Stella Rawson woke the next day with some sense of rebellion. There
came with the rest of her post a letter from her betrothed. And
although it was just such a letter as any nice girl engaged of her own
free will to the Bishop's junior chaplain ought to have been glad to
receive, Stella found herself pouting and criticizing every sentence.
"I do wish Eustace would not talk such cant," she said to herself.
"Even in this he is unable to be natural--and I am sure I shall not
feel a thing like he describes when I stand in St. Peter's. I believe I
would rather go into the Pantheon. I seem to be tired of everything I
ought to like to-day!" And still rebellious she got up and was taken by
her uncle and aunt to the Vatican--and was allowed to linger only in
the parts which interested them.
"I never have had a taste for sculpture," Mrs. Ebley said. "People may
call it what names they please, but I consider it immoral and indecent."
"A wonder to me," the Uncle Erasmus joined in, "that a prelate--even a
prelate of Rome--should have countenanced the housing of all these
unclothed marbles in his own private palace."
Stella Rawson stopped for a second in front of an archaic Apollo of no
great merit--because it reminded her of the unknown; and she wished
with all her might something new and swift and rushing might come into
her humdrum life.
After luncheon, for which they returned to the hotel, she wearily went
over to the writing-table in the corner of the hall to answer her
lover's chaste effusion--and saw that the low armchair beside the
escritoire was tenanted by a pair of long legs with singularly fine
silk socks showing upon singularly fine ankles--and a pair of strong
slender hands held a newspaper in front of the rest of the body,
concealing it all and the face. It was the English TIMES, which, as
everybody knows, could hide Gargantua himself.
She began her letter--and not a rustle disturbed her peace.
"Dearest Eustace," she had written, "we have arrived in Rome--" and
then she stopped, and fixed her eyes blankly upon the column of births,
marriages, and deaths. She was staring at it with sightless eyes, when
the paper was slowly lowered and over its top the blue orbs of the
stranger looked into hers.
Her pretty color became the hue of a bright pink rose. "Mademoiselle,"
a very deep voice said in English, "is not this world full of bores and
tiresome duties; have you the courage to defy them all for a few
minutes--and talk to me instead?"
"Monsieur!" Miss Rawson burst out, and half rose from her seat. Then
she sat down again--the unknown had not stirred a muscle.
"Good," he murmured. "One has to be courageous to do what is
unconventional, even if it is not wrong. I am not desirous of hurting
or insulting you--I felt we might have something to say to each
other--is it so--tell me, am I right?"
"I do not know," whispered Stella lamely. She was so taken aback at the
preposterous fact that a stranger should have addressed her at all,
even in a manner of indifference and respect, that she knew not what to
do.
"I observed you last night," he went on. "I am accustomed to judge of
character rapidly--it is a habit I have acquired during my travels in
foreign lands--when I cannot use the standard of my own. You are weary
of a number of things, and you do not know anything at all about life,
and you are hedged round with those who will see that you never learn
its meaning. Tell me--what do you think of Rome--it contains things and
aspects which afford food for reflection, is it not so?"
"We have only been to the Vatican as yet," Stella answered timidly--she
was still much perturbed at the whole incident, but now that she had
begun she determined she might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,
and she was conscious that there was a strong attraction in the mild
blue eyes of the stranger. His manner had a complete repose and absence
of self-consciousness, which usually is only to be found in the people
of race--in any nation.
"You were taken to the Sistine Chapel, of course," he went on, "and to
the loggia and Bramant's staircase? You saw some statues, too, perhaps?"
"My uncle and aunt do not care much for sculpture," Miss Rawson said,
now regaining her composure, "but I like it--even better than pictures."
The stranger kept his steady eyes fixed upon her face all the time.
"I have a nymph in my house at home," he returned. "She came originally
from Rome; she is not Greek and she is very like you, the same droop of
head--I remarked it immediately--I am superstitious--I suppose you
would call what I mean by that word--and I knew directly that some day
you, too, would mean things to me. That is why I spoke--do you feel it,
too?"
Stella Rawson quivered. The incredible situation paralyzed her.
She--the Aunt Caroline's niece, and engaged to Eustace Medlicott, the
Bishop's junior chaplain, to be listening to a grotesque-looking
foreigner making subtle speeches of an insinuating character, and, far
from feeling scandalized and repulsed, to be conscious that she was
thrilled and interested--it was hardly to be believed!
