The people threw flowers and confetti and everything else they could lay their hands on. Between certain hours there was complete license, and a mask could hit or kiss or be as wild as he pleased. (You know, dear, there is a certain kind of kissing I do not disapprove of.)
Yesterday, too, was gay with crowds of people in the streets, for it was the King’s birthday, and I was awakened by the music of marching bands, in time to see from my window the Persian Ambassador starting to call on the King at the Quirinal. The gala carriages made a fine show with their caparisoned horses, the three liveried footmen behind and bewigged coachman stuck up in front. This important Embassy had traveled all the way from Persia to tell the King that a new Shah had come to the throne, a bit of news we had learned by telegraph months ago,—but such are the ways of monarchs. I wonder when the Ambassador will arrive from America to announce the accession of the new Administration! The evening found me dining at the Foreign Office in honor of His Majesty’s birthday. It was a very splendid and stately affair, the diplomats and officials all in uniforms of gold lace, cocked hats, with swords and fine feathers, my simple, unadorned black coat being the only one at the table. (However, the servants were dressed like me, though to be sure, even some of them were decorated!) It was a dinner of fifty, long and ceremonious, and afterwards we all stood about while I watched the Greek and Turk dodging each other, and taking turns in talking excitably to their fellow guests. Tomorrow they will probably be at each other’s throats.
The Ambassadorial family has just left, with a good many people to see them off, chiefly officials. I put some flowers in their compartment, as I did when my darling Polly left Rome. I had hoped to be able to leave with them, but, as I wrote you, I must wait until a new Ambassador, or his Secretary, arrives before I can turn over the affairs and leave. Oh, Polly, I am so sorry for this further delay. You know how disappointed I am, and you will be patient with me, won’t you, dear?
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Rome,
March.
Dushenka moya, you do not know what these little words mean? Then you cannot forbid that I call you that. Long time I am coming but had much work to do. Now my passage at last is engage, and the boat that bring me I hope she fly. So I fascinated you with my mysterious tales, your letter says? Then shall I tell you more when we meet, about the enchanted Princess with the beautiful golden hair, yes?
Ah, my poor little Hummingbird, I hear your young Diplomat he is staying in Rome; there is no need, but then, oh la la! Always the gray-eyed lady of Da Vinci is with him, and they tell me that every day they go off into the Campagna and ride and ride and come back very cheerful. I am angry for you. When I come, will you receive me kindly like the true friend who will always remain your obedient Boris?
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
March.
Thank Heaven your clever old Ambassador has finally departed, but I am very cross that you didn’t come with him. Why wait for another Secretary? Can’t someone else turn over those ridiculous “affairs?” If you still linger in Rome, I shall complain to the Cruelty to Children Society, because your staying there is making me pine away. Besides, it may be months before your successor arrives. It isn’t by any chance Mona Lisa who is keeping you? That day in Rome when she tore up your picture, she said she would make trouble. Hateful thing, I wish she were in Jericho or Halifax or anywhere except in Rome!
When do you think you’ll get back? Ever? And what about the date of the wedding? Do you prefer the autumn? Put it off if you want to, or shall we give it up entirely?
You might write me a little gossip. Do you see anything of Boris these days, for I believe he’s been making Rome a flying visit? Don’t you like him any more? I do. Does he still carry his fascinating Persian cane? Aunt thought he was on his way to America, but like someone else, he seems to care more about remaining in Rome than journeying towards me. But now he writes he is starting.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
March.
As to the date of the wedding, of course it rests with you, dear, to fix it. It should be, if possible, a week or so after I get home but as for waiting until autumn, I should die! Why not May—that time of year would be lovely at the farm? My plan would be to make a festive little program of pre-nuptial events and a small wedding in church and then you and I would go away and leave everybody in the midst of it all.
But my Polly will arrange everything quite perfectly, I’m sure. A poor man, who is an awkward creature at best, is simply disorganized when it comes to a wedding—and that wedding his own, whew! Nevertheless, we’re talking about it, and just that alone makes me want to dance another of my celebrated Highland flings. Make it May, and near the latter part. I simply cannot fail to be relieved of my work in time to reach home by that date.
Your letter hurt me. Nothing but duty keeps me in Rome, and you must learn to trust me, and not tease and provoke me, because this separation is quite as hard for me as it is for you. Your Prince is here again, but is becoming impossible. I have seen little of him and would like to see even less. Pan, dear Pan who never has a hard word for anyone, much less for one of his own colleagues, tells me he is the most malicious man he knows, that he likes trouble and does the most abominable things. Even the Russians at his own Embassy seem to be watching him closely. He couldn’t do much to trouble us, could he, dear? Has he been writing, to you often, I wonder? And what about? Tell me.
Polly, I write you everything! The other night, just Turkish Pan and artist Peppi and Madame Mona Lisa came to a little dinner in my rooms. While we were talking of not drinking, (I had planned to stop during Lent) I said, with you in my mind, there were of course some toasts I couldn’t resist. Quick as a wink Peppi lifted his glass with “To Mona Lisa!” I was furious, but had to drink it. Dear kind bejewelled Pan then raised his and said “Miss Polly.”
Of course Gilet had to refill my glass which he did with evident delight, for he does not like a dry Lent. But to the second toast I drank heel taps, you may be sure. Then my lady Lisa took an imitation pansy from her dress, saying she knew that Miss Polly gave me fresh ones, but while yours would fade, hers would last forever and bestowed it upon me. Peppi, to my great amusement, looked daggers—he was just like an angry spaniel with his fuzzy hair,—so I made a great show of sentiment in accepting the flower.
Will you forgive me? not for breaking my Lenten sacrifice, for alas! what is that to my little Pagan? You wouldn’t give up your tiny glass unless you took it to pour a libation to some heathen god of mischief. Forgive me for the first toast I drank, that’s all.
