There is no question about it, Tina Lenz was a flirt, as she had a
perfect right to be, living as she did on the romantic shores of Como,
celebrated in song, story, and drama as the lover's blue lake. Tina had
many admirers, and it was just like her perversity to favor the one to
whom her father most objected. Pietro, as the father truly said, was a
beggarly Italian driver, glad of the few francs he got from the
travellers he took over the humble Maloga to the Engadine, or over the
elevated Stelvio to the Tyrol, the lowest and the highest passes in
Europe. It was a sad blow to the hopes as well as the family pride of
old Lenz when Tina defiantly announced her preference for the driver of
the Zweispanner. Old Lenz came of a long and distinguished line of
Swiss hotel-keepers, noted for the success with which they squeezed the
last attainable centime from the reluctant traveller. It was bad enough
that he had no son to inherit his justly celebrated hotel
(_pension_ rates for a stay of not less than eight days), but he
hoped for a son-in-law, preferably of Swiss extraction, to whom he
might, in his old age, hand over the lucrative profession of
deferentially skinning the wealthy Englishman. And now Tina had
deliberately chosen a reckless, unstable Italian who would, in a short
time, scatter to the winds the careful accumulation of years.
"Pietro, the scoundrel, will not have one piastra of my money," cried
the old man wrathfully, dropping into Italian as he was speaking about
a native of Italy.
"No, I shall see that he doesn't," said the girl. "I shall hold the
purse, and he must earn what he spends."
"But if you marry him, you will not have any of it."
"Oh yes, I shall, papa," said Tina confidently; "you have no one else
to leave it to. Besides, you are not old, and you will be reconciled to
our marriage long before there is any question of leaving money."
"Don't be so sure of that," returned the hotel-keeper, much mollified,
because he was old and corpulent, and red in the face.
He felt that he was no match for his daughter, and that she would
likely have her own way in the long run, but he groaned when he thought
of Pietro as proprietor of the prosperous _pension_. Tina insisted
that she would manage the hotel on the strictest principles of her
ancestors, and that she would keep Pietro lounging about the place as a
picturesque ornament to attract sentimental visitors, who seemed to see
some unaccountable beauty about the lake and its surroundings.
Meanwhile Landlord Lenz promptly discharged Pietro, and cursed the day
and hour he had first engaged him. He informed the picturesque young
man that if he caught him talking to his daughter he would promptly
have him arrested for some little thefts from travellers of which he
had been guilty, although the landlord had condoned them at the time of
discovery, probably because he had a fellow-feeling in the matter, and
saw the making of a successful hotel proprietor in the Zweispanner
driver. Pietro, on his part, to make things pleasant all round, swore
that on the first favourable opportunity he would run six inches of
knife into the extensive corporation of the landlord, hoping in that
length of steel to reach a vital spot. The ruddy face of old Lenz paled
at this threat, for the Swiss are a peace-loving people, and he told
his daughter sadly that she was going to bring her father's grey hairs
in sorrow to the grave through the medium of her lover's stiletto. This
feat, however, would have been difficult to perform, as the girl
flippantly pointed out to him, for the old man was as bald as the
smooth round top of the Ortler; nevertheless, she spoke to her lover
about it, and told him frankly that if there was any knife practice in
that vicinity he need never come to see her again. So the young man
with the curly black hair and the face of an angel, swallowed his
resentment against his desired father-in-law, and promised to behave
himself. He secured a position as driver at another hotel, for the
season was brisk, and he met Tina when he could, at the bottom of the
garden overlooking the placid lake, he on one side of the stone wall,
she on the other.
If Landlord Lenz knew of these meetings he did not interfere; perhaps
he was frightened of Pietro's stiletto, or perhaps he feared his
daughter's tongue; nevertheless, the stars in their courses were
fighting for the old man. Tina was naturally of a changeable
disposition, and now that all opposition had vanished, she began to
lose interest in Pietro. He could talk of little else than horses, and
interesting as such conversation undoubtedly is, it palls upon a girl
of eighteen leaning over a stone wall in the golden evening light that
hovers above Como. There are other subjects, but that is neither here
nor there, as Pietro did not recognise the fact, and, unfortunately for
him, there happened to come along a member of the great army of the
unemployed who did.
