A CHASE IN THE MOONLIGHT
HERA asked if the automobiles, too, were gone. The excited servants
told her the garage had been attacked and everything smashed. Had any
one seen Sandro? Yes; he was there looking through the ruins. She ran
to the door of the place, and called the name of the chauffeur. From
amid the wreckage he answered her, and came forth, cap in hand.
“Are all the machines damaged?” she asked.
“All but one, your Excellency. The thirty-horse touring car is far back
in the house, and the devils did not get to it.”
“Can it be used at once?”
“Oh, yes, your Excellency. There is not so much as a scratch upon it.”
“I wish to go to Villa Barbiondi as swiftly as you can make it carry
us.”
“The moon is bright, and if the road is half clear,” he said, delighted
with the hazardous mission, “we can do it in thirty minutes.”
Then he called to the hostlers and other servants to come and clear
away the useless cars, for Donna Hera was going to make a dash in
the night. With a will they fell to, and one wreck after another was
dragged out of the garage. Sandro touched something in the surviving
machine, and smiled to hear it respond with coughs and sobs. He took
a minute to crawl under it, measure things with critical eye by the
light of an electric lantern, and was on his feet again throwing in lap
cloths and handing a mask to Hera. He sprang in, pulled the lever and
shot the machine out to the court. Once or twice he ran it back and
forth, cutting figures after the manner of fancy skaters, and with a
satisfied “All right” he descended again and opened the door for Hera.
When she had her seat it was touch and go. With the hostlers standing
wide-eyed, and Beppe, no longer tipsy, running from the portico big
with the news of what he had found in the library, the car swung out of
the court, headed for the Venetian Gate.
“I wish you to make the best speed that you can,” Hera said, when they
were bumping over the cobbles of Via Borghetto.
He patted the air reassuringly as he glanced back at her. “Your
Excellency need have no anxiety,” he said. “Leave it to me.”
As he spoke they leaped into a swifter pace, and this was held in the
Corso and through the streets beyond the walls; but when the crowds of
soldiers and civilians were behind them, and Hera sighted once more the
far horizon, set with stars, he sent the speed lever home and, like a
spurred horse, the machine plunged out upon the wide, white road. In
the suburb of Villacosa she received an impression of dimly-lighted
street, carbineers and gesturing workmen, bare heads at windows,
barking dogs, and a thumping rise and fall over a cobbled bridge.
A few seconds and all this was far at their back, and they were
spinning over plains that stretched in the silver night for miles on
either hand, level as a table. Now and then they came upon a market
wagon labouring along, but the way was wide, and they curved around it
like a shooting star.
The wind had swept all the clouds from heaven; only a few vapours thin
as the moonlight flitted across the stars; to footfarers the wind did
no more than whisper; for Hera and Sandro it was a gale that whipped
around them with a high, thin yell and caught up the powder of the road
and smote them with it in clouds that must have blinded but for their
masks.
They swerved northward into a narrow byway that was a short crossing to
the road that followed Adda’s margin. It was a precipitate dive into
the woods. There was no light save that cast by the car’s lamps, and
the course was difficult with many a sharp crook. Every minute they
were on the point of vaulting into the thicket or trying conclusions
with a sturdy oak. They rocked and swayed at times as if their carrier
was a boat in a choppy sea. Hera was occupied in holding fast, but
Sandro seemed not to know that the experience was at all unusual.
Forgetting himself and all the world except the road and the dangers
that the lamps revealed, he became a part of the dodging, spinning
thing, meeting emergencies with a passive certainty that was more
automatic than human. He had seen in Hera’s eye that more than a lady’s
caprice had inspired this nocturnal flight, and he had prayed that none
of his steed’s airy feet might know puncture, or heart-failure attack
it through the carbureter.
When they had struck again into a straight run, and through the vista
of foliage could see the river’s sheening face, Sandro shouted, in an
access of pride for his achievement:
“It was very amusing, that little bit there! I know my trade, do I not,
your Excellency?”
Hera gave him an appreciative smile and a nod, although he had not made
his words carry above the roar and yell that were with them always.