There is one thing also I must speak of. I have seen the gold St. Mark lion I gave you on the Prince’s chain. I am sure it was the one, because it had ruby eyes. Although we have not been speaking, I went deliberately up to him and asked him where he got it. He looked confused and said something about having picked it up in Paris. Then I remarked, “I think some pretty American girl gave it to you.” He laughed and replied, “Maybe, who knows?” And Peppi tells me today that he has already sailed for New York. Will you kindly tell me why you gave it to him?
Just what does this mean? The more I think of my lion, the more indignant I am. To pay you back, I am going really to flirt with Mona. I give you fair warning. What do you think of that?
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
New York,
March.
Telegram.
Oh how happy I am to think I shall see you once again. Shall be with you tomorrow.
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
March.
I’m getting desperate. It is impossible to write you how I feel or why, but I’m so alone except for Checkers. He said today, “Why young ’un, you’re getting restless,” and so I am. The Prince arrives tomorrow—Aunt still continues to be queer about our engagement. So you think I really gave the lion to the Prince? And you are flirting with the dangerous Mona Lisa. Oh, everything seems topsy turvey!
POLLY TO A. D.
Cable.
New York,
April 1st.
Breaking my engagement for reasons you can no doubt surmise.
PART IV
THE PRINCE IN PURSUIT
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
April 1st.
On entering my room I saw a cable lying on my desk and eagerly sprang forward, tore it open, only to stagger back and sink into a chair, for it said, “Breaking my engagement for reasons you can no doubt surmise.” Your name was signed.
I have gone over everything. Perhaps you thought I was really flirting with the divorcée—perhaps the Prince has been at the bottom of this—maybe you have felt unduly wounded at my delay in returning, which you must know is not my fault.
Exactly what I intended to do I am not sure, but in my excitement I telephoned Lisa. She said, “Come over at once,” and I went. She knows absolutely no reason for your action, and begged my forgiveness if she had unwittingly caused trouble between us. Thank Heaven there is one loyal woman. Oh! Polly my Pagan, is it the Prince?
A. D. TO POLLY
Cable from Rome,
Evening, April 1.
Another cable was brought me late tonight. “April Fool!” it read. Thank God. Polly, don’t do that again.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
April 2d.
Your dear cablegram came this morning begging my forgiveness. You have it, dearest, absolutely. Evidently somebody’s little conscience troubled her about her naughty message of April first. You’ll get, I fear, a pretty sharp letter which ought not, however, to offend you. Anyway the last cable made me happy, and yet another, telling me that the Senate had confirmed the nomination of the new Ambassador, made me happier still and my heart lighter than it had been for weeks. At least, someone is coming now.
But we’re doing the only thing to be done under the circumstances, and my Polly, I know, expects every man to do his duty, doesn’t she? I shall be home by May, you can be sure, even if I have to resort to the desperate measure of deserting my post. But that would be a hard step to take.
Yesterday I went about a bit—that is, this earthly shell of mine did, while my heart and soul were with you, dear—first to take luncheon with Peppi and to look at his curious copies of old masters. Do you know, he has even taken to painting them on wood, exactly like the fifteenth century—and his own Mona Lisa is uncannily like the one in the Louvre. I told him so and he looked queerly at me. Some had been boxed for sending and whose name do you think was blackly lettered on them? The Prince’s—and the address somewhere down on New York’s east side. Curious, isn’t it?
I didn’t stay long, being too distracted (my nerves are so strung up, they make me the worst company in the world). So I wandered home through the beautiful sunny streets, down past the foot of the Spanish steps where we used to meet, past the fountain and the flower-sellers. Write soon, won’t you?
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
April.
Truly you lost no time in hurrying to your Mona Lisa with my cablegram. Moreover, there’s a little doubt in your letter when you ask, “Is it the Prince?” Can you blame me if—well, I’ll leave the rest unwritten. In the meantime, Aunt is going to take Checkers, Sybil and me to Louisville for the races, and then to Canada, just for a brief camping trip. She says it’s to cheer me up, for I showed her your letter and she’s much annoyed with you. Indeed it raised the poor thing’s hopes that I was making the April Fool joke a reality. It did come rather near to being serious. The Prince joins us at Louisville. Strange about those pictures. I guess I’ll watch him.
Do you still think I really gave Boris your lion? Well, only to show you how wrong you are about me, I will tell you that I did lose it in Paris, but not until your letter came, did I have any idea the Prince had it. I suppose he must have picked it up, and I am not at all sure he even knew that it was mine. Now aren’t you ashamed?
I’m going right on, however, with preparations for the wedding in spite of Aunt’s denials. A few presents are arriving, for I put a bold face on to my friends and say we are engaged and you are coming soon. We have a vase, a tea-set, a great silver bowl; so far that’s about all. My old beaux are sending things, all except Boris, who seems to think his constant presence is the one thing to bestow. I am working on the wedding list,—it seems endless, and Aunt sniffs incredulously when she sees me at it.
How long I’ve sat over this letter I don’t know, just dreaming of you and thinking of Venice so many months ago. Now it is Spring and warm and lovely; the flowers are in bloom and you are not here. Will any of my dreams come true, I wonder?
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
April.
Sweetheart, on coming home I found a letter from the new Secretary who is leaving Washington for Rome even before the Ambassador. I am going to pack up at once and be ready to start as soon as he arrives. Now you can settle on some date towards the end of May for the wedding.
Hurrah! Gilet shall go around and get my bills in to pay them, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker. There must be some official cards printed with a little p.p.c. in the lower left-hand corner ready to leave. I must look up the dates of sailings of the ships for home, say goodbye, give a lot of tips to porters, ushers, chambermaids, sommeliers, and go to the station and so to you!
