PART III

TOLD BY THE COUNTESS

XV

A CHAPTER OF PITFALLS

A woman finds out a great many things about herself when she is

automobiling. Or is it automobiling that makes new qualities grow? I'm

not sure; but then I'm so different in many ways from what I used to be

that I hardly know myself any more.

Beechy would tell me that it's all owing to Madame Rose-Blanche of

Chicago; but it isn't really. She changed me on the outside; she

couldn't change my disposition--except that one is happier when one's

pretty than when one's a "trump," as the English ladies say.

But I used to hate being out-of-doors; it seemed such a waste of time.

And when poor Mr. Kidder was alive, I often thought that if I could be

free to do exactly as I liked for a month, I'd spend it lying on a sofa

among a pile of cushions, with a big box of candy, and dozens of new

English society novels. Yet now that I _am_ free to do as I like, not

for one month, but for all the time, I go gadding around the world at

twenty or thirty miles an hour (they feel like twice as many) in an

automobile.

However, it's just as if I had walked right into a novel myself, to be

one of the heroines. I've read a good many novels with young widows for

heroines; in fact, I prefer them, as it's so pleasant to put yourself in

the heroine's place while you read, especially if you're interested in

the hero.

In my novel that I've stepped into, there are three heroes if I count

Mr. Barrymore, and I suppose I may (though he's only the chauffeur, as

the Prince often reminds me), for Beechy says that Sir Ralph Moray

tells her he comes from a very fine family.

At first I didn't know but Sir Ralph would be the real hero, for by an

odd coincidence _he_ is twenty-nine, which is my age--if it's true, as

Madame says, that a woman has a right to count herself no older than she

looks. Besides, I'm very partial to the English; and though I was a

little disappointed, after seeing that advertisement of his, to learn

that the "titled Englishman" owning a motor-car, was no higher than a

baronet, I thought he might do. But somehow, though kind and attentive,

he has never shown the same warm interest that Prince Dalmar-Kalm takes

in me, and then it is so romantic that I should be buying an estate with

one of the titles belonging to the Prince's family. I can't help feeling

now that the Prince, and no one but the Prince, is _meant_ for the hero

of this story of which I am the heroine. After all, what title sounds so

well for a woman as "Princess"? It might be royalty, and I'm sure it

would be admired in Denver.

The change in me may be partly owing to the excitement of realizing that

I'm in a grander sphere than any I have ever entered before, or dared

hope to enter, and that this may be but a kind of ante-chamber to

something still grander. Of course I might have gone on this trip in the

Prince's automobile, if he had known in time that I had a fancy to try

motoring, but perhaps it's better as it is. I like being independent,

and it's just as well to have several men in the party, so that no one

among them can think he's going to have everything his own way.

Who, that knew me a few years--or even a few months--ago, would have

believed I could be perfectly happy sitting all day in a cramped

position in an automobile, covered with dust or wet with sudden showers;

tired, hungry, putting up with all sorts of discomforts by the way, and

half the time frightened out of my wits by appalling precipices or

terrific wild beasts? But happy I am, happier than I've ever been,

though I keep asking myself, or Maida, or Beechy, "_Why_ is it so nice?"

Maida says she doesn't know why, she only knows it is, and much more

than nice. "The Quintessence of Joy-of-Life," that is what she has named

the sensation; and as Maida uses it, it is sure to be all right, though

I must admit that to me it sounds almost improper.

Then there is another thing which strikes me as queer about myself and

the two girls since we've been travelling in an automobile. We used to

be glad when a train journey was over, and thankful to arrive at almost

any place, whether it was beautiful or not, but now we're always in a

perfect fever to go on--on--on. We shoot into some marvellous old town,

that we would once have thought worth coming hundreds of miles just to

see; and instead of wanting to get out of the motor-car and wander

about, visiting all the churches or museums or picture-galleries, we

think what a pity to spoil the record of so many miles in so many hours.

If we stop long of course it brings down the average, and that seems

nothing less than a calamity, though why on earth we should care so

much, or care at all (considering we have our whole future before us) is

a mystery. Even Maida, who is so fond of history, and countries that

have made history in dim old ages, feels this. She thinks there is a

motoring microbe that gets into your blood, just as other microbes do,

so that it's a disease, only instead of being disagreeable it's almost

dangerously pleasant. You know you ought to pause and do justice to a

place, says Maida, but the motoring microbe wriggles and writhes against

the decision of your reason, and you have to use violent measures before

you can dull it into a state of coma for a while.

Mr. Barrymore tries to explain this phenomenon by arguing that, of all

modern means of getting about the world, motoring is in itself the most

enjoyable. The mere journey is as good a part of your tour as any, if

not better; and that's the reason why, according to him, you never have

the same longing to "get there" or "stay there" (wherever "there" may

be) that you have when you travel by train, or boat or carriage. It is

the thrill of flying through the air at such a rate that intoxicates you

and makes you feel you are conquering the world as you go. Perhaps he's

right. But after all, reasons don't signify much. The principal thing

is that you do feel so, and it is lovely.

I was so tired after that long day from Cuneo to Milan that I wouldn't

get up to go and look at the cathedral. I'd seen it by moonlight, and it

couldn't be better by day, so I just lay in bed, and made a comfortable

toilet afterwards without hurrying, which was a nice change, and gave me

time to use my electric face-roller.

When the girls came back, they were raving about magnificent statues,

aisles, columns, windows, vistas, gargoyles, and saints' bodies in

gorgeous shrines of silver. Beechy had apparently forgotten that she'd

been vexed with me over night, and I was relieved, for she will _not_

agree with me about the Prince, and I don't know what I should do if she

really did carry out any of her threats. If she _should_ put on the long

frock she had before Mr. Kidder died (which she _says_ she's got with

her, locked up in her portmanteau), and should fix her hair on top of

her head, that would be just about the end of my fun, once and for all.

But she is such a dear girl at heart, in spite of the peculiarities

which she has inherited from poor Simon, I can't think (if I manage her

pretty well) that she would do anything to spoil my first real good time

and hurt my feelings.

