One afternoon of pouring rain a two-horse, covered cab from Monte Carlo
splashed in at the gate of Stellamare, turned noisily on the wet gravel,
and stopped in front of Jim Schuyler's marble portico. There was luggage
on the cab; and from the vehicle, with rain pelting on her head,
descended a girl in a brown travelling dress.
The butler, who acted also as valet for Jim, was engaged in packing for
his master, who intended to leave for America next day. A servant (new
to the house) answered the door and regarded the visitor with round eyes
of astonishment. Few callers came to Stellamare, as Schuyler seldom
received those whom he had not specially invited, and never had the
footman seen a woman arrive alone.
"Is Mr. Schuyler at home?" the girl asked briskly, in English. The young
man looked helpless, and she repeated the question in French.
"Not at home, Mademoiselle," the reply came promptly.
"I know he is always officially out," said the visitor. "But if he is in
the house he will see me. I am his cousin, and I've just arrived from
Scotland. Tell him, please, that Miss Maxwell has come."
"And the baggage, Mademoiselle?" the stricken man inquired. "Am I to
have it taken down? Monsieur leaves for America to-morrow."
"The baggage can stay where it is for the present," said Peter. "You may
show me into the library."
"But Monsieur is there."
"All the better. Then I will give him a surprise. You needn't be afraid.
He won't be angry with you."
The footman, having already observed that the amazing visitor was not
only pretty but _chic_, decided to obey.
"Mees Maxwell," he announced at the door of the library, and leaving the
lady to explain herself, discreetly vanished.
Schuyler was in the act of selecting from his bookshelves a few
favourite volumes to take with him from this home of peace, back to the
hurly-burly. Unable to believe his ears, he turned quickly, and then for
half a second could not believe his eyes. Disarmed, his face told Peter
a secret she had long wished to know with certainty. Therefore, though
he spoke almost brusquely, and frowned at her instead of smiling, she
was so happy that she could have sung for joy. "If I don't fix it all up
to-day, my name isn't Molly Maxwell," she informed her inner self, in
the quaint, practical way that Mary had loved.
"Peter--it can't be you!" Schuyler exclaimed.
"It's all that's left of me, after missing the luxe and travelling for
about seventeen years in any sort of old train I could get," she replied
with elaborate nonchalance. "Kindly don't stare as if I were Banquo's
ghost or something. I'm so tired and dusty and desperately hungry that
if you don't grin at once I shall dissolve in tears."
She held out both hands, and Jim, aching to seize her in his arms and
kiss her breath away, took the extended hands as if they had been marked
"dangerous."
"Where's your father?" was his first question.
"In New York, as far as I know."
"Great Scott! you haven't come here from Scotland alone?"
"I thought I had, but if you say I haven't, perhaps I've been attended
by spirit chaperons."
"My--dear girl, what has possessed you? You are looking impish. What
have you come for?"
"Partly to see my darling, precious Mary Grant and criticise her Prince.
Partly----"
"Well?"
"Why does your face suddenly look as if you suspected me of criminal
intentions?"
"Don't keep me in suspense, my dear goose!"
"Why not 'duck?' It's a day for ducks. Only you're so afraid of paying
me compliments. I see you think you know why I've come. Tell me at once,
or I won't play. Be frank."
"You really want frankness?"
"Of course. I'm afraid of nothing."
"Well, then--er--I couldn't help seeing in New York that you and Dick
Carleton----"
"Good gracious! if I'm a goose, what _are_ you? There's no word for it.
Dick and I flirted--naturally. What are girls and men for?"
"I supposed this was more serious."
"Then you supposed wrong, as you generally have about me. I can't even
_think_ seriously of youths. Let Dick--fly."
Jim laughed out almost boyishly. "That's what I have let him do. Of
course you know he's been visiting me--but he's gone with his _Flying
Fish_."
"So Mary Grant wrote in the one letter I've had from her. That's partly
why I came straight to you. I thought you could tell me whether she was
still in the bosom of her Princess Della Robbia, where she said she was
going to visit for a few days."
"I believe she's still there. But you haven't told me yet the second
part of your reason for coming out here--alone."
"It's not quite as simple to explain as the first part. But it is just
as important. My most intimate Me forced me to start, the minute I got a
letter from Dad saying he couldn't get away from New York till the end
of May, and I must wait for him quietly at the convent. I haven't had a
peaceful minute there since Mary Grant left. I felt in my bones she'd
make straight for Monte Carlo, and knowing certain things about her
father and other ancestors, I didn't think it would be a good place for
her. The horrid dreams I've had about that girl have been enough to turn
my hair gray! I shall probably have to take a course of treatment from
a beauty doctor, judging by the way you glare. Luckily it seems to have
turned out all right for the dear angel. You know, she's my very bestest
friend."
"I didn't know. How should I?"
"She might have told you. Besides, when Dad and I visited you, I showed
you the photograph of a lot of girls, and pointed out Mary as my special
chum. I said she'd made up her mind to take the vows."
"By Jove, that's why, when I first saw her face, I somehow associated
her with you. I'd forgotten the photograph, though the connection was
left, a vague, floating mystery that puzzled me. But I won't be switched
off the other part of your reason. You say it's important."
"Desperately important. It may affect my whole future, and perhaps yours
too, dear cousin, odd as that may seem to you, unless you recall the
fable of the mouse and the lion."
"Which am I?"
"I leave that to your imagination. But talking of game, reminds me of
food. Do feed me. I want what at the convent we call 'a high tea.' Cold
chicken and bread and butter, and cake and jam--lots of both--and tea
with cream in it. While you're pressing morsels between my starving
lips, I will in some way or other, by word, or gesture, tell you
about--the _other part_, which is so important to us both."