Peppi, who, I believe, is more and more hopelessly in love every day with the lady Lisa, got up a party for her, and invited some painters, sculptors, a few Dips and their wives, all to drive out for tea at the excavation of the Villa Olivia. We met at the foot of our Spanish Steps, and drove through the Porto del Populo across the Campagna, along the valley of the Tiber by Cività Castellana, to the Villa standing on a hill. After our tea and little cakes, we romped through a wild Virginia reel. I danced with Mona while Peppi, sick with jealousy, stared sombrely at me as if he wished to tuck a stiletto beneath my fifth rib. It was a relief to come away, though, for the lady’s gray eyes glittered when she asked me what further news you had deigned to give me regarding your flirtation with the Prince. I trust my Polly.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
Washington,
April.
You ask me what I do—and what I think of North America? I busy and do much work, travel and not think of any girls but you. Men I see in street, without mustache, wear glasses, have dentist fill mouth with gold, rush about madly and speak, “What say?” and “Sure!” and “Do tell,” wear celluloid collar and ready-made suit and hang big cigar from corner of mouth and—spit! Excuse my funs, dear.
People are lavish if you are Prince, turn somersaults on top of each other to entertain you, but of foreigners suspicious more or less. All American women have too much freedom and know too well how to flirt, and too pretty they are for the heart of a man. Most of the men are uneducate in art and languages and such things; they only know business and politics.
Many buildings are handsome like in Paris and Berlin, but the cities rising into the sky are astounding, abominable. The country and the mountains so very beautiful, they are create to be a home for you, my little wild bird.
Perhaps you not like me say such things but you ask me. I travel now again from place to place. Your army is small, and your big guns burst by each fire. Soon I will be with you at Louisville. Please tell your Aunt that I kiss her hand, and your little hands, I kiss both.
POLLY TO A. D.
Louisville, Ky.,
April.
Such a wonderful trip as we have had on the train! We are now in the land of the clayeaters, moonshine, and mountain feuds, in the region of blue grass, fast horses, and pretty women. Every man is a colonel and every woman a cousin. Our days are filled with hearty handshakes and racy stories, our mouths cooled with mint juleps in silver frosted cups, and our appetites satisfied with beaten biscuits and other delicious Southern dishes.
Sports from all over the country have gathered here for the great Derby—forty thousand or more were at the races—such a mixed crowd, men in checked suits, painted ladies, blacks, whites, all together. First we watched them making bets, then we strolled into the paddock to see the race-horses being led round and round in an enclosed ring, covered with blankets so that only their beautiful heads and bandaged legs could be seen. Each one had his pony or stable companion, as he is called. We hung over the railing and I did love it. Such a variety of names the horses had—By Golly, Up Shot, Bungo Buck. The great race we watched from a box in the grand stand. There was much excitement, cheering, clapping, and money changing hands. On came the horses round the track, faster and faster, till Speed Limit unexpectedly won the race, leaving some people very sad and others wildly hilarious.
Checkers has won—not money on the races—but something else. And what? A girl! Guess if you can—Sybil! ! ! And she is the dearest girl in the world. Checkers is in kingdom come; he declares, “She’s as pretty as a pair of pink boots and as enticing as a glass of Kentucky moonshine. I can go to the races and lose; I can pick a horse with nothing but a mane and a tail; can’t pick a clown in a circus, but I can pick a blue-eyed doll all right!”
How did he ever do it? Why, those two scamps pretended, just to amuse each other and everybody else, to have a mock engagement—Checkers called it a “trial hitch.” He says it worked like magic and they’re onto it for all time and that you must give him “the glad hand.” But oh, how unexpected for the rest of us—they’ve known each other for years. Seeing them so happy together makes me very lonely, A. D. I am glad to hear the new secretary has started over.
The house where we are staying is quite beautiful—of gray stone built in the château style, surrounded by formal gardens and terraces with fountains and statues. Mrs. Courtney serves mint juleps every afternoon in the gallery where superb tapestries hang on the walls, and the enormous stone fireplace has logs as big as trees burning in it. The German Ambassador, an old friend of Boris’, by the way, is here, and also some racing swells.
Boris and I took a walk in the garden today and he pretended to tell me the story of his life, how his father was a Russian, his mother a German countess,—how he had lived in St. Petersburg till his father died,—how (and then he became vague), he wandered from place to place, but perhaps you know all this. He is passionately fond of horses, “me much Cossack” he said, whereupon I proposed a ride.
My mare pulled a good deal and Boris tightened the bit, but as we galloped along, both our mounts became excited and went faster and faster. Nearing a sharp corner, I sang out a warning to the Prince who was just behind. Then, suddenly his horse stumbled and fell. My mare stopped for I turned off the road into a brook. Looking back, I saw Boris lying on the ground very still, the horse standing by.
The terrifying thought swept over me that he had been killed and it was my fault, but he was only stunned and his face considerably cut and scratched. Though pretty well knocked out, Boris was game enough to mount again, so back we rode. He is going to wear a scar, but says it is nothing to the wound I have made on a more vital organ. Rather neat, don’t you think so? Of course I have to be extra sweet to him on account of the accident.
We had great fun at dinner, just a series of jokes and laughs. Afterwards Mrs. Courtney went to the piano and we danced and danced till the clock struck twelve. The whole house is like fairyland, it is so wonderful, and oh, there’s a winding secret stairway that is very mysterious. I can’t make out where it comes from or where it goes, but in one place Mrs. Courtney can suddenly emerge into the library by slipping back a concealed panel. The Prince is greatly intrigued with it; I surprised him as he was trying to make a diagram of its wanderings.
Aunt is still adamant against our marriage. She says I’m to wait till we return to New York before even talking wedding or dreaming of setting a date. But she doesn’t know what I’ve done! And that is, I’ve despatched you a cablegram, suggesting the thirty-first of May, tra-la! And added Checkers’ news. No more tonight, for I’m sleepy, dear.
A. D. TO POLLY
Rome,
April.