We had an early lunch, and started about one with such a crowd outside

the hotel to see us go away, that we made up our minds there must be

precious few automobiles in Milan, big and busy city as it is.

The whole party was so taken up with the Cathedral, that for a while

they could talk of nothing but Gian Galeazzo Visconti (who seemed to

have spent his life either in murdering his relations or founding

churches), or marble from the valley of Tosa, or German architects who

had made the building differ from any other in Italy, or the impulse

Napoleon had given to work on the façade, or the view from the roof all

the way to Como with the Apennines and lots of other mountains whose

names I'd never heard; but presently as we got out into the suburbs the

road began to be so awful that no one could talk rationally on any

subject.

We three Americans weren't quite so disgusted as Sir Ralph and Mr.

Barrymore seemed to be, for we are used to roads being pretty bad

outside large cities; but the gentlemen were very cross, and exclaimed

that it was a disgrace to Milan. Our poor automobile had to go bumping

and grinding along through heaps of sharp stones, more like the dry bed

of a mountain torrent than a road; and my nerves were on edge when Mr.

Barrymore told us not to be frightened if we heard an explosion like a

shot, because it would only be one of the tyres bursting. No pretty

little ladylike automobile, said he, could possibly hope to come through

without breaking her bones; only fine, manly motor-cars, with noble

masculine tyres, could wisely attempt the feat; but ours would be all

right, even if a tyre did go, for the damage could be repaired inside

half an hour.

Still, the thought of the possible explosion that might go off right

under my ears at any instant kept me in a state of suspense for a long

distance--about thirty kilometres, Mr. Barrymore said; and then the way

improved so much that I settled down again. Even the scenery had been

ugly up to that time, as if to match the road, but it began to change

for the better at precisely the same moment.

The only interesting things we had seen so far were peasants playing

bowls in the villages through which we passed (for it was a fête day)

and the curious carts with wooden frames for awnings arched over them,

which gave an effect as if the passengers were crowding inside the white

ribs of some skeleton monster. Such pretty women and children were in

the carts, too; the women like beautiful, dark madonnas with their soft

eyes looking out from under graceful head-draperies of black cashmere,

or blue or yellow silk, glorious in colour as the sun touched it.

They didn't seem to mind the bumping over the stones, though the carts

were springless, but then, they had no hats lolloping over to one side,

or stays to pinch in their waists and make them uncomfortable as I had,

though--as Beechy says--my daytime motoring waist is _inches_ bigger

round than my evening waist.

I was glad when I could put my hat straight again, once for all, and

have time to enjoy the scenery through which, as I told myself, the

Prince must lately have passed on his car, perhaps thinking of me, as he

had promised.

Behind us was the great plain in which Milan lies, and before us soared

into the air a blue chain of mountains, looking mysterious and

inaccessible in the far distance, though we were sweeping on towards

them, charging down hill after hill into a more exquisite landscape than

I could have imagined, enchantingly Italian, with dark old châteaux

crowning eminences above fertile fields; pretty brown villages on

hillsides clustering round graceful campaniles (a word I've practised

lately with several other difficult ones); green-black cypresses (which

Maida says seem like sharp notes in music); and wonderful, flat-topped

trees that Mr. Barrymore calls umbrella pines.

We were now in a region known as the Brianza, which is, it appears, a

summer resort for the Milanese, who come to escape the hot weather of

the plains, and find the breezes that blow up from the lakes--breezes so

celebrated for their health-giving qualities that nobody who lives in

the Brianza can die under ninety. There were a great many inviting

looking, quaint farmhouses, and big cottages scattered about, where the

people from Milan are taken as lodgers.

I had forgotten my nervousness about the tyres, when suddenly a queer

thing happened. There was a wild flapping and beating as if a big bird

had got caught in the engine, while something strange and horrifying

kept leaping up and down with every revolution of the wheels, like a

huge black snake racing along with us and trying for a chance to pounce.

It was so like a weird and horrid dream that I shrieked; but in a few

seconds Mr. Barrymore had stopped the car. "We _are_ in luck," said he.

"Why?" I asked. "Have we killed the Serpent-thing--whatever it is?"

Then he laughed. "The Serpent-thing is the outer covering of the tyre on

one of our driving wheels," he explained. "And we're in luck because,

after that ghastly road it isn't the tyre itself. This is nothing; I'll

tear it off, and the good old tyre's so sound that we can go on with its

skin off, until Bellagio, when I'll put on a new one before we start

again. It has cracked the mud guard in its gyrations, though fortunately

not enough to make it unsafe for the luggage."

In about three minutes we were teuf-teufing on once more; but we hadn't

been going for ten minutes when, half-way up a hill, the motor gave a

weary sigh, and moved languidly, as if it were very tired and

discouraged, yet trying its best to obey. We were on the outskirts of a

village called Erba, and the automobile crawled on until it saw a little

inn, with a lot of peasants sitting in the cool shade of an arbour,

drinking wine; there it stopped, which was wonderfully intelligent of

it.

"The poor animal wants water after its hard work," said Mr. Barrymore;

so he got down and asked a boy to bring some, ordering at the same time

a siphon of fizzy lemonade for everybody. While we were sipping the

cold, sweet stuff, Mr. Barrymore burst out laughing, and we all looked

up to see what was the matter. There was that silly boy bringing a pint

of water, in a _carafe_, to pour into the tank of the motor; and he

seemed quite surprised and disgusted when he was told to go back and

fetch about twenty litres more.

The automobile had thoughtfully slowed down in the one bit of shade

there was; still it was tremendously hot, and we realized that it was

only the motion of the car which had kept us from finding it out before.

We should have been miserable if we hadn't changed our tailor

motoring-costumes for the holland dresses and coats which we'd bought

ready-made at the last moment, in Monte Carlo. In spite of them,

however, we were glad when the water was in, and the motor-car's heart

began to beat again. Then down went ours, for after a dozen throbs the

comforting sound grew faint and presently stopped. "There's no proper

explosion," Mr. Barrymore announced in a puzzled way. "I'm afraid the

petrol I bought in Milan wasn't very good; the Italian never is as good

as the French, though it's more expensive. But perhaps it's only

'tired.' I'll empty it out and put in some fresh."

