FAIRYLAND
Monty's situation was desperate. Only a little more than six thousand
dollars had been spent on the carnival and no opportunity of
annihilating the roulette winnings seemed to offer itself. His
experience at Monte Carlo did not encourage him to try again, and
Peggy's attitude toward the place was distinctly antagonistic. The
Riviera presenting no new opportunities for extravagance, it became
necessary to seek other worlds.
"I never before understood the real meaning of the phrase 'tight
money,'" thought Monty. "Lord, if it would only loosen a bit and stay
loosened." Something must be done, he realized, to earn his living.
Perhaps the role of the princely profligate would be easier in Italy
than anywhere else. He studied the outlook from every point of view,
but there were moments when it seemed hopeless. Baedeker was
provokingly barren of suggestions for extravagance and Monty grew
impatient of the book's small economies. Noticing some chapters on the
Italian lakes, in an inspired moment he remembered that Pettingill had
once lost his heart to a villa on the Lake of Como. Instantly a new act
of comedy presented itself to him. He sought out Pettingill and
demanded a description of his castle in the air.
"Oh, it's a wonder," exclaimed the artist, and his eyes grew dreamy.
"It shines out at you with its white terraces and turrets like those
fascinating castles that Maxfield Parrish draws for children. It is
fairyland. You expect to wake and find it gone."
"Oh, drop that, Petty," said Brewster, "or it will make you poetical.
What I want to know is who owns it and is it likely to be occupied at
this season?"
"It belongs to a certain marquise, who is a widow with no children.
They say she has a horror of the place for some reason and has never
been near it. It is kept as though she was to turn up the next day, but
except for the servants it is always deserted."
"The very thing," declared Brewster; "Petty, we'll have a house-party."
"You'd better not count on that, Monty. A man I know ran across the
place once and tried for a year to buy it. But the lady has ideas of
her own."
"Well, if you wish to give him a hint or two about how to do things,
watch me. If you don't spend two weeks in your dream-castle, I will cut
the crowd and sail for home." He secured the name of the owner, and
found that Pettingill had even a remote idea of the address of her
agent. Armed with these facts he set out in search of a courier, and
through Philippe he secured a Frenchman named Bertier, who was
guaranteed to be surprisingly ingenious in providing methods of
spending money. To him Brewster confided his scheme, and Bertier
realized with rising enthusiasm that at last he had secured a client
after his own heart. He was able to complete the address of the agent
of the mysterious marquise, and an inquiry was immediately telegraphed
to him.
The agent's reply would have been discouraging to any one but Brewster.
It stated that the owner had no intention of leasing her forsaken
castle for any period whatever. The profligate learned that a fair
price for an estate of that kind for a month was ten thousand francs,
and he wired an offer of five times that sum for two weeks. The agent
replied that some delay would be necessary while he communicated with
his principal. Delay was the one word that Brewster did not understand,
so he wired him an address in Genoa, and the "Flitter" was made ready
for sea. Steam had been kept up, and her coal account would compare
favorably with that of an ocean liner. Philippe was breathless with joy
when he was paid in advance for another month at the hotel, on the
assumption that the party might be moved to return at any moment. The
little town was gay at parting and Brewster and his guests were given a
royal farewell.
At Genoa the mail had accumulated and held the attention of the yacht
to the exclusion of everything else. Brewster was somewhat crestfallen
to learn that the lady of the villa haughtily refused his princely
offer. He won the life-long devotion of his courier by promptly
increasing it to one hundred thousand francs. When this too met with
rejection, there was a pause and a serious consultation between the two.
"Bertier," exclaimed Brewster, "I must have the thing now. What's to be
done? You've got to help me out."
But the courier, prodigal as he was of gestures, had no words which
seemed pertinent.
"There must be some way of getting at this marquise," Monty continued
reflectively. "What are her tastes? Do you know anything about her?"
Suddenly the face of the courier grew bright. "I have it," he said, and
then he faltered. "But the expense, monsieur--it would be heavy."
"Perhaps we can meet it," suggested Monty, quietly. "What's the idea?"
It was explained, with plenty of action to make it clear. The courier
had heard in Florence that madame la marquise had a passion for
automobiles. But with her inadequate fortune and the many demands upon
it, it was a weakness not readily gratified. The machine she had used
during the winter was by no means up-to-date. Possibly if Monsieur--yet
it was too much--no villa--
But Brewster's decision was made. "Wire the fellow," he said, "that I
will add to my last offer a French machine of the latest model and the
best make. Say, too, that I would like immediate possession."