If his eyes had been on her then, he might have had an electric shock of
sudden enlightenment, but he had turned his back, to go and touch the
bell.
While the servant--ordered to bring everything good--was engaged in
laying a small table, the two talked of Mary, and Jim told Peter what he
knew of Vanno Della Robbia and his family. Peter had asked to have her
"high tea" in Jim's library, because she knew it was the room he liked
best, and was most associated with his daily life at Stellamare; but she
pretended that it was because of the "special" view from the windows,
over the cypress walk with the old garden statues, and down to what she
used to call the "classic temple," in a grove of olives and stone pines
close to the sea.
When tea came, she insisted upon giving Schuyler a cup. It would, she
said, make him more human and sympathetic. Though she had pronounced
herself to be starving, after all she was satisfied with very little.
Having finished, she leaned her elbows on the table, and gazed out of
the long window close by, at the rain which continued to fall in wicked
black streaks against a clearing, sunset sky. "It's like the stripes on
a tawny snake," she said, "or on a tiger's back. This isn't a proper
Riviera day. And the mountains of Italy have put powder on their
foreheads and noses. While it's rained down here, it's been snowing on
the heights. As my French maid used to say, 'I think the weather's in
train to rearrange itself.'"
"Never mind the weather," said Jim. "Tell me about the 'other part.'
You've excited my curiosity."
"I meant to. But talking of the weather draws people together, don't you
think? just as the thought of tea does in England and dear old
Scotland. Everybody everywhere having tea at the same time, you know,
and the same feelings and thoughts. It's different abroad or in America.
Tea's more like an accident than an institution."
"Never mind talking of tea, either."
"I'll talk about you, then."
"I want to talk about you--and what's going to become of you to-night."
"Only think, if I'd arrived to-morrow, I should have been too late!"
"Too late for what?"
"For the _other part_. You'd have been gone. But Fate's always kind to
me. It made me come just in time."
"Tell me, then--about that other part. Do you want my advice?"
"Not exactly advice."
She looked at him across the little table, through the twilight. A
sudden fire leaped up in his eyes, which usually looked coldly at life
as if he had resigned himself to let its best things pass him by.
"Peter! You don't mean--you can't mean----"
"Do you want me to mean it?--Do you want me----"
"Want you? I've wanted nothing else since before you were out of short
frocks, but----"
"Then why didn't you tell me so before I put them on? I was--oh, Jim, I
was _dying_ to hear it. I was afraid you didn't care in that way, that
you thought me a silly child always. That's why I went back to stay in
the convent, to try and find peace, and forget. But when I heard about
Mary and her love, I couldn't bear it there any longer. I hoped that
perhaps, after all--and when I came to-day and you looked at me, I knew
for certain. I felt so brave, and I made up my mind to propose, for I
was sure _you_ wouldn't. It's leap year, anyhow."
They were standing now, and Jim had her in his arms.
"I've been miserable without you," he said. "And it's all your fault.
You made me sure it was no use. Don't you remember how you said one day
that marrying a cousin must be like paying a long dull visit to
relatives?--a thing you hated."
"And you took that to yourself?"
"Naturally. I supposed you thought it merciful to choke me off, so I
shut up like an oyster. And then there was Dick----"
"He never existed. Oh, Jim, we've both been rather silly, haven't we?
But luckily we're both very young."
"I'm not. I'm almost old enough to be your father."
"You're just the right age for a lover. To think that by one speech
which I made merely in order to be mildly witty, I came near spoiling
the whole show! But you ought to have known better. You're such a
distant, uttermost, outlying cousin--a hill brigand of a cousin claiming
my relationship or my life."
"I'm going to claim more than either now."
"My gracious! I do hope so, or I shall have come to visit you in vain."
* * * * * * *
Nobody thought of the unfortunate cabman, but he was not neglectful of
his own interests; and having covered his horses and refreshed himself
with secret stores of wine and bread, he was asleep under an immense
umbrella when, after dark, his existence was remembered. By this time,
it was too late in Jim's opinion for Peter to go and call at Princess
Della Robbia's. Mary would have begun to dress for dinner, if she were
at home; and, besides, a place for Peter to spend the night must be
found without delay. She could visit Mary in the morning.
Jim tabooed the idea of a hotel, but thought of Mrs. Winter, as most of
her acquaintances did think of her when they wanted practical advice or
help. Peter's luggage was transferred from the cab to Jim's automobile,
the sleepy _cocher_ was paid above his demands, and the happiest man on
the Riviera spun off alone with the happiest girl, in a closed motor
car, to Monte Carlo. The chauffeur was told not to drive fast.
Providentially, "St. George's" dreaded aunt had gone, having been told
by a doctor that the climate was too exciting for her state of health.
The Winters' spare room was free, and the chaplain and his wife were
delighted. News of Mary there was none except that, three or four nights
ago, she had called while George and Rose were at Nice and had taken her
jewel-case, leaving no message but "her love." Rose supposed that Mary
must have wanted some of her pretty things for an entertainment at the
Villa Mirasole. Prince Vanno had been away in Rome, but must be due, if
he had not already returned. Probably if Miss Maxwell went over to Cap
Martin in the morning she would see not only Mary but the Prince, who,
said Rose, "looked like a knight-errant or a reformer of the Middle
Ages, but, oh, so handsome and so young!"
"I thought when I first saw them together, the very evening of their
engagement," she added, "that there was something _fatal_ about them, as
if they were not born for ordinary, happy lives, like the rest of us.
But thank goodness, I seem to be mistaken. The course of their true love
runs so smoothly it almost ceases to be interesting."