I had been in bed some time, Polly my love, dozing and dreaming of you, when I heard the door in the salon open and someone knocking about in the dark, so I called out to know who it was. The half-asleep portier said, “Two telegrams, signor.” Up I got; up the light went, too. Eagerly the yellow envelopes were torn open. One was yours, “Hurry up! Come soon. How about May 31?”
For a moment I stood dazed, overwhelmed by the thought—my wedding day! Then suddenly the realization in a great flood of happiness came over me. Oh, indeed, I’ll hurry!
And the other cable? Aha! That was from my successor, the new Secretary. He has already arrived in London and stopping there for a few days’ business.
Checkers and Sybil have my congratulations. They certainly have sprung a surprise.
POLLY TO A. D.
New York,
May.
Just back from Louisville and staying here for a couple of days before starting for Canada. I am chuckling to myself and wondering how the Prince and Aunt will like it, for they’ve never been camping before. And I’m chuckling about something else, too. As soon as your letter came, I ordered the invitations engraved, writing on from Louisville to the stationer’s. Aunt has continued blandly obstinate, and deep down in her heart she is still intending that this trip will give Boris his best chance to make me change my mind—but we will see. I asked her if we could be married as soon as you came back. She tightened up her mouth with a crisp, “No!” Nevertheless, she can’t stop me; I’m of age.
Then what do you think we did, Sybil, Checkers, and I? We went to our Rector—your father’s old friend, you know he thinks everything of your family—and he said he’d perform the ceremony. So we’ve secured the church. We ordered the music and decorations—crimson azaleas. Just an hour ago while Aunt was wrestling with a few last details regarding the trip, Checkers took a traveling bag, filled it with the invitations I had been surreptitiously addressing, and we went out and mailed them, dancing around the mail-box till passers-by thought we were utter lunatics.
Oh, A. D., do for goodness’ sake come home! I am so tired of waiting, it seems as if it was impossible to stand it much longer. Don’t you hope and pray we will live happily together? I wish we were married now, that it was done, for in a way I do dread it. All I want is that we may go far off into some little nook in the woods by ourselves away from people.
Forgive this dismal letter but somehow everything makes me sad tonight. Boris upsets me, I don’t know why. But I won’t be so any more after you arrive. Do hurry.
But there’s one more thing, A. D., before this letter closes. The Rector said I must tell Aunt our plans, and I promised to. I did try, without any success, however. As we shall be traveling, she won’t see the acceptances for some time. When I think of the inevitable interview, I shake in my shoes. You’ll come dashing in, though, won’t you, and rescue me?
POLLY KEEPS A JOURNAL LETTER FOR A. D.
Island Lake,
Algonquin Park,
Canada.
No nice fat Embassy letter was waiting for me at the hotel, I am sorry to say, but Aunt says we shall have time enough to get mail after the camping-trip, so there was nothing forwarded for any of us. I am going to keep this note-book with me and make a kind of diary, so as to jot down everything that happens.
A glorious morning; we started off with guides, tents, and canoes, and paddled through Cache Pond to Island Lake, our first camp, with only two short carries. Boris insisted on having me and a guide in his canoe. I won’t say I haven’t been flirting, but when my conscience pricks me, I think of Mona Lisa in Rome with you, and go at it again. Now aren’t you sorry?
The events have begun. We struck a nice little run of rapids, and just when we got to the deepest part, the canoe slewed, hit a rock, and then over it went, and we with it. The next thing I knew, someone was dragging me up, blinking, choking, spluttering. I opened my eyes to behold my rescuer, the Prince! Don’t you think, A. D., I should be properly grateful to him? He saved my life—without an instant’s hesitation, Aunt says. So you see you owe your future wife’s very existence to him. I’ve got to be sweet to him, haven’t I?
It is now near the end of our first day in the wilderness. I do nothing but think how good it will be to see you again. I would like so much to be in New York to greet you on the dock, but instead I’m paddling with the Prince.
First day’s remarks by the party:
Sybil: “Oh! Ah! Heaven!”
Checkers: “Bully!”
Prince: “Bozhe moi!” (Whatever that means.)
Aunty: “This box has got soap! Not eggs!”
Polly: “I’m game for the next event!”
For supper we had beans, flapjacks, and tea. For beds, fir balsam.
I think that Aunt and Boris prefer the comforts of home. The Prince certainly has her ear, and when I surprise them in one of their long and confidential interviews, they act like a couple of arch-conspirators. But he is very nice just now and it is my last chance for a fling, isn’t it?
We had a carry to Lake Kootchie, the second day, then a long portage and four miles of paddling to the end of Big Smoke this morning, and ended the day at Lake Bear. Checkers and Boris played cards on making camp, and after gambling for a while, it looked as if the Prince saw things were not going his way, so he stopped to arrange his fishing tackle. Checkers screwed up his eyebrows at me and winked.
For supper—pea-soup, fish, and prunes.
Second Day’s remarks:
Sybil: “The loons are so jolly. I want to take one home.”
Checkers: “Every minute I like it better.”
Aunt: “The beds are so hard—sno-r-r-r-r-oh!”
Prince (gazing soulfully at me): “To rescue beautiful ladies—ah, it is heaven.”
Confession: I let the Prince kiss my hand. After all, he saved my life, you know. You weren’t here and I had to have somebody kiss it.
Breaking camp at seven-thirty a short but pretty portage brought us to the three Bonnecherre and then to Lake Rod and Gun where we are now tenting. Butter-ball ducks flew by on the way, and we saw a few partridges and deer, but not much big game, for moose are farther north. Last night was an eventful one; wolves howled, the wind blew, the rain descended. Suddenly our tent fell down amid loud cries for help. Boris came to our rescue, but tripped over a rope and stood on his head from whence issued a flood of Russian. Which, if I could have understood it, would probably have paralyzed me for a week. Later a muskrat came and ate up all our chocolate.
