Polly the Pagan Part 20

Polly: "Can't be too few for me."

_Later._

A. D., I've made an awful mistake! I was too good to the Prince and he took advantage of it. In fact he was pretty naughty. You see he thought we were quite alone this afternoon, the others had gone fis.h.i.+ng, and before I knew what he was doing, he entered my tent and had me in his arms, kissing my hair, my eyes, my mouth. I screamed and one of the guides ran in. Boris cursed him for interfering, so I simply asked the man to remain. There was nothing for the Prince to do but walk out. Then the guide looked at me funnily and said that the canoe didn't tip over that time in the wind, that Boris had hired him to upset it, the spot being fairly shallow and perfectly safe.

Apparently our Russian wanted to get the credit of an heroic rescue.

So you were right after all. He's not to be trusted.

Also, there is a very queer thing that your little Sherlock Holmes has just discovered. He's had letters come to him over another name, not in the least like his own. They fell out of his pocket when he was struggling with me. I picked them up--one was marked up in the corner with the name of some antique dealer. Can Boris be selling Peppi's pictures? Is that the mysterious "business" that takes him from one big city to another? When you get back to Was.h.i.+ngton, ask about him at the Russian Emba.s.sy. Oh give me a good straight American man, say I!

We're about a hundred miles north of Toronto now. One day more and then we leave for home.

Fourth Day. A gray mist and an early start. I insisted on going in Checkers' canoe. Boris and I are not speaking. Our two mile portage led to Rock Lake. Saw a bear and caught some trout and ba.s.s for supper. Railway in sight. To celebrate our last meal we indulged in a bonfire, had soup and a welsh rarebit, and gambled late into the night by the light of candles stuck into broken bottles.

Fourth Day's Remarks:

Aunt: "Fiddlesticks! What's all this trouble about?"

Checkers: "Bow wow."

Sybil: "Meow, meow."

Polly: (Silence.)

Prince: (More silence.)

Fifth Day. This morning the tents came down, fis.h.i.+ng tackle was put away, clothes shoved into the duffle bags for the last time. We paddled across the lake to the hotel. Closing remarks by the Party:

Aunt: "Camp generally becomes pa.s.sably comfortable just as one nears the end of the trip."

Prince: "How I love the railway."

Sybil: "At the end of the last carry, still carrying on!"

Checkers: "Prince Tripp tripped up--a spring trip! Polly's eyes have been opened."

Polly: "They've never been entirely shut. I only winked occasionally."

These journal notes I am sending you with my love, care of the State Department, Was.h.i.+ngton.

A. D. TO POLLY

_En Route, May._

Goodbye, Rome! I'm on the train at last, speeding away from the Eternal City.

When I came home to dress for my farewell Roman dinner last evening, there was a note on the table from the Doyen of the Amba.s.sadors stating that the King would receive at twenty-one hours and thirty minutes. I hurriedly calculated this would be half-past ten, so calmly went off to dine with some of my old pals, a sort of goodbye party, thinking there would be plenty of time. Suddenly I had a lucid moment and realized that twenty-one thirty meant half-past nine! I looked at my watch--just twenty-eight minutes past. Whew, but I flew--took a cab and galloped at full speed to the Quirinal, rushed up the great staircase past the astonished lackeys, through the guard room into the State Reception Rooms, got there, terribly out of breath, but--on the minute!

It was a pretty sight, the Royal Circle in the Salon of the Mirrors.

We stood in a row,--"we few, we happy few, we band of brothers"--while the King and Queen went as usual to each and talked. When he came to me, I told him I was going home to be married, and got so enthusiastic in telling how happy I was, how anxious and eager, how it was the only thing which made me willing to leave His Majesty's Court that he got roused, too, and said really very pleasant things, and shook me by the hand with a hearty good wish and good-bye, and strutted away most amicably. To the Queen, also, I insisted on talking of my felicity, and she said she had heard of it and wished us well. So! A Royal Pair approves our wedding, if not an Aunt. You might point that out to your t.i.tle-loving guardian; perhaps she will think a little more kindly of me.

Today before I left the Emba.s.sy, my successor arrived, and to him I handed all the lire that were left, and papers and so forth. The office had been thoroughly cleaned and dusted, a new carpet put down, and new window-curtains put up. I showed him everything I could think of, shook him by the hand, and just caught my train.

Now we are climbing the Italian Alps, which are wonderfully beautiful in the afternoon sun, and in a little while we shall pa.s.s through the tunnel of Mt. Cenis and out of Italy. Every day will bring me nearer to you, dear Polly, and twenty thousand times more happy. Dearest, a few weeks more, and we shall begin the first of our married life, and you--my wife!