He secured it, and the crowd was transferred at once to fairyland.
There were protests, of course, but these Brewster had grown to expect
and he was learning to carry things with a high hand. The travelers had
been preceded by Bertier, and the greeting they received from the
steward of the estate and his innumerable assistants was very Italian
and full of color. A break in their monotony was welcome.
The loveliness of the villa and its grounds, which sloped down to the
gentle lake, silenced criticism. For a time it was supremely satisfying
to do nothing. Pettingill wandered about as though he could not believe
it was real. He was lost in a kind of atmosphere of ecstasy. To the
others, who took it more calmly, it was still a sort of paradise. Those
who were happy found in it an intensification of happiness, and to
those who were sad it offered the tenderest opportunities for
melancholy. Mrs. Dan told Brewster that only a poet could have had this
inspiration. And Peggy added, "Anything after this would be an
anti-climax. Really, Monty, you would better take us home."
"I feel like the boy who was shut in a closet for punishment and found
it the place where they kept the jam," said "Subway." "It is almost as
good as owning Central Park."
The stables were well equipped and the days wore on in a wonderful
peace. It was on a radiant afternoon, when twelve of the crowd had
started out, after tea, for a long ride toward Lugano, that Monty
determined to call Peggy Gray to account. He was certain that she had
deliberately avoided him for days and weeks, and he could find no
reason for it. Hour after hour he had lain awake wondering where he had
failed her, but the conclusion of one moment was rejected the next. The
Monte Carlo episode seemed the most plausible cause, yet even before
that he had noticed that whenever he approached her she managed to be
talking with some one else. Two or three times he was sure she had seen
his intention before she took refuge with Mrs. Dan or Mary Valentine or
Pettingill. The thought of the last name gave Monty a sudden thrill.
What if it were he who had come between them? It troubled him, but
there were moments when the idea seemed impossible. As they mounted and
started off, the exhilaration of the ride made him hopeful. They were
to have dinner in the open air in the shadow of an abbey ruin some
miles away, and the servants had been sent ahead to prepare it. It went
well, and with Mrs. Dan's help the dinner was made gay. On the return
Monty who was off last spurred up his horse to join Peggy. She seemed
eager to be with the rest and he lost no time with a preamble.
"Do you know, Peggy," he began, "something seems to be wrong, and I am
wondering what it is."
"Why, what do you mean, Monty?" as he paused.
"Every time I come near you, child, you seem to have something else to
do. If I join the group you are in, it is the signal for you to break
away."
"Nonsense, Monty, why should I avoid you? We have known one another
much too long for that." But he thought he detected some contradiction
in her eyes, and he was right. The girl was afraid of him, afraid of
the sensations he awoke, afraid desperately of betrayal.
"Pettingill may appeal to you," he said, and his voice was serious,
"but you might at least be courteous to me."
"How absurd you are, Monty Brewster." The girl grew hot. "You needn't
think that your million gives you the privilege of dictating to all of
your guests."
"Peggy, how can you," he interjected.
She went on ruthlessly. "If my conduct interferes with your highness's
pleasure I can easily join the Prestons in Paris."
Suddenly Brewster remembered that Pettingill had spoken of the Prestons
and expressed a fleeting wish that he might be with them in the Latin
Quarter. "With Pettingill to follow, I suppose," he said, icily. "It
would certainly give you more privacy."
"And Mrs. Dan more opportunities," she retorted as he dropped back
toward the others.
The artist instantly took his place. The next moment he had challenged
her to a race and they were flying down the road in the moonlight.
Brewster, not to be outdone, was after them, but it was only a moment
before his horse shied violently at something black in the road. Then
he saw Peggy's horse galloping riderless. Instantly, with fear at his
throat, he had dismounted and was at the girl's side. She was not hurt,
they found, only bruised and dazed and somewhat lamed. A girth had
broken and her saddle turned. The crowd waited, silent and somewhat
awed, until the carriage with the servants came up and she was put into
it. Mrs. Dan's maid was there and Peggy insisted that she would have no
one else. But as Monty helped her in, he had whispered, "You won't go,
child, will you? How could things go on here?"