Third Day’s remarks at supper:
Aunt: “Oh, but I’m so tired! I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”
Checkers: “I’m hungry! I’d like to be the muskrat.”
Sybil: (Holding his hand under cover of her poncho) “I’m a frozen dog, but I’m having the time of my life.”
Prince (sotto voce): “Only forty-eight hours more.”
Polly: “Can’t be too few for me.”
Later.
A. D., I’ve made an awful mistake! I was too good to the Prince and he took advantage of it. In fact he was pretty naughty. You see he thought we were quite alone this afternoon, the others had gone fishing, and before I knew what he was doing, he entered my tent and had me in his arms, kissing my hair, my eyes, my mouth. I screamed and one of the guides ran in. Boris cursed him for interfering, so I simply asked the man to remain. There was nothing for the Prince to do but walk out. Then the guide looked at me funnily and said that the canoe didn’t tip over that time in the wind, that Boris had hired him to upset it, the spot being fairly shallow and perfectly safe. Apparently our Russian wanted to get the credit of an heroic rescue. So you were right after all. He’s not to be trusted.
Also, there is a very queer thing that your little Sherlock Holmes has just discovered. He’s had letters come to him over another name, not in the least like his own. They fell out of his pocket when he was struggling with me. I picked them up—one was marked up in the corner with the name of some antique dealer. Can Boris be selling Peppi’s pictures? Is that the mysterious “business” that takes him from one big city to another? When you get back to Washington, ask about him at the Russian Embassy. Oh give me a good straight American man, say I!
We’re about a hundred miles north of Toronto now. One day more and then we leave for home.
Fourth Day. A gray mist and an early start. I insisted on going in Checkers’ canoe. Boris and I are not speaking. Our two mile portage led to Rock Lake. Saw a bear and caught some trout and bass for supper. Railway in sight. To celebrate our last meal we indulged in a bonfire, had soup and a welsh rarebit, and gambled late into the night by the light of candles stuck into broken bottles.
Fourth Day’s Remarks:
Aunt: “Fiddlesticks! What’s all this trouble about?”
Checkers: “Bow wow.”
Sybil: “Meow, meow.”
Polly: (Silence.)
Prince: (More silence.)
Fifth Day. This morning the tents came down, fishing tackle was put away, clothes shoved into the duffle bags for the last time. We paddled across the lake to the hotel. Closing remarks by the Party:
Aunt: “Camp generally becomes passably comfortable just as one nears the end of the trip.”
Prince: “How I love the railway.”
Sybil: “At the end of the last carry, still carrying on!”
Checkers: “Prince Tripp tripped up—a spring trip! Polly’s eyes have been opened.”
Polly: “They’ve never been entirely shut. I only winked occasionally.”
These journal notes I am sending you with my love, care of the State Department, Washington.
A. D. TO POLLY
En Route,
May.
Goodbye, Rome! I’m on the train at last, speeding away from the Eternal City.
When I came home to dress for my farewell Roman dinner last evening, there was a note on the table from the Doyen of the Ambassadors stating that the King would receive at twenty-one hours and thirty minutes. I hurriedly calculated this would be half-past ten, so calmly went off to dine with some of my old pals, a sort of goodbye party, thinking there would be plenty of time. Suddenly I had a lucid moment and realized that twenty-one thirty meant half-past nine! I looked at my watch—just twenty-eight minutes past. Whew, but I flew—took a cab and galloped at full speed to the Quirinal, rushed up the great staircase past the astonished lackeys, through the guard room into the State Reception Rooms, got there, terribly out of breath, but—on the minute!
It was a pretty sight, the Royal Circle in the Salon of the Mirrors. We stood in a row,—“we few, we happy few, we band of brothers”—while the King and Queen went as usual to each and talked. When he came to me, I told him I was going home to be married, and got so enthusiastic in telling how happy I was, how anxious and eager, how it was the only thing which made me willing to leave His Majesty’s Court that he got roused, too, and said really very pleasant things, and shook me by the hand with a hearty good wish and good-bye, and strutted away most amicably. To the Queen, also, I insisted on talking of my felicity, and she said she had heard of it and wished us well. So! A Royal Pair approves our wedding, if not an Aunt. You might point that out to your title-loving guardian; perhaps she will think a little more kindly of me.
Today before I left the Embassy, my successor arrived, and to him I handed all the lire that were left, and papers and so forth. The office had been thoroughly cleaned and dusted, a new carpet put down, and new window-curtains put up. I showed him everything I could think of, shook him by the hand, and just caught my train.
Now we are climbing the Italian Alps, which are wonderfully beautiful in the afternoon sun, and in a little while we shall pass through the tunnel of Mt. Cenis and out of Italy. Every day will bring me nearer to you, dear Polly, and twenty thousand times more happy. Dearest, a few weeks more, and we shall begin the first of our married life, and you—my wife!
A telegram was handed me on the train just now which quite takes my breath away, though its news does not surprise me as much as it will you. Peppi and his little divorcée, gray eyes, Mona Lisa smile, and all, were married today in Rome, with only Gonzaga, Pan, and Jonkheer Jan at the wedding!
My dear, I am going to tell you something. The lady came to my rooms quite unexpectedly the other day, and asked for tea, which Gilet made for her, and then she just sat and looked at me with her inscrutable smile and her mysterious eyes. Finally she got up and went over and looked at your photograph for a long while, then turned and said, “Your little Polly is very sweet, even if she doesn’t like me. Is it true that you return for your wedding soon?”
“Quite true,” I replied.
“We’ve been very good friends, you and I,” she went on, “and I am sorry to have you go. Goodbye.” She gave me her hand which I kissed, for there were tears on her lashes, and I followed her down to put her in the cab. She said with that usual cryptic look of hers, “I’ve made up my mind to something this afternoon. Don’t be surprised when you get word of it. Farewell.”