"Will you tell me from where you come?" she asked with sweet
bashfulness, raising two eyes as soft as brown velvet. "You speak
English so very well--one cannot guess."
"I am a Russian," he said simply. "I come from near Moscow--and my name
is Sasha Roumovski, Count Roumovski. Yours, I am aware, is Rawson, but
I would like to know how you are called--Mary, perhaps? That is
English."
"No, my name is not Mary," she answered, and froze a little--but the
Russian's eyes continued to gaze at her with the same mild frankness
which disarmed any resentment. She felt they were as calm as deep pools
of blue water--they filled her with a sense of confidence and
security--which she could not account for in any way.
Her color deepened--something in his peaceful expectancy seemed to
compel her to answer his late question.
"My Christian name is Stella," she said, rather quickly, then added
nervously: "I am engaged to Mr. Eustace Medlicott, an English
clergyman--we are going to be married in September next."
"And this is May," was all Count Roumovski replied; then, for the first
time since he had addressed her, he turned his eyes from her face,
while the faintest smile played round his well-cut mouth.
"A number of things can happen in four months. Are you looking forward
to your life as the wife of a priest--but I understand it is different
in England to in my country--there I could not recommend the situation
to you."
Stella found absolutely no answer to this. She only felt a sudden, wild
longing to cry out that the idea of being a curate's wife--even the
Bishop's junior young gentleman with eight hundred a year of his
own--had never appeared a thrilling picture, and was now causing her a
feeling of loathing. She thought she ought to talk no longer to this
stranger, and half rose from her seat.
He put out a protesting hand, both had been clasped idly over the Times
until then without a movement.
"No--do--not go--I have disturbed you--I am sorry," he pleaded.
"Listen, there is a great reception at your Embassy to-morrow
night--for one of our Royal Family who is here. You will go, perhaps.
If so, I will do so also, although I dislike parties--and there I will
be presented to you with ceremony--it will appease that English
convention in you, and after that I shall say to you a number of
things--but I prefer to sit here and speak behind the Times."
At this instant he raised the paper, and appeared again the stranger
almost entirely hidden from view. And Stella saw that her Uncle Erasmus
was rapidly approaching her with an envelope in his hand. She seized
her pen again and continued her broken sentence to Eustace--her
betrothed. Canon Ebley viewed the Times and its holder with suspicion
for an instant, but its stillness reassured him, and he addressed his
niece.
"Very civil of the Embassy to send us a card for the reception
to-morrow night, Stella; I am glad we wrote names when we arrived. Your
Aunt Caroline bids you accept, as her spectacles are upstairs."
Miss Rawson did as she was bid, and her uncle waited, fidgeting with
his feet. He wished the stranger to put down the Times, which he wanted
himself--or, at all events, remove his long legs and hidden body from
such a near proximity to his niece; they could not say a word that he
could not overhear, Canon Ebley mused.
However, the unknown remained where he was, and turned a page of the
paper with great deliberation.
"Your aunt will be ready to go out again now," the Uncle Erasmus
announced, as Stella placed her acceptance in the envelope. "You had
better go up and put your hat on, my dear."
The Times rustled slightly--and Stella replied a little hurriedly: "I
was just finishing a letter, uncle, then I will come."
"Very well," said Canon Ebley, not altogether pleased, as he walked
away with the note.
The newspaper was lowered a few inches again, and the wise blue eyes
beneath the saintly parted hair twinkled with irresistible laughter,
and the deep voice said:
"He would greatly disapprove of our having conversed--the uncle--is it
not so? How long are you going to stay in Rome?"
Stella smiled, too--she could not help it.
"A week--ten days, perhaps," she answered, and then rapidly addressed
an envelope to the Rev. Eustace Medlicott.
"Perhaps, in that case, I can afford to wait until to-morrow night;
unless it amuses you, as it does me, to circumvent people," Count
Roumovski said. "We are all masters of our own lives, you know, once we
have ceased to be children--it is only convention which persuades us to
submit to others' authority."
Stella looked up startled. Was this indeed true? And was it simply
convention which had forced her into an engagement with Eustace
Medlicott, and now forced her to go up and put on her hat and accompany
her uncle and aunt to see the Lateran, when she would have preferred to
remain where she was and discuss abstract matters with this remarkable
stranger.
"The notion surprises you, one sees," Count Roumovski went on, "but it
is true--"
"I suppose it is," said Stella lamely.
"I submit to no authority--I mean, as to the controlling of my actions
and wishes. We must all submit to the laws of our country, to do so is
the only way to obtain complete personal freedom."