He came that way just in the nick of time, and proud as old Lenz was of
his _pension_ and its situation, it was not the unrivalled
prospect (as stated in the hotel advertisements) that stopped him. It
was the sight of a most lovely girl leaning over the stone wall at the
foot of the garden, gazing down at the lake and singing softly to
herself.
"By Jove!" said young Standish, "she looks as if she were waiting for
her lover." Which, indeed, was exactly what Tina was doing, and it
augured ill for the missing man that she was not the least impatient
at his delay.
"The missing lover is a defect in the landscape which ought to be
supplied," murmured young Standish as he unslung his knapsack, which,
like that of the late John Brown, was strapped upon his back. He
entered the _pension_ and inquired the rates. Old Lenz took one
glance at the knickerbockers, and at once asked twice as much as he
would have charged a native. Standish agreed to the terms with that
financial recklessness characteristic of his island, and the old man
regretted he had not asked a third more.
"But never mind," he said to himself as the newly arrived guest
disappeared to his room, "I shall make it up on the extras."
With deep regret it must be here admitted that young Standish was an
artist. Artists are met with so often in fiction that it is a matter of
genuine grief to have to deal with one in a narrative of fact, but it
must be remembered that artists flock as naturally to the lake of Como
as stock-brokers to the Exchange, and in setting down an actual
statement of occurrences in that locality the unfortunate writer finds
himself confronted with artists at every turn. Standish was an artist
in water-colours, but whether that is a mitigation or an aggravation of
the original offense the relater knoweth not. He speedily took to
painting Tina amidst various combinations of lake and mountain scenery.
Tina over the garden wall as he first saw her; Tina under an arch of
roses; Tina in one of the clumsy but picturesque lake boats. He did his
work very well, too. Old Landlord Lenz had the utmost contempt for this
occupation, as a practical man should, but he was astonished one day
when a passing traveller offered an incredible sum for one of the
pictures that stood on the hall table. Standish was not to be found,
but the old man, quite willing to do his guest a good turn, sold the
picture. The young man, instead of being overjoyed at his luck, told
the landlord, with the calm cheek of an artist, that he would overlook
the matter this time, but it must not occur again. He had sold the
picture, added Standish, for about one-third its real value. There was
something in the quiet assurance of the youth that more than his words
convinced old Lenz of the truth of his statement. Manner has much to do
with getting a well-told lie believed. The inn-keeper's respect for the
young man went up to the highest attainable point, and he had seen so
many artists, too. But if such prices were obtained for a picture
dashed off in a few hours, the hotel business wasn't in it as a money-
making venture.
It must be confessed that it was a great shock to young Standish when
he found that the fairy-like Tina was the daughter of the gross old
stupid keeper of the inn. It would have been so nice if she had
happened to be a princess, and the fact would have worked in well with
the marble terrace overlooking the lake. It seemed out of keeping
entirely that she should be any relation to old money-making Lenz. Of
course he had no more idea of marrying the girl than he had of buying
the lake of Como and draining it; still, it was such a pity that she
was not a countess at least; there were so many of them in Italy too,
surely one might have been spared for that _pension_ when a man
had to stay eight days to get the lowest rates. Nevertheless, Tina did
make a pretty water-colour sketch. But a man who begins sliding down a
hill such as there is around Como, never can tell exactly where he is
going to bring up. He may stop halfway, or he may go head first into
the lake. If it were to be set down here that within a certain space of
time Standish did not care one continental objurgation whether Tina was
a princess or a char-woman, the statement would simply not be believed,
because we all know that Englishmen are a cold, calculating race of
men, with long side whiskers and a veil round their hats when they
travel.
It is serious when a young fellow sketches in water-colours a charming
sylph-like girl in various entrancing attitudes; it is disastrous when
she teaches him a soft flowing language like the Italian; but it is
absolute destruction when he teaches her the English tongue and watches
her pretty lips strive to surround words never intended for the vocal
resources of a foreigner. As all these influences were brought to bear
on Walter Standish, what chance did the young fellow have? Absolutely
as little as has the un-roped man who misses his footing on the
Matterhorn.