A telegram was handed me on the train just now which quite takes my breath away, though its news does not surprise me as much as it will you. Peppi and his little divorcee, gray eyes, Mona Lisa smile, and all, were married today in Rome, with only Gonzaga, Pan, and Jonkheer Jan at the wedding!

My dear, I am going to tell you something. The lady came to my rooms quite unexpectedly the other day, and asked for tea, which Gilet made for her, and then she just sat and looked at me with her inscrutable smile and her mysterious eyes. Finally she got up and went over and looked at your photograph for a long while, then turned and said, "Your little Polly is very sweet, even if she doesn't like me. Is it true that you return for your wedding soon?"

"Quite true," I replied.

"We've been very good friends, you and I," she went on, "and I am sorry to have you go. Goodbye." She gave me her hand which I kissed, for there were tears on her lashes, and I followed her down to put her in the cab. She said with that usual cryptic look of hers, "I've made up my mind to something this afternoon. Don't be surprised when you get word of it. Farewell."

The man cracked his whip and off she went.

But still, there remains some mystery about her and about Peppi to be unravelled yet. The two are married, so far, so good, but where does the Prince come in? Surely he and she were conspiring about something. She evidently wanted you to marry him, and she may have thought then that I could be more devoted to her, who knows? Then, too, there were those paintings, the copies of old masters, all packed and addressed to Boris in New York. Peppi I trust, Lisa I pity, but your Muscovite I believe is a rascal. Won't we have a lot to talk over? And think, too, dear, from now on I'll be traveling every hour toward you.

A. D. TO POLLY

_London, May._

This is the last way station, dearest, on my journey to New York and you. I delight in these stages, the jump from Rome to Paris--Paris to London--and London to Home!

The crossing from Paris was wretched, a great gale blowing up the channel, but at least we were able to make it, which wasn't the case every day this week. England hasn't changed much since my last visit.

I am always amused on landing to find everything exactly the same--the same weather, the same incomprehensible accent and manner of talking, the same points of view, the newspapers harping on the same subjects, the same items in the society columns--everything so conventional.

We were landed in the same old uncomfortable manner at Folkestone, while the same crowds of mannish-looking women with great buns of hair stood in line and stared, and men in knickerbockers and mackintoshes stood st.u.r.dily in the wet gale and smoked bull-dog pipes, just as pictures in "Punch" show they did a generation ago. Then in the same cold compartment carriages we came speeding across the same country, past the same roof tops, into the same Charing Cross station. And behold, the atmosphere was made up of the same smoke and fog I learned to know so well, and the lights burned dimly as of old.

The change from gay, well-lighted Paris, all en fete, to London, sombre, melancholy, was just as great as ever, and just as complete.

And how small great but little Rome seems beside these huge, up-to-date cities! I feel lost in them, and am terrified at the crossings of the streets, and, like an elderly country woman, I pa.s.s most of my time on the "Islands" in Piccadilly.

I have visited many of my former haunts, gone to the Emba.s.sy, seen many old friends, and feel quite jollied up. I even went to a tea yesterday, where some men and women stood around unintroduced, in the delightfully awkward way which Du Maurier, alas, will no longer draw.

The evening found me dining at Prince's Restaurant and later going on to the Palace Varieties, where again I saw the pretty circus rider, and although a certain person thought much of the performance, yet he thought a great deal more of--you!

This morning I walked out--the London haze was pearly gray and opalescent and a lozenge sun was in the sky, a beautiful day for London--and I went down to the foot of Curzon Street and through Lansdowne pa.s.sage, and there, yes, there was my old friend the c.o.c.k-eyed sweeper, standing by his little pile of dust. I gave him a s.h.i.+lling in my delight at seeing him again, and with his broom. Have you kept my broom, I wonder?

It is still cold in London, and I try to keep warm with a foolish little fire in a tiny grate. It is dismal enough, too, for candle light. The British are afraid of "over heating," as they call it--which means really that they are careful of their coal. But then, one is "stoking up" all day long in this climate, a heavy breakfast, a heavier luncheon, the heaviest of dinners, with tea and toast and m.u.f.fins in the afternoon, and a supper at night.

Last night I had a dream which, although there wasn't anybody to tell it to before breakfast and so make it come true, I hope may be realized. The only one to confide in, for Gilet was out on business, was the fluffy-haired footman who wasn't sufficiently sympathetic for me to commune with. But indeed I am not superst.i.tious, and the dream was pleasant enough for me to think over to myself--because it was about you!