_From the Hon. Cecil Bertie to the Lady Guinevere_.
Mr. Cecil Tremayne, who served “Under Two Flags,” an officer in her
Majesty’s Guards, describes to the Lady Guinevere the circumstances of
his encounter with Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller. The incident has
been omitted by Ouida and Mr. Henry James.
YOU ask me, Camarada, what I think of the little American _donzella_,
Daisy Miller? _Hesterna Rosa_, I may cry with the blind old bard of
Tusculum; or shall we say, _Hesterna Margaritæ_? Yesterday’s Daisy,
yesterday’s Rose, were it of Pæstum, who values it to-day? _Mais où sont
les neiges d’automne_? However, yesterday—the day before yesterday,
rather—Miss Annie P. Miller was well enough.
We were smoking at the club windows on the Ponte Vecchio; Marmalada,
Giovanelli of the Bersaglieri, young Ponto of the K.O.B.’s, and
myself—men who never give a thought save to the gold embroidery of their
_pantoufles_ or the exquisite ebon laquer of their Russia leather
cricket-shoes. Suddenly we heard a clatter in the streets. The
riderless chargers of the Bersaglieri were racing down the Santo Croce,
and just turning, with a swing and shriek of clattering spurs, into the
Maremma. In the midst of the street, under our very window, was a little
thing like a butterfly, with _yeux de pervenche_. You remember,
Camarada, Voltaire’s love of the _pervenche_; we have plucked it, have we
not? in his garden of Les Charmettes. _Nous n’irons plus aux bois_!
_Basta_!
But to return. There she stood, terror-stricken, petrified, like her who
of old turned her back on Zoar and beheld the incandescent hurricane of
hail smite the City of the Plain! She was dressed in white muslin, _joli
comme un cœur_, with a myriad frills and flounces and knots of
pale-coloured ribbon. Open-eyed, open-mouthed, she stared at the tide of
foaming steeds, like a maiden martyr gazing at the on-rushing waves of
ocean! “Caramba!” said Marmalada, “voilà une jeune fille pas trop bien
gardée!” Giovanelli turned pale, and, muttering _Corpo di Bacco_,
quaffed a _carafon_ of green Chartreuse, holding at least a quart, which
stood by him in its native pewter. Young Ponto merely muttered, “Egad!”
I leaped through the open window and landed at her feet.
The racing steeds were within ten yards of us. Calmly I cast my eye over
their points. Far the fleetest, though he did not hold the lead, was
Marmalada’s charger, the Atys gelding, by Celerima out of Sac de Nuit.
With one wave of my arm I had placed her on his crupper, and, with the
same action, swung myself into the saddle. Then, in a flash and thunder
of flying horses, we swept like tawny lightning down the Pincian. The
last words I heard from the club window, through the heliotrope-scented
air, were “Thirty to one on Atys, half only if declared.” They were
wagering on our lives; the slang of the paddock was on their lips.
Onward, downward, we sped, the fair stranger lifeless in my arms. Past
scarlet cardinals in mufti, past brilliant έτᾶιραὶ like those who swayed
the City of the Violet Crown; past _pifferari_ dancing in front of many
an _albergo_; through the Ghetto with its marmorine palaces, over the
Fountain of Trevi, across the Cascine, down the streets of the Vatican we
flew among yells of “Owner’s up,” “The gelding wins, hard held,” from the
excited _bourgeoisie_. Heaven and earth swam before my eyes as we
reached the Pons Sublicia, and heard the tawny waters of Tiber swaying to
the sea.
_The Pons Sublicia was up_!
With an oath of despair, for life is sweet, I rammed my persuaders into
Atys, caught him by the head, and sent him straight at the flooded Tiber!
“_Va-t-en donc_, _espèce de type_!” said the girl on my saddle-bow,
finding her tongue at last. Fear, or girlish modesty, had hitherto kept
her silent.
Then Atys rose on his fetlocks! Despite his double burden, the good
steed meant to have it. He deemed, perchance, he was with the Quorn or
the Baron’s. He rose; he sprang. The deep yellow water, cold in the
moon’s rays, with the farthest bank but a chill grey line in the mist,
lay beneath us! A moment that seemed an eternity! Then we landed on the
far-off further bank, and for the first time I could take a pull at his
head. I turned him on the river’s brim, and leaped him back again.
The runaway was now as tame as a driven deer in Richmond Park.
Well, Camarada, the adventure is over. She was grateful, of course.
These _pervenche_ eyes were suffused with a dewy radiance.
“You can’t call,” she said, “for you haven’t been introduced, and Mrs.
Walker says we must be more exclusive. I’m dying to be exclusive; but
I’m very much obliged to you, and so will mother be. Let’s see. I’ll be
at the Colosseum to-morrow night, about ten. I’m bound to see the
Colosseum, by moonlight. Good-bye;” and she shook her pale parasol at
me, and fluttered away.
Ah, Camarada, shall I be there? _Que scais-je_? Well, ’tis time to go
to the dance at the Holy Father’s. Adieu, Carissima.—Tout à vous,