And Tina? Poor little girl, she was getting paid back with a vengeance
for all the heart-aches she had caused--Italian, German, or Swiss
variety. She fell helplessly in love with the stalwart Englishman, and
realised that she had never known before what the word meant. Bitterly
did she regret the sham battles of the heart that she had hitherto
engaged in. Standish took it so entirely for granted that he was the
first to touch her lips (in fact she admitted as much herself) that she
was in daily, hourly terror lest he should learn the truth. Meanwhile
Pietro unburdened his neglected soul of strange oily imprecations that
might have sounded to the uneducated ear of Standish like mellifluous
benedictions, notwithstanding the progress he was making in Italian
under Tina's tuition. However, Pietro had one panacea for all his woes,
and that he proceeded to sharpen carefully.
One evening Standish was floating dreamily through the purple haze,
thinking about Tina of course, and wondering how her piquant archness
and Southern beauty would strike his sober people at home. Tina was
very quick and adaptable, and he had no doubt she could act to
perfection any part he assigned to her, so he was in doubt whether to
introduce her as a remote connexion of the reigning family of Italy, or
merely as a countess in her own right. It would be quite easy to
ennoble the long line of hotel-keepers by the addition of "di" or "de"
or some such syllable to the family name. He must look up the right
combination of letters; he knew it began with "d." Then the
_pension_ could become dimly "A castle on the Italian lakes, you
know"; in fact, he would close up the _pension_ as soon as he had
the power, or change it to a palace. He knew that most of the castles
in the Tyrol and many of the palaces of Italy had become boarding-
houses, so why not reverse the process? He was sure that certain
furnishing houses in London could do it, probably on the hire system.
He knew a fashionable morning paper that was in the habit of publishing
personal items at so much a line, and he thought the following would
read well and be worth its cost:--
"Mr. Walter Standish, of St. John's Wood, and his wife, the Comtessa di
Lenza, are spending the summer in the lady's ancestral home, the
Palazzio di Lenza, on the lake of Como."
This bright vision pleased him for a moment, until he thought it would
be just his luck for some acquaintance to happen along who remembered
the Palazzio Lenza when it was the Pension Lenz--rates on application.
He wished a landslide would carry buildings, grounds, and everything
else away to some unrecognisable spot a few hundred feet down the
mountain.
Thus it was that young Standish floated along with his head in the
clouds, swinging his cane in the air, when suddenly he was brought
sharply down to earth again. A figure darted out from behind a tree, an
instinct rather than reason caused the artist to guard himself by
throwing up his left arm. He caught the knife thrust in the fleshy part
of it, and the pain was like the red-hot sting of a gigantic wasp. It
flashed through his brain then that the term cold steel was a misnomer.
The next moment his right hand had brought down the heavy knob of his
stout stick on the curly head of the Italian, and Pietro fell like a
log at his feet. Standish set his teeth, and as gently as possible drew
the stiletto from his arm, wiping its blade on the clothes of the
prostrate man. He thought it better to soil Pietro's suit than his own,
which was newer and cleaner; besides, he held, perhaps with justice,
that the Italian being the aggressor should bear any disadvantages
arising from the attack. Finally, feeling wet at the elbow, he put the
stiletto in his pocket and hurried off to the hotel.
[Illustration: WIPING ITS BLADE ON THE CLOTHES OF THE PROSTRATE MAN]
Tina fell back against the wall with a cry at the sight of the blood.
She would have fainted, but something told her that she would be well
advised to keep her senses about her at that moment.
"I can't imagine why he should attack me," said Standish, as he bared
his arm to be bandaged. "I never saw him before, and I have had no
quarrel with any one. It could not have been robbery, for I was too
near the hotel. I cannot understand it."
"Oh," began old Lenz, "it's easy enough to account for it. He----"
Tina darted one look at her father that went through him as the blade
had gone through the outstretched arm. His mouth closed like a steel
trap.