The man cracked his whip and off she went.
But still, there remains some mystery about her and about Peppi to be unravelled yet. The two are married, so far, so good, but where does the Prince come in? Surely he and she were conspiring about something. She evidently wanted you to marry him, and she may have thought then that I could be more devoted to her, who knows? Then, too, there were those paintings, the copies of old masters, all packed and addressed to Boris in New York. Peppi I trust, Lisa I pity, but your Muscovite I believe is a rascal. Won’t we have a lot to talk over? And think, too, dear, from now on I’ll be traveling every hour toward you.
A. D. TO POLLY
London,
May.
This is the last way station, dearest, on my journey to New York and you. I delight in these stages, the jump from Rome to Paris—Paris to London—and London to Home!
The crossing from Paris was wretched, a great gale blowing up the channel, but at least we were able to make it, which wasn’t the case every day this week. England hasn’t changed much since my last visit. I am always amused on landing to find everything exactly the same—the same weather, the same incomprehensible accent and manner of talking, the same points of view, the newspapers harping on the same subjects, the same items in the society columns—everything so conventional.
We were landed in the same old uncomfortable manner at Folkestone, while the same crowds of mannish-looking women with great buns of hair stood in line and stared, and men in knickerbockers and mackintoshes stood sturdily in the wet gale and smoked bull-dog pipes, just as pictures in “Punch” show they did a generation ago. Then in the same cold compartment carriages we came speeding across the same country, past the same roof tops, into the same Charing Cross station. And behold, the atmosphere was made up of the same smoke and fog I learned to know so well, and the lights burned dimly as of old.
The change from gay, well-lighted Paris, all en fête, to London, sombre, melancholy, was just as great as ever, and just as complete. And how small great but little Rome seems beside these huge, up-to-date cities! I feel lost in them, and am terrified at the crossings of the streets, and, like an elderly country woman, I pass most of my time on the “Islands” in Piccadilly.
I have visited many of my former haunts, gone to the Embassy, seen many old friends, and feel quite jollied up. I even went to a tea yesterday, where some men and women stood around unintroduced, in the delightfully awkward way which Du Maurier, alas, will no longer draw. The evening found me dining at Prince’s Restaurant and later going on to the Palace Varieties, where again I saw the pretty circus rider, and although a certain person thought much of the performance, yet he thought a great deal more of—you!
This morning I walked out—the London haze was pearly gray and opalescent and a lozenge sun was in the sky, a beautiful day for London—and I went down to the foot of Curzon Street and through Lansdowne passage, and there, yes, there was my old friend the cock-eyed sweeper, standing by his little pile of dust. I gave him a shilling in my delight at seeing him again, and with his broom. Have you kept my broom, I wonder?
It is still cold in London, and I try to keep warm with a foolish little fire in a tiny grate. It is dismal enough, too, for candle light. The British are afraid of “over heating,” as they call it—which means really that they are careful of their coal. But then, one is “stoking up” all day long in this climate, a heavy breakfast, a heavier luncheon, the heaviest of dinners, with tea and toast and muffins in the afternoon, and a supper at night.
Last night I had a dream which, although there wasn’t anybody to tell it to before breakfast and so make it come true, I hope may be realized. The only one to confide in, for Gilet was out on business, was the fluffy-haired footman who wasn’t sufficiently sympathetic for me to commune with. But indeed I am not superstitious, and the dream was pleasant enough for me to think over to myself—because it was about you!
Although this letter may go by the same steamer that I sail on, yet I can’t help writing and sending you my love.
POLLY TO A. D.
En route,
May.
A. D., dearest, how exciting it must be for you about now, sighting from the steamer deck that low-lying Long Island shore, Sandy Hook, the channel, and beyond them, the beautiful bay. I can imagine your father going to meet you on the busy, snubnosed, important little tug,—but then, I think of so many things happening, for while we were camping and your letters stopped, “thinks” were all I had to live on.
We are flying at sixty miles an hour, nearer and nearer to you. After days of silence I found your two wonderful letters waiting for me when we got back to civilization. The clerk at the hotel said Aunt had given orders to hold them. I wonder if she did this on purpose, for surely they could have been sent in to us by a guide. The Prince was with me when I made my inquiries; I saw him trying to suppress a smile. But he does not like my ignoring him and he is getting a bit ugly. When I broke the news of Peppi’s marriage to Mona Lisa, both he and Aunt seemed disturbed, and Boris acted quite upset, and as if he had lost an ally. I left them talking it over. He certainly has Aunt hypnotized. My twin wagered he would try for her hand next.
Checkers and Sybil spend their time on the train shamelessly making love and telling me I must begin to inform Aunt about the wedding. I screwed up my courage an hour ago and began, “The Rector says he’ll perform the ceremony, Aunt—” but she broke in with “Whose ceremony?”
“Mine and A. D.’s,” I continued, trying to look determined.
“Humph!” she said, and closed her eyes, pretending to go to sleep.
When she awoke, I tackled her again. “I’ve engaged the church, Aunt,” quoth I.
“What for?” said she.
“For the thirty-first,” I replied blandly while Checkers snickered.
“What are you talking about?” and by now Aunt was truly cross.
“The same thing,” I sighed, “our wedding.”
She muttered something about that ceremony never coming off and departed for the observation car to join the Prince. But she looked worried.
Checkers egged me on to begin again when she re-appeared. “As I was saying, Aunt, when we were interrupted, everything’s all ready, you know. Checkers will give me away. Sybil is to be maid of honor—she’s to wear white lace and carry Lady Battersea roses—and the decorations are to be wine-red azaleas—”
“Not another word!” she snapped, and I drew a long breath and stopped for a few minutes to get ready for the next attack. After a pause, “The thirty-first’s the day, you know,” I observed casually. Aunt blinked.
“The wedding day,” piped up my brother. “Our Polly’s!”