The wheels on one side clear of the earth, they rounded a corner and
darted forth on the fine river road. Now the way was as level as a
plank. Sandro moved the speed lever, and the file of poplars, yards
apart, chased away like giants close upon one another’s heels. Houses
on the passing hillside, with lighted windows, winked at them and were
gone. All the details of the landscape were on the move. Villages
streamed by in jumbled masses of low masonry.
The bridge of Speranza swept past to join other landmarks, and Hera
caught sight of a horseman, so far ahead as to be beyond the range
of the lamps but showing distinctly in the paleness of the night.
Standing up and leaning forward so that she might pour all the power
of her voice against Sandro’s ear-drum, she told him to “Stop!” It was
two miles yet to Villa Barbiondi, and he answered her with only an
assurance that there was no danger. And not until she had shaken him
by the shoulder and pointed to the figure now in the lamp glare did he
shut off speed and set his brake down.
The rider had gone from the highway into the little road that ran
uphill to the monastery ruins. Within a few feet of the turning Sandro
brought the car to a halt. He looked around for the lady, but she had
disengaged herself from the lap covering, thrown off the mask, and was
on the ground, running toward the horseman. With all her strength she
called his name, and the grove of maples into whose darkness he had
passed gave back her voice.
“Mario, Mario! It is I, Hera!”
He heard, and his horse, checked violently, reared and curvetted in
turning, then came toward her at a gallop, out into the moonlight.
Quickly she told him of the emancipating event in Milan and the dying
words that had sent her to warn him; but there was no bitterness for
any one now in either heart. All the world was love for the man and
woman standing there beneath the stars, prisoners of honour and despair
suddenly made free. The shadow of a solitary yew tree touched them--a
symbol of what had been. The lonely cry of a bird sounded; somewhere
in the distance a dog barked; and as they started for the highway a
swishing of leafy bush drew their gaze toward a figure with loping
carriage that slunk away toward the bridge of Speranza. He never looked
back, but went like a panther balked of his prey.
* * * * *
When a year had passed they met once more in the cloister ruins, amid
the sleeping fragrance of the wild flowers. As careless children they
roamed in the age-old garden, thrilled with the thought of Love set
free. The afternoon had faded far; the sun touched only the capitals of
the low Doric columns, where ivy and honeysuckle cleaved and iridescent
sun-birds dipped into flowery cups. The gentlest wind that ever tried
its wings stole in by the clefts of grey wall and made the tiny white
bells of the vale lilies tremble. Bees murmured over the tufts of
fragrant thyme.
Once they wandered a little apart, she to cull the blooms of a
strawberry plant, he to pluck white and pink and gold from the many
grasses for the garland that she said she would make; and they called
to one another over the bushes in sheer transport of joy. They came
upon a bud of eglantine, called by them _rosa salvatica_, but for
their garland they did not take it, because it was a symbol of love
unfulfilled.
A while and they left the bright aspect of the cloister to enter the
gloom of the chapel, he carrying the big cluster of blossoms. Suddenly
she turned and looked back, and with a little cry ran to regain the hat
she had tossed on a grassy bank; and the trifle was enough to set their
laughter pealing again.
They moved to the window near the square of blank wall where Arvida’s
portrait had been. For a space they stood there, while the west caught
first the faint hue of rose, then flamed in ruby fire. His kiss was
fresh upon her lips, and in their eyes the ardour of a passion no
longer to be conquered. From a far-off hamlet, where a steeple rose
out of the haze, the Angelus came to them; they watched the toilers
bow their heads in reverence and plod their way homeward. The broad
landscape lay in the mysterious hush of folding night, but they took no
thought for time or circumstance. They seated themselves on a low stone
bench of the pattern that mediæval builders were wont to carry around
the interior walls of churches. He joined the ends of the garland to
fashion a chaplet, and, placing it on her massing tresses, crowned her
his queen forever.
THE END.
* * * * *
“_Myrtle Reed has certainly an instinct for the exquisite phrase,
delicate touch for an allegory, a capacity for using words somewhat
after the fashion of notes in music, to weave together into a melody._”
_Milwaukee Sentinel._
A Spinner in the Sun
_By_ MYRTLE REED
Author of “Lavender and Old Lace,” “The Master’s Violin,” etc.