"That sounds like a paradox," said Stella.
"I have just been thinking," he went on, without noticing the
interruption, "it would be most agreeable to take a drive in my
automobile late this after-noon, when your guardians have returned and
are resting. If you feel you would care to come I will wait in this
hall from five to six. You need not take the least notice of me, you
can walk past, out of the hotel, then turn to the left, and there in
the square, where there are a few trees, you will see a large blue
motor waiting. You will get straight in, and I will come and join you.
Not anyone will see or notice you--because of the trees, one cannot
observe from the windows. My chauffeur will be prepared, and I will
return you safely to the same place in an hour."
Stella's brown eyes grew larger and larger. Some magnetic spell seemed
to be dominating her, the idea was preposterous, and yet to agree to it
was the strongest temptation she had ever had in all her life. She was
filled with a wild longing to live, to do what she pleased, to be free
to enjoy this excitement before her wings should be clipped, and her
outlook all gray and humdrum.
"I do not know if they will rest--I cannot say--I--" she blurted out
tremblingly.
The stranger had put down the Times, and was gazing into her face with
a look almost of tenderness.
"There is no need to answer now," he said softly. "If fate means us to
be happy, she will arrange it--I think you will come."
Miss Rawson started to her feet, and absently put her letter to her
fiance--which contained merely the sentence that they had arrived in
Rome--into its envelope and fastened it up.
"I must go now--good-bye," she said.
"It is not good-bye," the Russian answered gravely. "By six o'clock, we
shall be driving in the Borghese Gardens and hearing the nightingales
sing."
As Stella walked to the lift with a tumultuously beating heart, she
asked herself what all this could possibly mean, and why she was not
angry--and why this stranger--whose appearance outraged all her ideas
as to what an English gentleman should look like--had yet the power to
fascinate her completely. Of course, she would not go for a drive with
him--and yet, what would be the harm? After September she would never
have a chance like this again. There would be only Eustace Medlicott
and parish duties--yes--if fate made it possible, she would go!
And she went on to her room with exhilarating sense of adventure
coursing through her veins.
"I have found out the name of the peculiar-looking foreigner who sat
near us last night," Canon Ebley said, as they drove to the Lateran in
a little Roman Victoria, "it is Count Roumovski; I asked the hall
porter--reprehensible curiosity I fear you will think, my dear
Caroline, but there is something unaccountably interesting about him,
as you must admit, although you disapprove of his appearance."
"I think it is quite dreadful," Mrs. Ebley sniffed, "and I hear from
Martha that he has no less than two valets, and a suite of princely
rooms and motor cars, and the whole passage on the second floor is
filled with his trunks."
Martha had been Mrs. Ebley's maid for twenty-five years, and as Stella
well knew was fairly accurate in her recounting of the information she
picked up. This luridly extravagant picture, however, did not appal
her. And she found herself constantly dwelling upon it and the stranger
all the time she followed her relations about in the gorgeous church.
Fate did not seem to be going to smile upon the drive project,
however--for Mrs. Ebley, far from appearing tired, actually proposed
tea in the hall when they got in--and there sat for at least half an
hour, while Stella saw Count Roumovski come in and sit down and
leisurely begin a cigarette, as he glanced at an Italian paper. He was
so intensely still, always peace seemed to breathe from his atmosphere,
but the very sight of him appeared to exasperate the Aunt Caroline more
and more.
"I wonder that man is not ashamed to be seen in a respectable place,"
she snapped, "with his long hair and his bracelet--such effeminacy is
perfectly disgusting, Erasmus."
"I really cannot help it, my dear," Canon Ebley replied, irritably,
"and I rather like his face."
"Erasmus!" was all Mrs. Ebley could say, and prepared to return to her
room. Dinner would be at a quarter to eight, she told Stella at her
door, and recommended an hour's quiet reading up of the guide-book
while resting to her niece.
It was quarter after six before Miss Rawson descended the stairs to the
hall again. She had deliberately made up her mind--she would go and
drive with the count. She would live and amuse herself, if it was only
for this once in her life, come what might of it! And since he would be
presented with all respectable ceremony at the English Embassy the
following night, it could not matter a bit--and if it did--! Well, she
did not care!
He was sitting there as immovable as before, and she thrilled as she
crossed the hall. She was so excited and frightened that she could
almost have turned back when she reached the street, but there,
standing by the trees, was a large blue motor car, and as she advanced
the chauffeur stepped forward and opened the door, and she got in--and
before she had time to realize what she had done, Count Roumovski had
joined her and sat down by her side.