He did, but the poor automobile was not revived by the change; and Mr.

Barrymore began to peer about in the inner workings of the thing to see

what had gone wrong. He examined the _bougie_, whatever that was, and

cleaned the aspiration valve with petrol, all of which took time; and

what with the heat, and the noise the peasants in the inn-garden made

with their _boules_, I began to get the feeling that Beechy calls

"caterpillars in the spine." Just when they were crawling up and down my

marrow, however, Mr. Barrymore cried out, "Eureka! it's the pump."

This exclamation didn't convey much to me, but it was encouraging that

he seemed pleased; and when he had adjusted the friction roller against

a fly-wheel, or something queer and ticklish of that sort, we flew away

from Erba at a splendid pace, as if the car had decided to let bygones

be bygones.

We ran beautifully along a smooth and level road that was trying to make

up for its evil past, by the side of a small but pretty lake, and it

seemed as if our troubles were over at last. But the astonishment on the

faces of the peasants who stared from doorways in a couple of very

picturesque villages through which we drove, was ominous. Evidently they

had scarcely ever seen a motor-car, for they glared at us as if we were

antediluvian animals. Running out of the second village, Asso, we found

ourselves climbing a road which was not only as steep as the side of a

house, but so narrow that, if we had met anything, it couldn't possibly

have passed us. The way was wild and eerie; we could not tell what might

come beyond each corner, and we could see nothing but the roughly

climbing road, with its embankments, except as we looked back and down

into vast spaces of strange beauty, like fleeting scenes in dreams.

"I'm sure we must have come wrong. This can't be the way that the

Prince meant," I said. "It's more like a track for goats than

automobiles."

"We have come right according to directions," answered Mr. Barrymore,

"but I must say, I rather wonder at the directions. According to

Dalmar-Kalm's account, the road was fairly good. I can hardly think he

risked this route for his own car."

"Is there another he could have taken?" inquired Sir Ralph.

"Yes. He could have driven along the lake as far as Varenna, and then

sent his car across to Bellagio on one of the steamers."

"My prophetic soul, which I inherit from a long line of Scotch

ancestors, tells me that's what he did," said Sir Ralph. Then he added

in a lower voice, "It would be like him." But I heard, and wondered if,

after all, he were a little jealous of the Prince?

"Whether he did or not, I'm glad _we_ didn't," remarked Beechy. "This

looks like being an adventure; and none of us are old enough to have

outgrown our love of adventure, are we, Mamma?"

Of course, I had to say "no," though I'd been on the point of asking

whether it wouldn't be possible for us to go back. We had just come into

a ragged hamlet, and there was literally no more than room for us to

scrape through between the poor stone houses which leaned over us on

either side the steep, roughly cobbled road. Six inches less, and we

would have been in danger of slicing off our mud-guards, upon which lay

a lot of our luggage as if on shelves. My heart was in my mouth, and I

said so to Beechy; but she only laughed, and replied pertly--even for

her--that she hoped it was a good fit, or should she pat me on the back?

Instead of smoothing out to a level again, as I hoped against hope that

it would, the road grew steeper with each quarter-mile, so steep that it

seemed as if the car must take to running down hill backwards. But

always it went forging steadily up on the strongest speed with a

dependable, bumbling noise, never once faltering, though the Col di

Tenda wasn't as steep a gradient as this. Certainly, after one's faith

in the car has stopped wobbling, there was a kind of wild pleasure in

the experience, especially in looking over one's shoulder at the valleys

lying far below us, cut deep into the green heart of the mountain, as if

they had been hollowed out of an emerald. Suddenly the road gave a

twist, and instead of prancing in the air, lay down at the feet of a

grim, grey town, as a dog lies down at the feet of his master.

Mr. Barrymore stopped to see if the motor had got hot or burst a

blood-vessel or anything; but all was well, and when we had slipped on

our thick coats, those who had got out to walk the steepest hills--Sir

Ralph and Beechy--climbed in again. We had been a long time creeping up,

longer than Mr. Barrymore had calculated, and the chill of evening was

in the air. Besides, we were in the midst of the mountains now, and it

was hard to realize that we had ever felt too hot. As we drove along the

edge of ridge, a keen wind caught us. I shivered and felt as if there

were no more thickness to me than a paper doll; but I shouldn't have

dared to tell Beechy that, or she would have laughed, for I haven't got

my weight down yet to less than a hundred and fifty pounds. There was a

gnawing just under my new gold belt-buckle with the cat's-eyes on it, as

if the cats had claws as well as eyes, and I remembered that it was ages

since lunch. Maida and Beechy never appear to be hungry when they motor,

though, so _I_ wouldn't complain, for fear it might seem old and frumpy

to think of such material things. But five minutes later being cold or

hungry mattered as little as it would in a shipwreck.

The first thing that happened was a view--a view so unexpected and so

superb that I gaped at it with my mouth open. So far away, so far below,

that it was as if we looked down from a balloon sailing among the

clouds, two lakes were set like sapphires in a double ring of mountains,

whose greens and blues and purples were dimmed by a falling veil of

twilight. But through the veil, white villas gleamed on the dark

hillsides, like pearls that had fallen down the mountain-side,

scattering as they fell; and above, in the great pale dome of the sky, a

faint silver light pulsed and quivered, like the water-lights that one

sees on the wall of a room near the river. It was a search-light sent out

by the moon, which was _en panne_ somewhere on its way up the horizon,

Maida said; and it was she who put some of those other thoughts into my

mind; but my head didn't hold any of them long at that time, because of

the next thing that happened.

It was not a view; it was a plunge that we took down into the view.

We had come up one side of a house to get to this place on the roof, and

now we began to slither down the other side, which was worse, a hundred

times worse.

