COUNT L'ALIENADO.
"Here is the substitute I promised you, Rosalie. Miss March--Count
L'Alienado."
There was a vacant seat in the barouche that stood before the Marches'
villa. It had been destined for Tristram, but even behind the black
glasses he wore the August sunshine dazzled his eyes, so he was
compelled at the last moment to excuse himself.
"Mme. Violet--his lordship, the Earl of Marmouth."
Count L'Alienado was thus informally presented to his other two riding
companions. There was just a suggestion of Spanish reserve in his
obeisance, and he bowed a graceful adieu to Tristram before mounting to
his seat.
It was curious that Tristram should have been the first to break the
count's incognito. He had arrived at Lenox a few days before, attended
by a single valet, and registered at the hotel as M. L. L'Alienado,
Valencia. Though not imposing in stature, he exhibited a head of rare
distinction--the black beard trimmed to an exquisite point at the chin
and the curled mustaches setting off a pair of glowing eyes which
riveted the beholder from the moment he met their gaze.
As the artist spoke Spanish, they had become friends in an afternoon.
"We have flattered ourselves that the coaching party is something purely
American," said Rosalie, who sat beside him, to the stranger.
"I am glad of it for the color. That is an element I have observed to be
generally a little lacking in your life."
"Color and lordliness," sighed Mme. Violet. "Ah, there are no
troubadours, no spurred cavaliers, no mailed knights in this busy
America--not even scarlet soldiers parading. You men are so dingy, dingy
in your black propriety. Why be so funereal? My heart goes out sometimes
to a very mountebank, all spangled and jingling like a tambourine when
he moves. Color! Give me color. Ah, it is not we who have taste, it is
the canaille! It is Victorine, my lady's maid, with her bonnet-ribbons
flaunting all the colors of the rainbow."
A silk banner lay outspread in Rosalie's lap, throwing warm blushes
against her throat. It was the prize for the gentlemen's steeplechase,
which was to close the programme of the afternoon.
"Scarlet, sea-blue and gold," she cried, stroking the tasseled fringe
which justified the last addition. "Are not these the primary hues, the
major chord of color, and the white their perfect blending?"
The Violet laughed. When addressing her directly or referring to her in
her own presence, people carefully called her Mme. Violet. But to the
world, out of earshot, she was simply the Violet, just as Cleopatra is
Cleopatra. It was taken for granted that her blood was French, but Count
L'Alienado, noting her fawn-brown eyes and the strong black hair, which
made Rosalie's fluff appear like carded golden silk--thought he detected
the marks of the Romany. Yet the full mouth hinted at a Spanish cross.
She was not very young, or, at first sight, very beautiful, but she
possessed a diablerie stronger than girlhood or beauty, and gossip said
the Earl of Marmouth was succumbing to its spell.
"The signal!" cried Rosalie, as the notes of a hunting-horn pealed,
faint and mellow, from a distant quarter. "It is time to start."
For several minutes the occupants of the barouche lay back, reveling in
the luxury of the cushions and in the changing view which the drive
afforded. Other equipages swept into the main road here and there, from
cottage and mansion and by-path, each freighted with its cargo of
flower-raimented beauty. Marshals in velvet hunting garb galloped up and
down, with low salutes to the passengers and brusque orders to the
coachmen. On the top of a little hill there came a pause while the
procession was arranging itself, and the conversation rippled out again.
"The color is overdone," said the Earl of Marmouth. "It smacks of Latin
degeneracy."
"Such as appears in the canvases of Titian?" asked Count L'Alienado
quietly.
The Violet, sitting opposite him, caressed her bronze-eyed spaniel to
her cheek, so that she might survey the newcomer more closely. His
lordship, at her side, alone of the party had sat upright during the
ride.
"You are Spanish, not Italian, I am told," he said, much in the tone of
a hotel clerk demanding the settlement of an overdue bill. The Violet's
eyes met the count's interrogatively.
"Question me in Castilian," he smiled.
"Where are your estates?"
"In Valencia."
"I was there last autumn. I seem to have overlooked the L'Alienados."
"Our estates are in dispute with another branch of the family."
Marmouth grunted.
"The title is very old?" asked Rosalie, to blunt the edge of his
impertinence.
"Not very old," answered Count L'Alienado, gently, but looking full at
Marmouth. "Before Columbus set out from Palos my ancestor was knighted
by Ferdinand the Great--for honorable services."
"We are moving at last," growled the earl, as if personally grieved at
the delay. His own title was less than 200 years old and the services
for which it was granted, by the second Charles, though historic, could
not possibly be called honorable.
"Ah, this is joyous!" cried the Violet, as the sensuous pleasure of the
ride stole over her. A quick-step, taken from the start, gave the party
a gentle jolting, just sufficiently softened by the padded carriage
upholstery. Up hill and down dale, through the riches of midsummer, the
route chosen wound. Forest and meadow sailed leisurely by them.
Handkerchiefs waved from piazza and window wherever they passed a
dwelling house, and at every cross-road stood a group of the fresh-faced
country-folk to give them greeting. At the end of an hour the road
recurved on itself along a hillside overlooking the valley of the racing
park and the pageant bent its length into the form of a letter S, so
that without the delay of a formal review each carriage was permitted to
inspect the others.
Count L'Alienado saw barges filled with maidens, like living flowers,
four-in-hand tally-hos, crowded with sportive collegians, odd
jaunting-cars and donkey-carts got up by the wags, staid family coaches
with footmen faced rearward to enjoy the retrospect, and open drags like
his own without number, all brilliant with lovely womanhood.