"Please go for Doctor Zandorf, papa," she said sweetly, and the old man
went. "These Italians," she continued to Standish, "are always
quarrelling. The villain mistook you for some one else in the dusk."
"Ah, that's it, very likely. If the rascal has returned to his senses,
he probably regrets having waked up the wrong passenger."
When the authorities searched for Pietro they found that he had
disappeared as absolutely as though Standish had knocked him through
into China. When he came to himself and rubbed his head, he saw the
blood on the road, and he knew his stroke had gone home somewhere. The
missing knife would be evidence against him, so he thought it safer to
get on the Austrian side of the fence. Thus he vanished over the
Stelvio pass, and found horses to drive on the other side.
The period during which Standish loafed around that lovely garden with
his arm in a sling, waited upon assiduously and tenderly by Tina, will
always be one of the golden remembrances of the Englishman's life. It
was too good to last for ever, and so they were married when it came to
an end. The old man would still have preferred a Swiss innkeeper for a
son-in-law, yet the Englishman was better than the beggarly Italian,
and possibly better than the German who had occupied a place in Tina's
regards before the son of sunny Italy appeared on the scene. That is
one trouble in the continental hotel business; there is such a
bewildering mixture of nationalities.
Standish thought it best not to go back to England at once, as he had
not quite settled to his own satisfaction how the _pension_ was to
be eliminated from the affair and transformed into a palace. He knew a
lovely and elevated castle in the Tyrol near Meran where they accepted
passers-by in an unobtrusive sort of way, and there, he resolved, they
would make their plans. So the old man gave them a great set-out with
which to go over the pass, privately charging the driver to endeavour
to get a return fare from Meran so as to, partly at least, cover the
outlay. The carriage was drawn by five horses, one on each side of the
pole and three in front. They rested the first night at Bormeo, and
started early next day for over the pass, expecting to dine at
Franzenshöhe within sight of the snowy Ortler.
It was late in the season and the weather was slightly uncertain, but
they had a lovely Italian forenoon for going up the wonderful, zigzag
road on the western side of the pass. At the top there was a slight
sprinkling of snow, and clouds hung over the lofty Ortler group of
peaks. As they got lower down a steady persistent rain set in, and they
were glad to get to the shelter and warmth of the oblong stone inn at
Franzenshöhe, where a good dinner awaited them. After dinner the
weather cleared somewhat, but the clouds still obscured the tops of the
mountains, and the roads were slippery. Standish regretted this, for he
wanted to show his bride the splendid scenery of the next five miles
where the road zigzags down to Trefoi, each elbow of the dizzy
thoroughfare overhanging the most awful precipices. It was a dangerous
bit of road, and even with only two horses, requires a cool and
courageous driver with a steady head. They were the sole guests at the
inn, and it needed no practised eye to see that they were a newly
married couple. The news spread abroad, and every lounger about the
place watched them get into their carriage and drive away, one hind
wheel of the carriage sliding on its skid, and all breaks on.
At the first turning Standish started, for the carriage went around it
with dangerous speed. The whip cracked, too, like a succession of
pistol shots, which was unusual going down the mountain. He said
nothing to alarm his bride, but thought that the driver had taken on
more wine than was good for him at the inn. At the second turn the
wheel actually slid against and bumped the stone post that was the sole
guard from the fearful precipice below. The sound and shock sent a cold
chill up the back of Standish, for he knew the road well and there were
worse places to come. His arm was around his wife, and he withdrew it
gently so as not to alarm her. As he did so she looked up and shrieked.
Following her glance to the front window of their closed carriage,
where the back of the driver is usually to be seen, he saw pressed
against the glass the distorted face of a demon. The driver was
kneeling on his seat instead of sitting on it, and was peering in at
them, the reins drawn over his shoulder, and his back to the horses. It
seemed to Standish that the light of insanity gleamed from his eyes,
but Tina saw in them the revengeful glare of the _vendetti_; the
rage of the disappointed lover.
"My God! that's not our driver," cried Standish, who did not recognise
the man who had once endeavoured to kill him. He sprang up and tried to
open the front window, but the driver yelled out--
"Open that window if you dare, and I'll drive you over here before you
get halfway down. Sit still, and I take you as far as the Weisse Knott.