“How about Boris?” she inquired. “You are a little fool not to become a princess.”
I ignored this remark and continued, “Ricci is going to sing and St. Laurent will be at the organ and—” I found I was addressing an empty chair, for my relative had stalked off once more.
The next opportunity another bolt was shot at her. “My wedding dress is ordered, and it’s a beauty! The veil will be four yards—”
“Porter!” shouted Aunt, and as that coffee-colored individual stopped short, she started him on a long explanation of the route ahead of us, while I withdrew, baffled and brooding, to re-read your letters. How am I going to bring my guardian around finally?
Later I began again, “I think the reception at the house after the ceremony should not be very large,” this apropos of nothing, “for by the thirty-first a good many people will have left town, though, of course they’d run up for a wedding like ours,—”
“Are you crazy?” she demanded. “We shan’t be home till the twenty-eighth, and you can’t get your invitations engraved in time, let alone sending them out.”
Checkers and Sybil drew near. “They’re all done and sent!” we chorused.
“I mailed part of them!” proclaimed my brother.
“I, too!” piped up Sybil.
“When was all this?” cried Aunt.
“The day we left New York, so you see, you really can’t do anything about it,” Checkers continued politely.
Aunt turned purple. “I don’t believe a word of it, and I shall not countenance it,” whereupon she stamped her foot. And that’s the situation now, dear.
A. D. TO POLLY
Washington,
May.
Behold me, dear, on my native soil, hungrily awaiting a love letter from you, even though I am a little ahead of my schedule. I didn’t cable, in order to surprise you, but nevertheless I hoped you might guess the steamer from my letters. Father was on hand to greet me but I was disappointed when I dashed up the gang plank not to see you on the wharf and later to learn from your butler at the house you were still hundreds of miles away. Then I came on to Washington at once to report. All, everybody—customs-officers, collectors, bank-cashiers, down to the smallest clerk in the Department, when I told them the news, congratulated me heartily and added good wishes till I was as happy as I could possibly be without you.
As soon as I hear you have arrived I will take the train to New York and go to the Waldorf. Almost a year ago we began to love each other, though the world did not know, and we kept our secret to ourselves. Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. Aunt will have to come round.
POLLY TO A. D.
En route,
May.
Dearest! Hurrah! You have arrived and we have just left Montreal on our way to New York. Apparently Aunt left word for our mail to be forwarded there, for when we got to the hotel, the clerk produced simply a bushel-basketful. Of course you know what they all were,—acceptances for the wedding! It was the last crushing blow. We left her alone with them in her room, heaps in her lap, piles scattered at her feet, and our vanquished relative sitting in their midst like Caius Marius on the ruins of Carthage. A. D., has she definitely succumbed, I wonder?—She remarked I was a stubborn little heathen.
A few minutes ago, just before we crossed the border, the strangest thing happened. Two officials came on board the train and began to go through it, car by car, asking the names of the passengers, staring into their faces, and making hasty rummages in their luggage. When they came near us, the Prince started violently, then sauntered over and sat down beside me without saying a word. His face was like chalk.
I inquired what the trouble was and if they were looking for anyone in particular. They said a foreigner had been discovered doing a very clever bit of rascality—stealing valuable old Masters from the museums in several large cities, and leaving such admirable imitations in their places that the theft hadn’t been detected for some time, and no one could tell just how he had been operating. But certain letters had helped furnish clues, and they had reason to think the man was on the train.
Aunt called out, “All these people are in my party. We’ve been camping,” and off started the official. As he moved away, he said to his assistant, “No, I don’t believe Kosloff is on this train.” It was my turn to look at the Prince. Kosloff was the name on his letters!
After the officials went out, I walked off astounded. Dear A. D., what should I have done? He is even worse than we thought, isn’t he?
TELEGRAM TO A. D.
Care of the Department of State,
Washington,
May.
We reach New York the 28th. Plan dinner for wedding party the night of the 30th. Invite ushers. Much love.
Polly.
PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY
New York,
May.
The last days on the trip you speak little to me.
Yes I have played tricks and upset canoe but my love for you, that is excuse. Why do you refuse to see me? I can to you easily explain the pictures and the name Kosloff. If you intended to—what you call it?—throw me down, why have you and your Aunt so encourage me? I ask you that. Again I shall come to your door and you will grant me yet one conversation. Bah! I am not a fool!
A. D. TO POLLY
Washington,
May.
Your journal notes and letters, my beloved, are before me, and I have alternately boiled with rage at that Russian imposter, and grinned at the thought of your baffled relative. You did exactly right, your judgment was good and my faith in you complete. I am so glad you told me fully about all the suspicious circumstances regarding the Prince, if he is a prince. How abominable of him to lay even a finger on you. I should like to throttle him!
I called at the Russian Embassy and asked a few questions regarding the creature, of course saying nothing that could possibly drag you into the affair. The Ambassador was rather guarded, and said he knew very little about him. The Prince had been in Washington, he had not called at the Embassy, but it was known that he had dined more than once at the German Embassy. The Ambassador’s attitude was curious and left me wondering if Boris might not be in the pay of some country other than Russia. But we shall see.
Something kept me from speaking about the counterfeit old Masters. And it was well, for on returning to the hotel, I found a letter from Peppi, anxiety in every line of it. Boris had taken some work to America to sell for him on commission—as copies, honestly, he assured Peppi, who believed him. But it was to be a secret, lest the Prince be known to have disgraced his noble blood by descending to trade. Now our artist is plainly worried and wants to be assured there is nothing underhanded being done. Mona Lisa has evidently revealed something, for she was intimate enough with Boris and clever enough to see he was up to some rascality. I wrote our poor friend to have no further dealings with the Russian; that was all I felt I could do. Nice friends we have had!
Now you have told me your troubles, you have relieved your mind and heart of all their anxieties, I hope. You can tell me anything in the world, and find me absolutely true, for I love you with every drop of blood in my body, and I would stake my soul on you.
