My Friend the Chauffeur
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.
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,