That's where you are going over. There you'll have a drop of a mile
(_un miglio_)."
"Turn to your horses, you scoundrel," shouted Standish, "or I'll break
every bone in your body!"
"The horses know the way, Signor Inglese, and all our bones are going
to be broken, yours and your sweet bride's as well as mine."
The driver took the whip and fired off a fusilade of cracks overhead,
beside them, and under them. The horses dashed madly down the slope,
almost sending the carriage over at the next turn. Standish looked at
his wife. She had apparently fainted, but in reality had merely closed
her eyes to shut out the horrible sight of Pietro's face. Standish
thrust his arm out of the open window, unfastened the door, and at the
risk of his neck jumped out. Tina shrieked when she opened her eyes and
found herself alone. Pietro now pushed in the frame of the front window
and it dropped out of sight, leaving him face to face with her, with no
glass between them. "Now that your fine Inglese is gone, Tina, we are
going to be married; you promised it, you know."
"You coward," she hissed; "I'd rather die his wife than live yours."
"You're plucky, little Tina, you always were. But he left you. I
wouldn't have left you. I won't leave you. We'll be married at the
chapel of the Three Holy Springs, a mile below the Weisse Knott; we'll
fly through the air to it, Tina, and our bed will be at the foot of
the Madatseh Glacier. We will go over together near where the man threw
his wife down. They have marked the spot with a marble slab, but they
will put a bigger one for us, Tina, for there's two of us."
Tina crouched in the corner of the carriage and watched the face of the
Italian as if she were fascinated. She wanted to jump out as her
husband had done, but she was afraid to move, feeling certain that if
she attempted to escape Pietro would pounce down upon her. He looked
like some wild beast crouching for a spring. All at once she saw
something drop from the sky on the footboard of the carriage. Then she
heard her husband's voice ring out--
"Here, you young fool, we've had enough of this nonsense."
The next moment Pietro fell to the road, propelled by a vigorous kick.
His position lent itself to treatment of that kind. The carriage gave a
bump as it passed over Pietro's leg, and then Tina thinks that she
fainted in earnest, for the next thing she knew the carriage was
standing still, and Standish was rubbing her hands and calling her
pleasant names. She smiled wanly at him.
"How in the world did you catch up to the carriage and it going so
fast?" she asked, a woman's curiosity prompting her first words.
"Oh, the villain forgot about the short cuts. As I warned him, he ought
to have paid more attention to what was going on outside. I'm going
back now to have a talk with him. He's lying on the road at the upper
end of this slope."
Tina was instantly herself again.
"No, dearest," she said caressingly; "you mustn't go back. He probably
has a knife."
"I'm not afraid."
"No, but I am, and you mustn't leave me."
"I would like to tie him up in a hard knot and take him down to
civilisation bumping behind the carriage as luggage. I think he's the
fellow who knifed me, and I want to find out what his game is."
Here Tina unfortunately began to faint again. She asked for wine in a
far-off voice, and Standish at once forgot all about the demon driver.
He mounted the box and took the reins himself. He got wine at the
little cabin of the Weisse Knott, a mile or two farther down. Tina, who
had revived amazingly, probably on account of the motion of the
carriage, shuddered as she looked into the awful gulf and saw five tiny
toy houses in the gloom nearly a mile below.
"That," said Standish, "is the chapel of the Three Holy Springs. We
will go there to-night, if you like, from Trefoi."
"No, no!" cried Tina, shivering. "Let us get out of the mountains at
once."
At Trefoi they found their own driver awaiting them.
"What the devil are you doing here, and how did you get here?" hotly
inquired Standish.
"By the short cuts," replied the bewildered man. "Pietro, one of
master's old drivers, wanted--I don't know why--to drive you as far as
Trefoi. Where is he, sir?"
"I don't know," said Standish. "We saw nothing of him. He must have
been pushed off the box by the madman. Here, jump up and let us get
on."
Tina breathed again. That crisis was over.
They live very happily together, for Tina is a very tactful little
woman.