"You have no wrap," he said. "I thought you would not have, so I had
prepared this," and he indicated a man's gray Russian,
unremarkable-looking cloak, which, however, proved to be lined with
fine sable, "and here, also, is a veil. If you will please me by
putting them on, we can then have the auto open and no one will
recognize you--even should we meet your uncle and aunt; that is fun, is
it not?"
Stella had thrown every consideration to the winds, except the
determination to enjoy herself. Years of rebellion at the boredom of
her existence seemed to be urging her on. So she meekly slipped into
the cloak, and wrapped the veil right over her hat, and they started.
Her heart was thumping so with excitement she could not have spoken for
a moment.
But as they went rapidly on through the crowded streets, her
companion's respectful silence reassured her. There seemed to be some
rapport between them, she was conscious of a feeling that he understood
her thoughts, and was not misjudging her.
"You are like a little frightened bird," he said presently. "And there
is nothing to cause you the least fear. We shall soon come to the
lovely gardens, and watch the lowering sun make its beautiful effects
in the trees, and we shall hear the nightingales throbbing out love
songs--the world is full of rest and peace--when we have had enough
passion and strife and want its change--but you do not know anything of
it, and this simple drive is causing you tumults and emotions--is it
not so?"
"Yes," said Stella, with a feeling that she had burnt all her ships.
"It is because you have never been allowed to be YOU, I suppose," he
went on softly. "So doing a natural and simple thing seems
frightful--because it would seem so to the rigid aunt. Now, I have been
ME ever since I was born--I have done just what seemed best to me. Do
you suppose I am not aware that the way my hair is cut is a shock to
most civilized persons; and that you English would strongly disapprove
of my watch and my many other things. But I like them myself--it is no
trouble for one of my valets to draw a straight line with a pair of
scissors--and if I must look at the time, I prefer to look at something
beautiful. I am entirely uninfluenced by the thoughts or opinions of
any people--they do not exist for me except in so far as they interest
me and are instructive or amusing. I never permit myself to be bored
for an instant."
"How good that must be," Stella ventured to say--her courage was
returning.
"Civilized human beings turn existence into a prison," he went on,
meditatively, "and loaded themselves with shackles, because some
convention prevents their doing what would give them innocent pleasure.
If I had been under the dominion of these things we should not now be
enjoying this delightful drive--at least, it is delightful to me--to be
thus near you and alone out of doors."
Stella did not speak, she was altogether too full of emotion to trust
herself to words just yet. They had turned into the Corso by now, and,
as ever, it appeared as though it were a holiday, so thronged with
pedestrians was the whole thoroughfare. Count Roumovski seemed quite
unconcerned, but Miss Rawson shrank back into her corner, a new fear in
her heart.
"Do not be so nervous," her companion said gently. "I always calculate
the chances before I suggest another person's risking anything for me.
They are a million to one that anyone could recognize you in that veil
and that cloak; believe me, although I am not of your country, I am at
least a gentleman, and would not have persuaded you to come if there
had been any danger of complications for you."
Stella clasped her hands convulsively--and he drew a little nearer her.
"Do put all agitating ideas out of your mind," he said, his blue eyes,
with their benign expression, seeking hers and compelling them at last
to look at him. "Do you understand that it is foolish to spoil what we
have by useless tremors. You are here with me--for the next hour--shall
we not try to be happy?"
"Yes," murmured Miss Rawson, and allowed herself to be magnetized into
calmness.
"When we have passed the Piazza del Popolo and the entrance to the
Pincio, I will have the car opened; then we can see all the charming
young green, and I will tell you of what these gardens were long ago,
and you shall see them with new eyes."
Stella, by some sort of magic, seemed to have recovered her
self-possession as his eyes looked into hers, and she chatted to him
naturally, and the next half hour passed like some fairy tale. His
deep, quiet voice took her into realms of fancy that her imagination
had never even dreamed about. His cultivation was immense, and the Rome
of the Caesars appeared to be as familiar to him as that of 1911.
The great beauty of the Borghese Gardens was at its height at the end
of the day, the nightingales throbbed from the bushes, and the air was
full of the fresh, exquisite scents of the late spring, as the day grew
toward evening and all nature seemed full of beauty and peace. It can
easily be imagined what this drive meant, then, to a fine, sensitive
young woman, whose every instinct of youth and freedom and life had
been crushed into undeveloped nothingness by years of gray convention
in an old-fashioned English cathedral town.
