aunt Kathryn. For ten minutes, perhaps, the Prince

tried this device and that--no doubt missing Joseph; but at last he gave

up in despair. "It is no use," he groaned. "I am spending myself for

nothing. If you will sit quietly here for a few moments, I will go ahead

to that house where the light is, to see if I can get you ladies taken

in, and the car hauled into a place where I can work at it."

"What language do they speak here?" I asked, a chill of desolation upon

me.

"Slavic," he answered. "But I can talk it a little. I shall get on, and

you will see me again almost at once."

So saying, he was off, and I was alone with the statue of Aunt Kathryn.

At first I thought that, whatever happened, I wouldn't be the one to

begin a conversation, but the silence and deepening darkness were too

much for my nerves. "Oh, Aunt Kathryn, don't let's be cross to each

other any longer," I pleaded. "I'm tired of it, aren't you? And oh, what

wouldn't I give to be back in sweet Ragusa with Beechy and--and the

others!"

Still not a word. It seemed incredible that she could bear malice so;

but there was no cure for it. If she would not be softened by that plea

of mine, nothing I could say would melt her. I should have liked to cry,

for it was so lonely here, and so dreadful to be estranged from one's

only friend. But that would have been too childish, and I took what

comfort I could from Airole's tiny presence.

A quarter of an hour passed, perhaps, and then the Prince came back

accompanied by a man so huge that the tall Austrian seemed a boy beside

him. They looked at the car, communicating by gestures, and then the

Prince said, if we would walk to the house the woman there would receive

us, while he and his companion pushed the automobile into a shed which

the man had.

I made no further attempt to extract a relenting word from Aunt Kathryn,

as we tramped side by side along the road. Reaching a two-storied stone

box of a house, she dropped behind at the doorway, leaving me to

confront a hard-faced woman in a white jacket, with a graceful

head-dress half-hiding her black hair. In one hand she had a partly

finished stocking with knitting-needles in it; in the other she held a

candle in a quaintly made iron candlestick. Something she said to us in

a strange, but rather soft-sounding language, of which I couldn't

understand one syllable; but seeing my hopelessly blank expression she

smiled, nodded, and motioned us to cross the threshold.

The room was bare, with a floor of pounded earth. There was a wooden

table in it, a few shelves, and a long bench; but beyond was a more

attractive interior, for in an inner apartment she had lighted a fire of

sticks on a rude hearth.

I stood aside to let Aunt Kathryn pass in before me, which she did

without a word. We both stood before the fire, holding out gloved hands

to the meagre blaze, while little Airole ran about, whimpering and

examining everything with unconcealed disapproval.

I had just time to notice how oddly shabby Aunt Kathryn's gloves were,

and to wonder if she didn't intend to take off the "mushroom" (the talc

window of which the firelight transformed into a pane of red glass),

when Prince Dalmar-Kalm appeared. Without asking permission he walked

in, and looking at Aunt Kathryn, said in French, "You may go,

Victorine."

I stared, as bewildered as if the unfamiliar scene were turning to a

dream; but as the cloaked and mushroomed figure reached the door, the

spell broke.

I took a step after it, exclaiming, "Aunt Kathryn--Kittie!"

The door shut almost in my face. "That is not your Aunt Kathryn," said

the Prince, in a voice which, though low, vibrated with excitement. "It

is one of the Contessa Corramini's servants, chosen to play this part

because her figure is enough like your aunt's to resemble it closely in

a motor-coat. All that is of your aunt is that coat, the hat, the mask

of silk. You must hear the truth now, for it is time, and know what you

have to face."

"I don't understand you," I stammered weakly. It was more than ever as

if I were in a dream. I actually told myself that I would wake up in bed

at the Hotel Imperial in Ragusa. And oh, how I wished that I would wake

soon!

"I will _make_ you understand," went on the Prince. "You know--you've

known for many days--how I love you. You have forced me to do this

thing, because you were obstinate, and would not give me yourself,

though I could not live without you. Because I could not, I have done

this. It was planned as long ago as Venice. I confided all to Corramini,

though not to his wife, and he promised to help me because he is in

money difficulties, and I agreed to do something for him. But if you had

been kind last night in Ragusa, when I gave you one more chance to

repent, you might have been spared this. It was only to happen if all

else failed."

"Still I don't understand," I said slowly.

"Then your brain is not as quick as usual, my dear one. I hoped Miss

Beechy would be ill to-day, for she was the one I feared. There was a

little medicine in that pink, Turkish stuff--not to hurt her much, but

enough for my purpose. If I could, I would have got rid of the aunt,

too; only she was needed as the cat's-paw. You would never have come

without her. Contessa Corramini knows nothing of this, though she has a

suspicion that something mysterious goes on. She was not on the

'Arethusa.' At this moment she is in Venice. Victorine was the one

woman beside yourself and the aunt on the yacht, and Victorine has been

well paid for the part she plays. She took the aunt's coat and hat and

mask out of the cabin, when the lady was on deck with Corramini and me,

wrapped in a becoming blue cloak with a hood, left on board by Contessa

Corramini. While the aunt was looking everywhere for her missing things,

you joined the masked lady in the car. Now, we are farther from Schloss

Hrvoya than from Cattaro. You are in Montenegro, where I have brought

you because the Austrian Consul is my friend, and he will marry us."

"He will not!" I cried, choking and breathless.

"He must. It is the only thing for you, now. Let me show you the

situation, in case you do not yet understand all. Your aunt is far away.

She will be enraged with you, and believe you to blame for the

humiliating trick played on her. Never will she forgive you. If there is

a scandal, she will do her best to spread it. I know women well. Don't

you remember, 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?' There will be

others, too. Victorine will tell a dramatic tale to the Contessa

Corramini, and Corramini will gossip at his clubs in Venice, Rome,

Florence, Paris, where many of your rich compatriots are members. The

rights of the story will never quite be known, but it will leak out that

you came to Montenegro with me alone, and spent many hours. The only

safeguard is to make it an elopement, and that safeguard I offer you,

with my heart and all that is mine. You must leave this place as the

Princess Dalmar-Kalm, or it would be better for your future that you

should never leave it. See, I am the last man in your world now, and it

is necessary that you take me."

"I didn't know," I answered in the dream, "that men like you existed out

of novels or stage plays. That is why I failed to understand at first. I

was giving you the benefit of the doubt. But I understand now. Let me

go--"

He laughed. "No! And if I did, what good would it do you? It is night;

you are many miles from anywhere, in the wildest mountains of Europe.

You do not speak one word of the language, or any one in this land a

word of yours. Practically, you are alone in the world with me. Even

your wretched little dog is not here to snarl. His curiosity took him

outside, and he cannot get back through the keyhole of the door, small

as he is. Presently the Consul will be at this house. I had meant to go

to his had it not been for the accident, but I will send for him. He is

my very good friend. He will do what I ask."

"But if I do not consent?" I flung at him.

"You will have to consent," he said; "and soon you will see that for

yourself."