Who was it who said, "A horse, my kingdom for a horse?" I think it must

have been Richard the Third in Shakspere's play, which I went to see

once in Denver, at a matinée, and Mr. Kidder scolded me afterwards for

wasting my time and his money. Well, I never sympathized with any one so

much in life as I sympathized with that poor man (I mean Richard, not

Mr. Kidder) at this moment. I knew just how he must have felt, though of

course the circumstances were somewhat different, automobiles not having

been invented in those days, and he being on the stage, with a battle

going on behind the scenes, where it was cheaper to produce, I suppose.

But I would have given my money, and even my title, for a kind, gentle

horse (the older the better) instead of a motor-car. A horse, at his

worst, doesn't want to kill himself, while an automobile doesn't care

what happens to it; and in these dreadful moments the only possible

comfort would have been in sitting behind a thing with an instinct of

self-preservation.

As it was, I sat with every muscle tense and a feeling as if my hair was

standing up so straight on my head that every hairpin must fall out. But

what was a hairpin more or less, or even a "transformation" a little

awry, to a woman about to become a corpse? I held my breath, as if to

let it go meant to lose it forever, while that automobile walked down

the mountain exactly as a fly walks down a long expanse of wall-paper,

making a short turn for every flower in the pattern.

There was a flower every other second in _our_ pattern, which meant a

sharp turn for the fly; and I could have slapped Mr. Barrymore for

talking on, as if we weren't in peril enough to be prayed for in church,

about the Lake of Como and the Lake of Lecco, and Bellagio (where we

were going) on the promontory. Where we were going, indeed! Our only

hope, clearly, was in heaven; though I should have liked just to see my

new estate in Dalmatia first.

I had to let my breath go at last, and while snatching another, I

managed to gasp that I would get out and walk. But that imp of a Beechy

(who must, I sometimes think, be a changeling) hugged my arm and said

that I wasn't to be "an old woman, like the Prince"; that this

experience was too blissful to be spoiled by anybody's nerves, and no

one was going to be hurt, not even the little dog from Airole.

"How do you know?" I panted.

"Oh, because I do. And besides, I put my faith in our Chauffeulier."

"You had better put your trust in Providence," I said severely.

"It hasn't come to _that_ yet," was her flippant reply; and I shouldn't

have been surprised if white bears had come out to devour her, for those

mountain fastnesses looked capable of bears or worse.

"Don't forget this is the road the Prince recommended," Beechy went on.

"It would be too unflattering to our vanity to think he could have

wished to hurl us to our death, so it must be all right."

"He had forgotten what it was like," I said. But the idea did enter into

my mind that perhaps he had thought if our car should break down we

might be induced to continue our journey in his. And the suggestion of

so strong a desire on his part to monopolize a certain member of our

party wasn't wholly unpleasant. It gave me enough warmth round the

heart to support life during the rest of the experience which Beechy

considered so "blissful."

I will say for Mr. Barrymore that he drove carefully, keeping the brakes

on all the time, and slowing down for one curve after another, so short

and so sharp, that if our automobile had been much longer in the body

the turn couldn't have been managed.

We had trusted to Mr. Barrymore's judgment about where we were to stop

at Bellagio, for even Sir Ralph had never done more than pass through

the place; and he had telegraphed for rooms at a hotel on a high

promontory above the lake, once the château of a famous old Italian

family. It is still called the villa Serbelloni, and Mr. Barrymore had

described the view and the garden as being so exquisite, that he had

excited our curiosity and interest. I always think, too, there is

something fascinating, if you aren't very grand yourself (or haven't

been till lately), about living in the same rooms where grand people

have lived. You can say to yourself, "Here the Duchess ate her Dinner,

here she danced, here she wrote her letters. In this garden she walked;

her eyes looked upon this view," and so I was particularly attracted

towards the Villa Serbelloni, even though Prince Dalmar-Kalm had

suggested several reasons for our going to one of the hotels on the

level of the lake. Of course I'd not confided these reflections either

to Maida or Beechy, for even Maida is unsympathetic about some things,

and thinks, or says that she thinks, it is horridly snobbish to care

about titles. She told Beechy, in an argument they were having together,

that she would just as soon as not snub an English duke or marquise,

just to show that there were _some_ American girls who didn't come

abroad to spend their money on buying a husband from the British

aristocracy. She hasn't had a chance to prove her strength of mind in

this way yet, for so far we have met only an English baronet; though I

must admit that she's much nicer to Mr. Barrymore, who is nobody at all,

than she is either to Sir Ralph Moray or the Prince.

When we seemed to be dangling midway between heaven and earth, and the

sapphires that had been the lakes had turned into burnished silver

mirrors, Mr. Barrymore drew our attention to a high point of land

running out into the water, its shape sharply cut like a silhouette in

black against the silver. "That is where we shall be in about half an

hour more," said he, "for all those twinkling yellow stars mean the

Villa Serbelloni."

I thought it much more probable that we would be at the bottom of Lake

Como, having been previously dashed into pieces so small that no expert

could sort them. But just as the moon had painted a line of glittering

gold along the irregular edges of the purple mountains we did actually

arrive on level ground close to the border of the lake. Then we had to

mount again to the Villa Serbelloni, for there was no more direct way to

it, connecting with the road by which we had come, and after we had

wound up the side of the promontory for a little while we began to drink

in a fragrance as divine as if we really had been killed and had gone

straight to heaven.

It was quite a different fragrance from any I had ever known before in

any garden; not so richly heavy as on the Riviera, though penetrating;

as delicate, Maida said, as a Beethoven symphony, and as individual. I

believe if I were to go blind, and somebody should lead me into the

garden of the Villa Serbelloni without telling me where I was, I should

know by that wonderful perfume. I can't imagine its being the same

anywhere else.

At the sound of our motor several people came out to the door of the

long, white, crescent-shaped building, and among them, to my great

pleasure, was the Prince.

"How late you are!" he exclaimed, coming to help me out before Sir

Ralph, or a very handsome young man who was the manager of the hotel,

had time to do it. "I've been expecting you for the last two hours. Do

you know that it's nearly nine o'clock? I began to be afraid something

had happened."

