My Friend the Chauffeur
thought you would like. Have pity, I beg, on a starving man, and make
yourselves ready in twenty minutes."
"But Mr. Barrymore can't join us then," Maida objected to Mamma, in a
low voice. "He has the car to look after before he can dress, and after
the good day he has given us wouldn't it be ungrateful to begin without
him?"
"My dear girl, when all's said and done, he _is_ the chauffeur," replied
Mamma, at her worst under His Highness's influence. "It would be a
pretty thing if we were to keep the Prince waiting for him. _You_ can
come down later if you like."
"Very well, I will," said Maida, very pink as to her cheeks and bright
as to her eyes. I didn't think she would dare keep her word, for fear
Mr. Barrymore might believe she cared too much about him; but just
because he's poor and she imagines he is snubbed, she will do anything.
Everybody except the Chauffeulier had been at table for a quarter of an
hour, and hors d'oeuvres and soup, and fish, had given place to beef,
when Maida came in, dressed in white, and looking beautiful. As she
appeared at one door Mr. Barrymore appeared at another, and was just in
time to pull out her chair instead of letting the waiter do it.
The Chauffeulier, seeing we had ploughed through half the menu, wouldn't
have bothered with soup or fish, but Maida insisted on having both,
piping hot too, though she never cares what she eats; so the belated one
got as good a dinner as anybody. Whether he realized that Maida had
waited for him I don't know, but he was so unusually talkative and full
of fun that I longed to "vipe" somebody, feeling as I did that his
cheerfulness was due to Maida's kindness. Unfortunately there was no
excuse for viping; but I suddenly thought how I could throw a little
cold water. "Have you noticed, Mr. Barrymore," I asked, "that my cousin
Maida never wears anything except black, or grey, or white?"
He looked at her. "Yes, I have noticed," he said, with an expression in
his eyes which added that he'd noticed everything concerning her. "But
then," he went on, "I haven't had time to see her whole wardrobe."
"If you had, it would be the same," said I. "It's a pity, I think, for
blue and pink and pale green, and a lot of other things would be so
becoming. But she's got an idea into her head that because, when she
goes back home a few months from now, she will enter that old con--"
"Beechy, please!" broke in Maida, her face almost as pink as an American
Beauty rose.
"Well you _are_ going to, aren't you?" I flew out at her. "Or have you
changed your mind--already?"
"I think you are very unkind," she said, in a low voice, turning white
instead of red, and Mr. Barrymore bit his lip, looking as if he would
rather shake me than eat his dinner. Then all at once I was dreadfully
sorry for hurting Maida, partly because Mr. Barrymore glared, partly
because she is an angel; but I would have died in agony sooner than say
so, or show that I cared, though I had such a lump in my throat I could
scarcely swallow. Of course everybody thought I had turned sulky, for I
shrugged my shoulders and pouted, and didn't speak another word. By and
by I really did begin to sulk, because if one puts on a certain
expression of face, after a while one finds thoughts that match it
stealing into one's mind. I grew so cross with myself and the whole
party, that when Mamma said she was tired and headachy, and would go to
our sitting-room if Maida didn't object, I determined that whatever
happened those two shouldn't have the satisfaction of a _tete-a-tete_.
Every one had finished except Maida and the Chauffeulier, who had only
got as far as the chicken and salad stage; and when Mamma proposed
going, a look came over the Prince's face which I translated to myself
as, "_Rien a faire ici_." Since our talk in the garden at San Dalmazzo,
he has given himself no more trouble for Maida or me; all is for Mamma,
at least, when she is present; so I wasn't surprised when he said that
he had several telegrams to send off, and would excuse himself.
"But about to-morrow," he exclaimed, pausing when he had risen. "Shall
you stop to see the Cathedral, and something of Milan by daylight,
before going on to the Lake of Como?"
"Oh, yes," Maida answered. "Mr. Barrymore says we shall have plenty of
time."
"He is quite right," replied the Prince so graciously that I instantly
asked myself what little game he was playing now. "It is not far from
here to Bellagio, where you intend to stop. You will go, of course, by
way of the Brianza?" (This to the Chauffeulier.)
"I suppose we must," answered Mr. Barrymore. "I don't know anything at
first-hand about the road, but at the garage they tell me motors
occasionally do it. The gradients are steep according to the route-book,
but unless there's something worse than meets the eye there, our car
will get through all right."
"I have already driven over the whole length of that road," said the
Prince. "Not _en automobile_, but, no doubt, what a couple of horses can
do, your twelve horse-power car can do better. As for me, I have been
in Milan many a time, and its sights are an old story. I will therefore
go on early to-morrow morning, leaving your party to follow; for I have
acquaintances who live in a charming villa near Bellagio--the Duke and
Duchess of Gravellotti--and I wish to ask them as soon as possible to
call on the Countess."
Mamma was delighted at the prospect of receiving a call from a real,
live Duke and Duchess, so she shed rays of gratitude upon the Prince,
and trotted out both her dimples.
"Come, Beechy," she said. "We'll go now, as Maida doesn't mind."
"I haven't finished my nuts and raisins, and I want some of those
_marrons glaces_ afterwards," said I. "I'll stay and eat them, and
chaperon Maida. I guess she needs it more than you, Mamma, though you're
both an awful responsibility for me."
That sent Mamma away with a vexed rustle of three separate layers of
silk. The Prince walked after her, just far enough behind not to step on
her train (he isn't the kind of man who would ever tear a woman's dress,
though he might pull her reputation to pieces), and Maida, Mr.
Barrymore, Sir Ralph, and I were left together.
Both men had jumped up when Mamma rose, but they sat down again when she
had turned her back, the Chauffeulier (presumably) to finish his dinner,
Sir Ralph to keep me in countenance. But there was no more gaiety. My
douche of cold water had quenched Mr. Barrymore's Irish spirits, and
Maida was depressed. I was the "spoil-sport;" but I "stuck it out," as
Sir Ralph would have said, to the bitter end.
When we all streamed into the big hall there sat Mamma in a corner with
the Prince, instead of having gone up-stairs to nurse her headache. What
was worse, she was letting the man teach her to smoke a cigarette in
imitation of some Russian ladies in another corner. They were puffing
away as calmly as they breathed, because it was the same thing with
them; but Mamma was far from calm. She was flirting with all her might,
and feeling tremendously pretty and popular.
She didn't see me until I had stalked up behind her. "Mamma!" I said, in
a tone of freezing virtue. "Four years ago, you spanked me for that. And
if Papa were here now, what would _he_ do to you?"
She started as if a mouse had sprung at her--and Mamma is dreadfully
afraid of little innocent mice. Then she began to explain and apologize
as if she had been thirteen, and I--well, I'll _say_ twenty-nine.
I foresee that I am going to have trouble with Mamma.
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