Stella Rawson forgot that she and this Russian were strangers, and she
talked to him unrestrainedly, showing glimpses of her inner self that
she had not known she possessed. It was certainly heaven, she thought,
this drive, and worth all the Aunt Caroline's frowns.
Count Roumovski never said a word of love to her: he treated her with
perfect courtesy and infinite respect, but when at last they were
turning back again, he permitted himself once more to gaze deeply into
her eyes, and Stella knew for the first time in her existence that some
silences are more dangerous than words.
"You do not care at all now for the good clergy-man you are affianced
to," he said. "No--do not be angry-I am not asking a question, I am
stating a fact--when lives have been hedged and controlled and retenu
like yours has been, even the feelings lose character, and you cannot
be sure of them--but the day is approaching when you will see clearly
and--feel much."
"I am sure it is getting very late," said Stella Rawson, and with
difficulty she turned her eyes away and looked over the green world.
Count Roumovski laughed softly, as if to himself. And they were silent
until they came to the entrance gates again, when the chauffeur stopped
and shut the car.
"We have at least snatched some moments of pleasure, have we not?" the
owner whispered, "and we have hurt no one. Will you trust me again when
I propose something which sounds to you wild?"
"Perhaps I will," Stella murmured rather low.
"When I was hunting lions in Africa I learned to keep my intelligence
awake," he said calmly, "it is an advantage to me now in
civilization--nothing is impossible if one only keeps cool. If one
becomes agitated one instantly connects oneself with all other currents
of agitation, and one can no longer act with prudence or sense."
"I think I have always been very foolish," admitted Stella, looking
down. "I seem to see everything differently now."
"What we are all striving after is happiness," Count Roumovski said.
"Only we will not admit it, and nearly always spoil our own chances by
drifting, and allowing outside things to influence us. If you could see
the vast plains of snow in my country and the deep forests--with never
a human being for miles and miles, you would understand how nature
grows to talk to one--and how small the littlenesses of the world
appear." Then they were silent again, and it was not until they were
rushing up the Via Nazionale and in a moment or two would have reached
their destination, that Count Roumovski said:
"Stella--that means star--it is a beautiful name--I can believe you
could be a star to shine upon any man's dark night--because you have a
pure spirit, although it has been muffled by circumstances for all
these years."
Then the automobile drew up by the trees, at perhaps two hundred yards
from the hotel, near the baths of Diocletian.
"If you will get out here, it will be best," Count Roumovski told her
respectfully, "and walk along on the inner side. I will then drive to
the door of the hotel, as usual."
"Thank you, and good-bye," said Stella, and began untying the veil--he
helped her at once, and in doing so his hand touched her soft pink
cheek. She thrilled with a new kind of mad enjoyment, the like of which
she had never felt, and then controlled herself and stamped it out.
"It has been a very great pleasure to me," he said, and nothing more;
no "good-bye" or "au revoir" or anything, and he drew into the far
corner as she got out of the car, letting the chauffeur help her. Nor
did he look her way as he drove on. And Stella walked leisurely back to
the hotel, wondering in her heart at the meaning of things.
No one noticed her entrance, and she was able to begin to dress for
dinner without even Martha being aware that she had been absent. But as
she descended in the lift with her uncle and aunt it seemed as if the
whole world and life itself were changed since the same time the night
before.
And when they were entering the restaurant a telegram was put into
Canon Ebley's hand--it was from the Rev. Eustace Medlicott, sent from
Turin, saying he would join them in Rome the following evening.
"Eustace has been preparing this delightful surprise--I knew of it,"
the Aunt Caroline said, with conscious pride, "but I would not tell
you, Stella, dear, in case something might prevent it. I feared to
disappoint you."
"Thank you, aunt," Miss Rawson said without too much enthusiasm, and
took her seat where she could see the solitary occupant of a small
table, surrounded by the obsequious waiters, already sipping his
champagne.
He had not looked up as they passed. Nor did he appear once to glance
in their direction. His whole manner was full of the same reflective
calm as the night before. And, for some unaccountable reason, Stella
Rawson's heart sank down lower and lower, until at the end of the
repast she looked pale and tired out.
Eustace, her betrothed, would be there on the morrow, and such things
as drives in motor cars with strange Russian counts were only dreams
and not realities, she now felt.