Postscript: Have received your telegram. I will leave for New York tomorrow, the thirtieth. Have sent invitations to ushers. We shall meet at your house for dinner, and then at noon the next day your life will be in my own safe keeping.
POLLY MAKES A LAST ENTRY IN HER JOURNAL
Early morning, May 31st.
There are only a few hours left before A. D. and I shall be married but I won’t try to write a word about how wonderfully happy I am, for there is so much to put down! Something most extraordinary happened. The Prince has been bothering me since we reached New York, by calling at the door and sending in the most imperative messages. But I refused flatly to see him, though Aunt maintained that he would explain everything to all of us in a perfectly satisfactory manner. Poor Aunt, she’s a dear, silly, old thing. I believe she’s actually been in love with him all the time herself.
But yesterday, the thirtieth, Boris got the better of me. The butler announced that Sister Beatrice, a nun whom I had known in Rome, wished to see me. So naturally I told him to admit her, and in walked a black-robed figure. Imagine my surprise and anger when under the veil I saw the blue eyes of the Prince. He looked so like a naughty boy that before I knew it, I laughed.
All of a sudden he became intensely serious and said that he had really come to take me away, that he worshiped me, that he knew deep down I loved him, too, that we must take the steamer that evening—the Carpathia—he had reservations engaged—and that we could be married on the boat, and he had everything arranged.
I showed him at once that he had made a mistake and ordered him to go. An ugly vindictive look came over his face and then I realized how desperate he was. He asked me if I thought he was such a fool as to leave me in possession of certain information about himself; moreover he declared he had to have money, that he was at the end of his rope. I replied that I was sorry but could not help him again, that I might have given him over to the officials on the train. Then he said sneeringly I had better go with him, if I put a value on—life, for instance, that he, a Russian, would stop at nothing. I rang the bell and when the butler appeared, Boris saw that he had failed, and said, “You will regret this hour,” and went out. Aunt met him in the hall and after some whispered conversation, he departed. Later she left the house. Nor did she come back the entire evening. My exasperating relative! She had not planned to be at our dinner party, so I wasn’t alarmed, though anything but jolly. Boris’s uncanny threat was echoing in my ear amid all the joyousness and excitement and flowers, ringing of bells and arrival of telegrams of congratulation. When everybody had gone except A. D. and it was very late—we were sitting together in the parlor near the front door,—I heard footsteps, and thinking it must be Aunt returning, I peered out. There was a dark figure that darted hastily up the front steps, apparently left a package and ran swiftly down the street and out of sight. A premonition told me something was wrong and that we were in danger. A. D. dashed out to investigate.
“What’s this?” he said, picking up a box in the vestibule. Inside was a ticking noise like an alarm clock.
“Maybe something the Prince sent,” I gasped. “He threatened to do something desperate.”
“Run!” A. D. shouted and began to strip off the wrappings. Quick as a flash he rushed into the house, out into the pantry, and dropped the package into a pail of water. “A bomb—I’ve fixed it,” he told me, “and it’s as harmless now as a plain box of gunpowder. But it was a close call, the thing was set for one o’clock.” Just as we looked at each other, the hall clock chimed once. A. D. caught me in his arms. I laughed hysterically, and he asked, “Is it to be shown with the other wedding gifts?”
We both went rather shakily into the parlor, but at that very moment, Checkers came in, his face quite pale and sober. “Look what I found in my room!” he said. It was a note from Aunt, saying that Boris and she were going to elope, that she had always loved him and knew they would be happy. “Scandalous!” he declared, “and what are we going to do about it?”
“He’s a worse scoundrel even than I thought,” said A. D.
“Checkers, it’s up to you to stop her. Take a taxicab to the steamship dock as quick as you can get there. Carpathia!” I shouted.
Checkers hurried out of the house while A. D. stayed on to comfort me and talk over the next step we could take in case Checkers was too late, and what people would say about the whole thing. At two o’clock there was no word, and calling up the dock by telephone, we found that the Carpathia had sailed at exactly one-thirty. Then I made A. D. go, and went sorrowfully up to bed, but not to sleep, hoping that nothing had happened to my twin.
Nor did he come back for hours. Finally, when it was almost daylight, there was a tap at my door and Checkers tiptoed in and began, “I found Aunt but she wouldn’t listen to me when I got to the dock. No go! She wouldn’t budge and Boris was pouring out a torrent of Russian that sounded to me like a bunch of fire crackers. The steamer sailed and I stayed on board, still arguing. Finally I told Boris I’d hand him over to the captain on any one of half a dozen charges that would put him behind the bars till he was ninety. He gave me an ugly look and slunk off,—I don’t know where for we didn’t see him again. Fortunately they had not succeeded in getting a clergyman to marry them. At last Aunt consented to return with me on the pilot boat on condition that neither of us would ever mention Boris’s name to her again.”
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“Gone into her room and shut the door. Poor defiant old dame. Polly, she’s ashamed of herself!” And Checkers went off to bed to make up his lost sleep.
I shall try to forget the Prince too if I can, but he’s a strange, fascinating and wicked person. Somehow I feel our paths will touch again some day, and I have deep down in my heart a pagan yearning to show him up in his real colors.
But that’s the end of it for now. A. D. will be with me soon. We’ll forget our troubles and be happy. Let the Prince go hang, for we love each other.
A. D. TO POLLY
An hour before the wedding.
Polly my darling, just a line of love. What a terrible night! Have heard from Checkers. Thank heaven your Aunt returned. I shall not see you now until you come up the aisle towards me, and I shall never go away from you again. I am all excitement at the thought of the great happiness that is to be mine today. Oh, my dearest, you have become such a part of my life that I feel like rushing to your house for just one more glimpse of you. From now on, I shall cherish you and protect you. Until noon and then....