"What a pity you didn't think of that in Milan!" snapped Beechy. "Did

you get Mamma to make a will in your favour last night?"

"My dear young lady, what do you mean?" implored the poor Prince.

"I guess you'd know that without asking, if you'd come the way we have,

instead of taking boats and things all over the place," giggled the

impossible child, and then complained out aloud that I was pinching her.

Naturally, the Prince was too dignified to bandy words with a naughty

little girl, so he didn't pursue the subject further, but began

inquiring particulars of our adventures as we went into the house

together.

"Do you know why I was especially anxious to arrive ahead of you?" he

asked me, in a low voice.

"I think I remember your explaining last night," said I.

"Ah, but I didn't give my most important reasons. I kept them for your

ears alone; and I hope you won't be displeased. Do you remember telling

me something about to-morrow?"

I thought for a moment. "Do you mean that it will be my birthday?" I

asked.

"I mean nothing else. Did you imagine that I would forget?"

To tell the truth, I hoped he had, for I'd only mentioned it on an

impulse, to regret the words as soon as they were out. A woman who

is--well, I'll say over twenty-eight--had, perhaps, better let "sleeping

dogs lie" when it comes to talking about birthdays, especially if she

has a daughter who doesn't sleep, and never lies when she's wanted to.

However, out the news had popped about the 30th of April being my

birthday, and the Prince would hardly believe that I was as much as

twenty-nine, though, of course, there is Beechy, and I couldn't well

have married younger than fifteen. I murmured something now about a

birthday being of no consequence (I wish it weren't), but the Prince

said that mine was of a great deal to him, and he had made exertions to

arrive early and arrange a little surprise for me.

"I will say no more," he went on. "You will know the rest to-morrow; but

the best, not until evening."

I could think of nothing during dinner except what he had said, though

it was so late, and I'd been so hungry. And afterwards, standing on the

balcony outside my bedroom window looking down on a scene of fairy-like

beauty, the wonderful white moonlight and thoughts of the Prince seemed

to mingle together in my head, like some intoxicating draught. "Countess

Dalmar, Princess Dalmar-Kalm," I kept saying over to myself, until the

words wove themselves into a song in my brain, with the scent of the

flowers for accompaniment.

The whole house seems to have absorbed the perfumes of the garden, as if

they had soaked into the wood. The corridors, the bedrooms, the

wardrobes, even the chests of drawers, have the same delicate fragrance.

It scented my dreams and told me where we were when I waked in the

morning, confused with sleep.

XVI

A CHAPTER OF ENCHANTMENT

A birthday _must_ be happy spent in such an exquisite place, I told

myself, when I'd got up and peeped out of the window upon a land of

enchantment--even a birthday more advanced than one would choose. By

morning light the lake was no longer sapphire, but had taken on a

brilliant, opaque blue, like _lapis lazuli_. Umbrella pines were

stretched in dark, jagged lines on an azure background. Black cypresses

pointed warning fingers heavenward, rising tall and slim and solemn, out

of a pink cloud of almond blossoms. The mountains towering round the

lake, as if to protect its beauty with a kind of loving selfishness, had

their green or rugged brown sides softened with a purplish glow like the

bloom on a grape. And in the garden that flowed in waves of radiant

colour from terrace to terrace, as water flows over a weir, roses and

starry clematis, amethyst wistaria, rosy azalea, and a thousand lovely

things I'd never seen before, mingled tints as in a mosaic of jewels.

I had lain awake in the night listening to a bird which I could almost

have believed a fairy, and, though I'd never heard a nightingale, I

wondered if he could be one. He said over and over again, through the

white hours perfumed with roses and flooded with moonlight: "Do look, do

look! Spirit, spirit, spirit!" And so, just in case he might have been

calling me, I got up early to see what he had wanted me to see. Then I

was gladder than ever that we had decided to spend at least that day and

another night at Serbelloni, for one might journey to all four corners

of the globe and not find another place so magically beautiful.

Although I was up so early, perhaps I spent a longer time over my toilet

than the two girls do over theirs; and when I was ready neither Maida

nor Beechy were in their rooms. I had opened my door to go down and look

for them when I came face to face with a waiter carrying an enormous

bouquet. It was for me, with a perfectly lovely poem written by the

Prince. At least, it was in his handwriting, so I suppose it was by him,

and it was full of pretty allusions to an "adorable woman," with praises

for the gracious day that gave her to the world. I _was_ pleased! It was

like going back and being a young girl again, and I could have sung for

joy, as the bird did last night.

The rest of the party were on an entrancing terrace, looking down over

other flowery terraces upon the town of Bellagio, with its charming old

campanile, and its grey roofs like a flock of doves clustering together

on the border of the lake. The water was so clear and still that the big

hotels and villas on the opposite shore seemed to have fallen in head

down, and each little red-and-white canopied boat waiting for passengers

at the quay had its double in the bright blue mirror. Clouds and

mountains were all reflected too, and it seemed as if one might take

one's choice between the real world and the dream world.

Maida and Beechy had already been for a walk with Sir Ralph and Mr.

Barrymore, who had taken them up by a labyrinth of wooded paths to an

old ruined castle which they described as crowning the head of the

promontory. It had been built by the Romans, and in the Middle Ages was

the stronghold of brigands, who captured beautiful ladies and terrorized

the whole country. The girls were excited about some secret passages

which they had found, leading down from the ruin to wonderful nooks

screened on one side by trees and hanging over sheer abysses on the

other. They wanted to show also an old chapel and a monks' burying

ground which you had to reach by scrambling down a narrow stairway

attached to the precipitous rocks, like a spider web. But I had on my

white _suede_ shoes with the Louis Quinze heels, which look so well with

a white dress and dark blue silk stockings; besides, I began to want my

breakfast, and it would have been impolite to disappear before I thanked

the Prince, who might come out at any moment.