The Violet stood apart from the others, sensuous and exotic--like an
orange lily in a garden of snowdrops. But, supreme over all, like a
bright light, enhanced by reflectors, shone the loveliness of Rosalie
March--pure, placid and faultlessly costumed as ever. The jockeys
whispered to one another when her vehicle entered the racing park. An
eager look at that moment chased away the slight hauteur of her
expression--not unbecoming in one so clearly removed from the common
order, and far from approaching disdain. She turned her head toward the
stables expectantly.
"Paradise," said the Violet, when they had entered and the carriages
circled around the great oval.
"This is something like England," said the earl.
"None the worse for that," smiled Rosalie.
"No. Most of the good things I have seen here are derived from the
mother country."
"Do you agree, Count L'Alienado?" asked Rosalie, appealing to the
stranger.
"Candor is too sharp a sword to carry about unsheathed," answered Count
L'Alienado.
Mme. Violet smiled archly, bringing her Gainsborough brim close to the
earl's great face and caressing her spaniel with provoking abandon.
Rosalie's little abstraction since they passed through the gate might
easily be understood, for Harry Arnold was entered in the steeplechase
for gentlemen riders.
"There they come!" she cried, but it was only a group of motley jockeys
for the ring race. This passed off quietly enough.
"Now for the steeplechase," cried Rosalie. "There's Harry!" She
instinctively plucked the Violet's hand. Then, remembering they were not
alone, she colored. Harry led the group of riders who came from the
stables, mounted on strong-limbed steeplechasers. His uniform was of
the bulrush brown velvet he liked, and his horse a bright chestnut,
which pranced as if proud to carry such a master. Even at a distance his
splendid seat gave presage of victory.
"Mr. Arnold is the favorite," said Count L'Alienado.
"Although he gives away forty pounds to Leroy," added Rosalie, the
technical terms of the track coming strangely from her lips. It was
fortunate for her peace of mind Tristram was not there to hear them.
"Now they start!" she cried, alive with interest; but it was only Harry
Arnold who spurted his curvetting chestnut across the turf, then reined
him up on his haunches with a sudden jerk, as you may have seen an old
cavalry sergeant perform the trick. But Leroy, who, as Rosalie said,
weighed nearly half a hundred less, wisely reserved his white horse's
strength.
"Now!" repeated Rosalie, unconsciously clasping the flag, as if eager to
bestow it. The horses, six in number, had started in a bunch and kept
together easily till the pistol flash. Then each bounded as if cut with
a whip, and rider and horse bent forward.
"Hurrah!" shouted the ring of onlookers about the inclosure, as all six
took the first low wall together. The course led straightway across the
oval, up a hill at one end, then out of sight for a circuit of a mile,
and back by another route, over ditch and mound. Harry Arnold's chestnut
and Leroy's white could be seen a length in the lead of the others and
neck and neck, as they struggled up the hill and sunk to view on the
other side.
"How glorious! How delightful!" cried the Violet, in the interim of
suspense. "It is better than the wild Indians that rode in the coliseum
last year. Your full-blooded racers, they are too lean, like
grasshoppers. Oh, the steeplechase is better. I believe, after all, you
owe something to old England, which bequeathed you this legacy."
"You remember the horse-race in 'Anna Karenina?'" asked his lordship,
much mollified. "One of the most ethical of books, in the broader sense
of the word."
His question seemed addressed to Count L'Alienado.
"I have not read the Russians," he answered.
"You are behind the world, senor. And where may your diversions lie?"
"My favorites," he answered, "are the Persian poets."
Rosalie desisted for a moment from scanning the black crest of the
distant hill with her great eyes full of eagerness. Then she recovered
herself suddenly, and cried out, in a piercing voice:
"They are coming!"
"Who is ahead?"
"The chestnut and the white are even," said the count.
"Oh, I hope he will win!" prayed Rosalie, clutching the prizes she was
to award. Down the slope they strained, heading toward the goal. Only a
close side view could have disclosed the advantage in favor of either.
"Harry Arnold will win," said Count L'Alienado. "Leroy is whipping his
horse."
The count's judgment proved correct. Almost immediately the chestnut
began drawing away from the white. A nose, a neck, half a length, and
the clear ground intervened. Harry did not touch whip or spur to the
sides of his mount, until the last leap, when a high wall and a long
ditch had to be taken together. On the very rise of the jump he switched
his chestnut's flanks, and just as the conductor's baton seems a wand
visibly producing the swell of the orchestra, so this light motion
seemed to give the impulse to the horse's spring. The clatter of his
feet on the hard turf beyond announced him the winner amid cheers.
Leroy's white took the ditch gallantly, too, but the blood showed red in
its nostrils.
Instead of reining up at the goal, Harry executed a characteristic
caprice. The fence surrounding the race-track was nearly five feet high.
Careering on at full gallop, the victor urged his animal toward this
obstacle. A great shout greeted him as he cleared it, the chestnut's
hind hoofs grazing the boards. Then, swiftly turning to the right, he
cantered up to Rosalie's carriage, gracefully backed his horse and
saluted. Leroy joined him through the gate, and stood at his side,
while the losers straggled in, haphazard and blown.
"That was for you, Rosalie," said Harry in her ear as she laid the
flagstaff in his hand. It was meant for a whisper, but others heard it,
and on the morrow the news had spread all over Lenox that Harry Arnold
and the beautiful Rosalie March were definitely betrothed. When it
reached Mrs. Arnold in Hillsborough, as though by special messenger, she
retired at once to her room.
The coaching party paraded out and dispersed amid merrymakings freer
than before. Mme. Violet was bewitching during the journey home, making
up by a double stream of effortless prattle for Rosalie's unwonted
silence.
"But Poe," protested the girl, as if waking suddenly, when the earl, who
had got back to book talk again, inveighed against the poverty of our
literature.
"Ting-a-ling," said his noble lordship. The carriage had just stopped to
leave Count L'Alienado at his hotel.