Uniform with “Lavender and Old Lace,” etc. Crown
8vo. Cloth, extra gilt top, printed in red and
black, net, $1.50. Full red leather,
net, $2.00. Antique calf,
net, $2.50. Lavender
silk, net, $3.50
The thousands who have enjoyed the gentle humor, the story-telling
skill, and the delicate sentiment of “Lavender and Old Lace” will
find the same qualities in “A Spinner in the Sun.” While striking the
chords of humor, pathos, and sentiment, which formerly have never
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exacting critic than anything else she has written--and this because
it evinces a firmer grasp of character and a more serious grappling
with the problems of life. It also has the advantage of an interesting
entanglement of plot which throws over it the glamour of romance.
_A complete descriptive circular of Miss Reed’s books sent on
application_
* * * * *
_An exceptionally good book_
A Son of the People
A Romance of the Hungarian Plains
By Baroness Orczy
_Author of “The Scarlet Pimpernel” etc._
Baroness Orczy needs no introduction to lovers of good fiction. The
scene of her new story is Hungary--the hero a handsome young peasant
who, having inherited a fortune from his thrifty father, is enabled
to save a Hungarian nobleman from losing all his lands, and in return
receives the hand of the lord’s daughter whom he has long worshipped
from afar. Immediately after the wedding the peasant bridegroom
discovers that his wife despises him and has merely allowed herself to
be sold as payment of her father’s debt. How he tries to overcome this
feeling and what effect his generous and big-hearted nature finally has
upon her must be left for the reader to find out for himself. Like _The
Scarlet Pimpernel_, the present story is of intense dramatic interest
and shows great emotional strength.
_Crown 8vo. $1.50_
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London
* * * * *
“_Signor Fogazzaro is at the present moment undoubtedly the greatest
of Italian novelists. His nobility of feeling, his wide sympathy, his
kindliness and breezy humor entitle him to a high place among writers
of fiction._”
Villari’s “Italian Life in Town and Country.”
The Saint
(IL SANTO)
By ANTONIO FOGAZZARO
While _The Saint_ concerns itself with the present-day religious
questions and political problems of Italy, the author has not allowed
the purpose of his story to overweigh and impair its dramatic quality.
The story is most interesting as a description of Italian life both
high and low. It is being read by thousands in Italy who care little or
nothing about the religious problem and who find themselves literally
entranced by its strong human interest.
_Authorized Translation by M. Agnetti Pritchard
With an Introduction by William Roscoe Thayer
Crown 8vo. $1.50_
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London
* * * * *
“A romance to stir the pulse.”--_N. Y. Telegram._
No. 101
By
Wymond Carey
Author of “Monsieur Martin,” etc.
A stirring story of adventure during the war of the Austrian
Succession. =No. 101= was the cipher used as a signature by a daring
spy through whose agency the English were supplied with exact and
unerring information concerning the French plans.
“It abounds in strong incident and sharp and abundant anfractuosities
of plot. If the reader does not like it he is a realist and we pity
him.”--_N. Y. Sun._
“We speak enthusiastically of this romance. It possesses
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The women are so well drawn that the reader will fall in love with
them--Yvonne of the Spotless Ankles in particular.”--_Baltimore Sun._
“An exciting story, full of action, mystery, love, and passion, and
the glitter of a fascinating court.”
_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
Illustrated by Wal Paget. Crown octavo, $1.50
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
New York London
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
On page 22, silk-milk has been changed to silk-mill.
On page 104, spinister has been changed to spinster.
On page 122, tesselated has been changed to tessellated.
On page 138, where-ever has been changed to wherever.
On pages 164 and 166, Tarsus has been changed to Tarsis.
On page 209, silk makers has been changed to silk-makers.
On page 249, eying has been changed to eyeing.
On page 256, Uhlich has been changed to Ulrich.
On page 294, Bardiondi has been changed to Barbiondi.
All other spelling and hyphenation has been retained as typeset.