We had our coffee and rolls in a kind of bower close to the terrace; and

afterwards I did walk along the level path, fenced in with a tangle of

roses--pink, and white, and gold, and crimson--as far as a high shelf,

cut into the face of the sheer cliff which plunges vertically down, down

into the blue-green water. The Prince was my companion, and he (who has

distinguished friends in the neighbourhood, which he has visited before)

told me a strange story of the place. Once, he said, the Princes of

Stanga were lords of the land here, and a certain daughter of the house

was famous as the handsomest and cruellest Princess of her time. Despite

her dreadful disposition, she had crowds of lovers, whom she used to

invite to walk with her by moonlight, after a _tête-à-tête_ supper. She

would lead them to this very spot on which we stood, and just as she had

lured them on to make a burning declaration of love she would give a

laugh, and a sudden push, which hurled them to death in the lake far

below. How different, judging from what I have read in the ladies'

magazines, from the home-life of our dear Princesses of to-day! And how

different from _my_ habits, if I am asked to become, and do become, a

Princess. I should have liked to throw out some delicate little

suggestion of this sort, and perhaps would have found the right words,

had not Beechy appeared at that moment with Sir Ralph. Then my whole

attention was taken up, as it had been during breakfast, by tactfully

staving off any allusion on the Prince's part to my birthday. All was in

vain, however; he said something gallant, and I was quite as giddy for a

few seconds as one of the wicked Princess's lovers, lest Beechy should

be in an impish mood and throw out allusions to my age. But she was as

good as a kitten, though she looked at me in a naughty way, and only

said, "Would any one believe Mamma was twenty-nine to-day--if it weren't

for Me?"

When we went indoors afterwards I gave her that ruby heart ring of mine

that she likes.

All day long we were busy doing agreeable things. We lunched down by the

lake shore, in the garden of a big hotel there, and afterwards were

rowed across to Cadenabbia, in one of the canopied boats, to visit the

Villa Carlotta in its wonderful terraced garden. I was delighted with

the boat and the man who rowed us, in his white clothes and scarlet

sash, but the Prince half-whispered in my ear that he was going to show

me something better in the evening, when the time came for the "birthday

surprise" about which I must please say nothing--not even to Beechy.

We had coffee at the most idyllic spot imaginable, which we reached by

leaving the boat and mounting rather a steep path that went up beside a

baby cascade. At the top was a shady terrace, with arbours of grape

vines and roses, and a peasant's house, where the people live who waited

upon us. We had thick cream for our coffee, and delicious stuff with

raisins in it and sugar on top, which was neither bread nor cake. I

wanted the recipe for it, but I didn't like to get any one to ask; and

perhaps it wouldn't taste the same in Denver. Oh dear me, I begin to

think there are lots of things that won't taste the same in Denver! But

I _should_ love better than anything to go back with a high title, and

see what some of those society women, who turned up their noses at me

when I was only Mrs. Simon Kidder, would do then. There isn't one who

has a right to put crowns on her baggage or anywhere else, and I've got

that already, whatever happens by and by.

We were rowed back to Bellagio again, and climbed up by a short cut to

the Villa Serbelloni just in time to escape a storm on the lake. In a

flower-draped cave above our favourite terrace, we sat in garden chairs

and watched the effect, while Mr. Barrymore and Sir Ralph talked about

Pliny, whose statue was nearby, and some strange old general of

Napoleon's who lived for awhile at the Villa Serbolloni, and terrorized

people who wanted him to pay his debts, by keeping fierce, hungry

bloodhounds to patrol the place night and day.

When you are nicely sheltered, to watch rain falling in the distance,

and marching like troops of grey ghosts along the sky, is something like

watching other people's troubles comfortably, while you are happy

yourself--though Maida would think that a selfish speech. Anyway, the

effect of that storm was thrilling. First, Nature seemed to stop smiling

and grow very grave as the shadows deepened among the mountains. Then,

suddenly the thing happened which she had been expecting. A spurt of ink

was flung across the sky and lake, leaving on the left a wall of blue,

on the right an open door of gold. Black feathers drooped from the sky

and trailed across the roughened water, to be blown away from sight as

the storm passed from our lake to another; and when they had vanished,

out came the sun again to shine through violet mists which bathed the

mountain sides, and made their peaks seem to rise from a transparent

sea.

We could not tear ourselves away until sunset; and by the time we had

dressed for dinner, the rising moon had traced a path of silver from

shore to shore, across the pansy-purple water, where the lights of

Cadennabia were sending golden ladders down to the bottom of the lake.

I supposed that we would dine indoors, but the arbour where we had

breakfasted was illuminated with coloured lanterns, which gleamed like

rubies and emeralds and topazes among the dark tree branches, and the

trails of roses and wistaria. "This is part of my surprise," said the

Prince. "I have arranged this in honour of your birthday, dear Countess.

No, don't thank me. Is it not my greatest pleasure to think of you?"

Perhaps it was because I was in a mood to be pleased with everything,

but it did seem as if I had never tasted such a dinner as that was. We

had every delicacy in and out of season, a fruit salad which is a

specialty of the house, made of strawberries, fresh figs, cherries,

pineapples, and almonds; and when I thought that all the surprise was

over, along the terrace came a procession of green, blue and

rose-coloured lights, as if fairies were flitting among the trees. But

the fairies turned out to be waiters, bringing illuminated ices in

fantastic shapes, and a birthday cake for me lighted with twenty-nine

tiny wax candles.

All had been thought of by the Prince; and if there had been any doubt

in my mind before, I now saw that he really loved me for myself alone.

When everybody had wished me good wishes, blowing out the candles as

they wished, we left the table to stroll about in the moonlight, and the

Prince and I got separated from the others. "Ah, but this isn't all," he

broke in, when I was trying to tell him how much I appreciated what he

had done. "The best, I hope, is to come, if you will trust yourself to

me for a little while."

I was ready to do so for any length of time, and when he had sent to the

house for my wrap, and was leading me down a sloping path which I hadn't

seen before, my curiosity bubbled like a tea-kettle beginning to boil.

"We are going to the little harbour on the Lecco side," he explained,

"and there--you shall see what you shall see."

"Are you planning to run away with me?" I asked, laughing. "Perhaps,"

said he, "and as fast as if we were in my automobile, though we shall

travel by water."

I couldn't think what he meant, until we arrived at the harbour of which

he had spoken. There, among two or three canopied row-boats was one as

different as a swan is from geese. It had no canopy; and as the Prince

brought me down to the quay, a man who had been sitting in the boat

jumped up and touched his cap, which was shaped like a chauffeur's. And

sure enough it was a chauffeur's, for this was a motor-boat, which had

been lent by friends to Prince Dalmar-Kalm, especially for him to take

me on the lake by moonlight.

He told me that he had hurried to Bellagio on purpose to borrow it, and

if we did not leave too early to-morrow the people would call on

me--distinguished people, who would delight in doing honour to the

"American Countess."

Those were his very words; and he was so kind that I hadn't the heart to

let him see I was frightened to go out in the motor-boat. I should have

been far happier in a slow, comfortable old row-boat; and when I found

that the Prince intended to leave the chauffeur behind, and manage the

thing himself, my heart felt as if it had melted and begun to trickle

down between my ribs. It did seem hard, just as I had got used to a

motor-car, to have this new experience thrust upon me, all unprepared.

Often I had thought what noble sentiments one ought to utter while

driving in an automobile, considering that, at any moment your next

words might be your last! but as we shot away from that little quay, out

into the cold white path of the moon, I felt that to save my life I

couldn't have uttered any sentiments at all.

The Prince, however, appeared to be happy, and to have perfect

confidence in himself, in spite of the water looking twice as wet as it

had looked in the afternoon. This motor was of the same make as that in

his car, he said; it was by his advice that his friends had bought it,

therefore he understood it very well, and where would I like to go?

"Anywhere," I answered, as pleasantly as a woman can, whose heart has

just turned to water.

"If I could but flatter myself that you meant anywhere with _me_!" he

exclaimed. "To me, also, our destination is indifferent, provided that I

am with you and have you to myself, undisturbed by others not worthy to

approach you. Do you know, Countess, this is the first time you have

ever been alone with me, for more than a few moments?"

"It's only been a few minutes now," I faltered, for the sake of

something to say.

"Ah, but it will be many minutes before I give you up," said he, "unless

you are cruel."

My heart began to beat fast, for his manner made me guess that

something special was coming, and though I had often thought such a

moment might arrive, and decided, or almost decided, how I would act,

when it was actually at hand it seemed more tremendous than I had

supposed.

"You must try to keep me in good humour, then," said I; but though the

moon was beautifully romantic, and I felt he was looking at me with his

whole soul in his eyes, I couldn't help keeping one of mine glued on the

steering gear, or whatever one ought to call it, and wondering whether

he was paying as much attention to it as he was to me.

"I am more anxious to please you than anything else in the world; you

must have seen that long ago," he went on, moving closer. I gave a

little bound, because the boat was certainly going in zigzags, and he

was so near that by accident I jogged his elbow. With that, the boat

darted off to the left, at twice the rate it had been going. I screamed

under my breath, as Beechy says, and caught hold of the seat with both

hands. The Prince did something in a hurry to the machinery, and

suddenly the engine was as still as death. The boat went on for a few

yards, as if by its own impetus, and then began to float helplessly.

"I've stopped the motor by mistake," he explained. "I will start it

again soon, but let us remain as we are for the present. It is so

delicious to rock quietly on the little waves with you beside me, and

the rest of the world far away."

"Oh, but the waves aren't so very little," I said. "The water hasn't

smoothed down since the storm. It's awfully nice and poetic, but don't

you think it would be still nicer if you just steered?"

"I cannot steer the boat unless the motor is working," he replied. "But

there is no danger of our being run down at this time. The moon lights

the water with a great white lamp."

"Yes, but look at that big, dark cloud," said I, pointing up. "It will

be putting out the light of the lamp in about five minutes. And--and I

_do_ see things moving on the water. When the moon is obscured, we

_might_ have a collision."

The Prince looked up and saw the cloud too. "Very well," he said. "I

will start the motor at once on one condition--that you do not ask me to

take you home for an hour, at least."

"I promise that," I answered, quite shyly.

Instantly he set to work at the motor; but it wouldn't start. The Prince

did a great many things, and even lighted dozens of matches, to see what

was the matter, but not a throb would the engine give.

"I am afraid," he announced at last, in a voice that tried not to sound

cross, "I'm afraid the sparking-plug is broken."

"Well?" said I, "What then? Shall we be drowned?"

"Not at all," he reassured me, taking my hand. "We shall only drift

about until some one comes to our rescue, as unfortunately there are no

oars on board. If I thought you were not unhappy, I could rejoice in the

accident."

I let him keep my hand, but I couldn't feel as happy as I ought, to be

polite. "It's--it's very interesting," I stammered, "but they don't know

where we are, and they'll never think to search the lake for us!"

"The chauffeur will come to see what is wrong if I do not get the boat

back by a little after midnight," said the Prince.

"A little after midnight!" I echoed. "But that would be awful! What

would they think? And oh, see, the cloud's over the moon! Ugh, how dark

it is. We shall certainly be run down. Couldn't we call for help?"

"We are a long way already from the shore," said the Prince; "and

besides it is not dignified to shout. By and by some one will come.

Meanwhile, let us enjoy ourselves. Dear Countess, I confess I brought

you here to-night--your birthday night--for a purpose. Will you listen

while I tell you what it is?"

"Sh! Wait one minute. Aren't those voices in the distance, and don't you

see something big and dark bearing down upon us?"

"They exist but in your imagination," answered the Prince; "Or is it

only that you wish to put me off?"

"Oh, no; I wouldn't be so rude," said I. "Please excuse me." But I was

on pins and needles, trying to keep an eye in every direction at once

(as if I'd had a headlight in my face) and to make the most of my

situation at the same time.

"Then I will no longer strain my patience," cried the Prince in a warm

voice. "Dearest Countess, I am at your feet."

And so he was, for he went right down on his knees in the bottom of the

boat, kneeling on my dress so that I couldn't have stirred an inch if

I'd wanted to, which I didn't; for I meant to accept him. He had had

only my right hand, but now he seized the left, too, and began to kiss,

first one, and then the other, as if I'd been a queen.

This was the first time a man had ever gone down on his knees to me, for

the Prince is the only foreign gentleman I ever knew, and Mr. Kidder

proposed in a buggy. Afraid as I was of a collision, I was enjoying

myself very much, when suddenly a horrid thing happened. A great white

light pounced upon us like a hawk on a chicken, and focussed on us as if

we were a tableau. It was so bright, shining all over us and into our

eyes, that it made everything else except just the Prince and me, and

our boat, look black, as if it were raining ink. And we were so taken

aback with surprise, that for an instant or two we kept our position

exactly as if we were sitting for our photographs, the Prince kneeling

at my feet and kissing my hands, I bending down my face over his head.

I never experienced such a moment in my life, and the thought flashed

into my head that it was Simon's ghost come to forbid my second

marriage. This idea was so frightful, that it was actually a relief to

hear a vulgar shout of laughter coming from the other end of the light,

wherever that was.

The Prince recovered before I did, and jerked himself up to a sitting

posture on the seat, exclaiming something in German, which I am afraid

was swearing.

[Illustration: _A great white light pounced upon us like a hawk on a

chicken_]

"Those Italian ruffians of the _douane_, with their disgusting

search-light!" he sputtered in English when he was recovering himself a

little. "But do not derange yourself, Countess. They have seen that

we are not smugglers, which is one advantage, because they will not

trouble us any more."

All this time the light was in our faces, and the hateful customs people

could see every feature, down to the shortest eyelash. When they did

turn the horrid white stream in another direction, I felt as weak as if

the search-light had been a stream of cold water.

I tried not to be hysterical, but I couldn't help crying and laughing

alternately, especially when the Prince would have taken my hands and

begun all over again.

"'Ware the light!" I gasped, as nervous as a cat that hears a mouse in

the wall. And though I really did want the Prince to propose to me, and

was anxious to say that I would be his princess, in the circumstances I

was as thankful as I was astonished to hear Beechy's voice calling to me

across the water.

In five minutes more a row-boat containing all the members of our party

came alongside, and the lights in our bow and theirs showed us their

faces, though the moon was still hiding her face in her hands with a

pair of black gloves on.

"We _thought_ you'd gone down to the lake," said Beechy, "so I persuaded

the others to come too; but we never dreamed you were in a motor-boat,

or whereabouts you were, till we _saw_ you."

I felt myself get as red as fire; though, when one comes to think of it,

I am my own mistress, and Beechy can't keep me from doing anything that

I've made up my mind to do.

"This boat belongs to a friend of the Prince's," I explained. "We were

trying it when it broke down, and he has been examining the motor."

"So I noticed," remarked Beechy. "I guess you're a little near-sighted,

aren't you, Prince?"

He did not answer her, but explained to Mr. Barrymore the cause of the

accident, and asked to be towed into harbour.

Of course, my evening was spoiled. I tried to laugh it off and say how

Providential it was they had come to our rescue; but though I kept

telling myself every minute that there was no need for me to mind

Beechy, I dreaded meeting her alone. However, the evil moment wouldn't

be put off forever, and she came along the balcony from her window to

mine when I had shut myself up in my bedroom.

I expected her to fly out at me, but her manner was the same as usual.

"Want me to undo your frock behind, Mamma?" she asked.

Then, when she had got me half unhooked: "Tell me what the Prince said

when he proposed."

"He didn't propose," said I.

"If he didn't I shall ask Sir Ralph to call him out. He'd no business

kissing your hands unless he'd proposed."

I was surprised at this attitude. But it made me feel confidential. "He

hadn't had a chance," I volunteered. "He was just going to, when the

search-light--"

"--Searched. Lucky for you the interruption came at the right moment."

"Why? I thought--"

"Because it saved you the pain of refusing him."

"But, Beechy darling, I don't think I was going to refuse him."

"Don't you? Well, I do. I'm sure of it."

"Dearest, if you wouldn't look at me in that square-chinned way! It's so

like your poor Papa."

"I'm Papa's daughter. But I don't intend to be Prince Dalmar-Kalm's

step-daughter."

I began to cry a little. "Why do you always try to thwart me when I want

to be happy?" I asked.

"That isn't fair to say. Look at my short dress and my hair in pigtails.

There's proof enough of what I'm ready to do to make you happy. I let

you be a Countess, and you may be a Princess if you can _buy_ the title,

but no Princes on this ranch!"

My blood was up, and I determined to fight. "Beechy," I exclaimed. "I

guess I've a right to do as I like, and I _will_. It's for your good as

well as mine, for me to marry a title, and I'm _going_ to. I shall say

'yes' when the Prince proposes."

"He won't propose," said she, suddenly as cool as if she had been in a

refrigerator.

"He will, the minute I give him the opportunity, and I shall to-morrow;

I don't care what you do."

"I bet he won't. I'll bet you a good deal. Anything you like, except the

long dress I've got in my trunk, and the package of hairpins in my

grip."

"What makes you think he won't?" I asked, worried by her manner, which

was odd.

"I know he won't."

"You know the Prince will never propose to me?"

She nodded.

I flew at her, and took her by the shoulders, as if she'd been seven

instead of--her present age.

"You cruel girl!" I exclaimed. "You're going to tell him how old I am,

and--and a lot of hateful things."

"No, I'm not, and for a good reason. It wouldn't change his mind. So

long as your banking account's all right, he wouldn't care if you were

Methusaleh. I shan't tell him anything about you. I shan't mention your

name. But he won't propose."

"What _are_ you going to do?" I stammered.

"That's my secret."

"Oh, you have got something in your head?"

She nodded again. "And up my sleeve."

"You will poison his mind."

"No, I won't. I shall only--play dolls."

And she went on unfastening my waist.