The Incendiary: A Story of Mystery
Page 38
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
COUNT L'ALIENADO.
"Here is the substitute I promised you, Rosalie. Miss March--CountL'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 blackglasses he wore the August sunshine dazzled his eyes, so he wascompelled 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 ridingcompanions. There was just a suggestion of Spanish reserve in hisobeisance, and he bowed a graceful adieu to Tristram before mounting tohis seat.
It was curious that Tristram should have been the first to break thecount's incognito. He had arrived at Lenox a few days before, attendedby a single valet, and registered at the hotel as M. L. L'Alienado,Valencia. Though not imposing in stature, he exhibited a head of raredistinction--the black beard trimmed to an exquisite point at the chinand the curled mustaches setting off a pair of glowing eyes whichriveted 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 purelyAmerican," 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 begenerally a little lacking in your life."
"Color and lordliness," sighed Mme. Violet. "Ah, there are notroubadours, no spurred cavaliers, no mailed knights in this busyAmerica--not even scarlet soldiers parading. You men are so dingy, dingyin your black propriety. Why be so funereal? My heart goes out sometimesto a very mountebank, all spangled and jingling like a tambourine whenhe moves. Color! Give me color. Ah, it is not we who have taste, it isthe canaille! It is Victorine, my lady's maid, with her bonnet-ribbonsflaunting all the colors of the rainbow."
A silk banner lay outspread in Rosalie's lap, throwing warm blushesagainst 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 fringewhich justified the last addition. "Are not these the primary hues, themajor chord of color, and the white their perfect blending?"
The Violet laughed. When addressing her directly or referring to her inher own presence, people carefully called her Mme. Violet. But to theworld, out of earshot, she was simply the Violet, just as Cleopatra isCleopatra. It was taken for granted that her blood was French, but CountL'Alienado, noting her fawn-brown eyes and the strong black hair, whichmade Rosalie's fluff appear like carded golden silk--thought he detectedthe 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 shepossessed a diablerie stronger than girlhood or beauty, and gossip saidthe 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 inthe luxury of the cushions and in the changing view which the driveafforded. Other equipages swept into the main road here and there, fromcottage and mansion and by-path, each freighted with its cargo offlower-raimented beauty. Marshals in velvet hunting garb galloped up anddown, with low salutes to the passengers and brusque orders to thecoachmen. On the top of a little hill there came a pause while theprocession was arranging itself, and the conversation rippled out again.
"The color is overdone," said the Earl of Marmouth. "It smacks of Latindegeneracy."
"Such as appears in the canvases of Titian?" asked Count L'Alienadoquietly.
The Violet, sitting opposite him, caressed her bronze-eyed spaniel toher cheek, so that she might survey the newcomer more closely. Hislordship, at her side, alone of the party had sat upright during theride.
"You are Spanish, not Italian, I am told," he said, much in the tone ofa hotel clerk demanding the settlement of an overdue bill. The Violet'seyes 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 hisimpertinence.
"Not very old," answered Count L'Alienado, gently, but looking full atMarmouth. "Before Columbus set out from Palos my ancestor was knightedby Ferdinand the Great--for honorable services."
"We are moving at last," growled the earl, as if personally grieved atthe delay. His own title was less than 200 years old and the servicesfor which it was granted, by the second Charles, though historic, couldnot possibly be called honorable.
"Ah, this is joyous!" cried the Violet, as the sensuous pleasure of theride stole over her. A quick-step, taken from the start, gave the partya gentle jolting, just sufficiently softened by the padded carriageupholstery. Up hill and down dale, through the riches of midsummer, theroute chosen wound. Forest and meadow sailed leisurely by them.Handkerchiefs waved from piazza and window wherever they passed adwelling house, and at every cross-road stood a group of the fresh-facedcountry-folk to give them greeting. At the end of an hour the roadrecurved on itself along a hillside overlooking the valley of the racingpark and the pageant bent its length into the form of a letter S, sothat without the delay of a formal review each carriage was permitted toinspect the others.
Count L'Alienado saw barges filled with maidens, like living flowers,four-in-hand tally-hos, crowded with sportive collegians, oddjaunting-cars and donkey-carts got up by the wags, staid family coacheswith footmen faced rearward to enjoy the retrospect, and open drags likehis own without number, all brilliant with lovely womanhood.
The Violet stood apart from the others, sensuous and exotic--like anorange lily in a garden of snowdrops. But, supreme over all, like abright light, enhanced by reflectors, shone the loveliness of RosalieMarch--pure, placid and faultlessly costumed as ever. The jockeyswhispered to one another when her vehicle entered the racing park. Aneager look at that moment chased away the slight hauteur of herexpression--not unbecoming in one so clearly removed from the commonorder, and far from approaching disdain. She turned her head toward thestables expectantly.
"Paradise," said the Violet, when they had entered and the carriagescircled 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 themother country."
"Do you agree, Count L'Alienado?" asked Rosalie, appealing to thestranger.
"Candor is too sharp a sword to carry about unsheathed," answered CountL'Alienado.
Mme. Violet smiled archly, bringing her Gainsborough brim close to theearl's great face and caressing her spaniel with provoking abandon.
Rosalie's little abstraction since they passed through the gate mighteasily be understood, for Harry Arnold was entered in the steeplechasefor gentlemen riders.
"There they come!" she cried, but it was only a group of motley jockeysfor the ring race. This passed off quietly enough.
"Now for the steeplechase," cried Rosalie. "There's Harry!" Sheinstinctively plucked the Violet's hand. Then, remembering they were notalone, she colored. Harry led the group of riders who came from thestables, mounted on strong-limbed steeplechasers. His uniform was ofthe 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 hissplendid seat gave presage of victory.
"Mr. Arnold is the favorite," said Count L'Alienado.
"Although he gives away forty pounds to Leroy," added Rosalie, thetechnical terms of the track coming strangely from her lips. It wasfortunate for her peac
e of mind Tristram was not there to hear them.
"Now they start!" she cried, alive with interest; but it was only HarryArnold who spurted his curvetting chestnut across the turf, then reinedhim up on his haunches with a sudden jerk, as you may have seen an oldcavalry sergeant perform the trick. But Leroy, who, as Rosalie said,weighed nearly half a hundred less, wisely reserved his white horse'sstrength.
"Now!" repeated Rosalie, unconsciously clasping the flag, as if eager tobestow it. The horses, six in number, had started in a bunch and kepttogether easily till the pistol flash. Then each bounded as if cut witha whip, and rider and horse bent forward.
"Hurrah!" shouted the ring of onlookers about the inclosure, as all sixtook the first low wall together. The course led straightway across theoval, 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 chestnutand Leroy's white could be seen a length in the lead of the others andneck and neck, as they struggled up the hill and sunk to view on theother side.
"How glorious! How delightful!" cried the Violet, in the interim ofsuspense. "It is better than the wild Indians that rode in the coliseumlast year. Your full-blooded racers, they are too lean, likegrasshoppers. Oh, the steeplechase is better. I believe, after all, youowe 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 senseof 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 thedistant hill with her great eyes full of eagerness. Then she recoveredherself 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 wasto award. Down the slope they strained, heading toward the goal. Only aclose side view could have disclosed the advantage in favor of either.
"Harry Arnold will win," said Count L'Alienado. "Leroy is whipping hishorse."
The count's judgment proved correct. Almost immediately the chestnutbegan drawing away from the white. A nose, a neck, half a length, andthe clear ground intervened. Harry did not touch whip or spur to thesides of his mount, until the last leap, when a high wall and a longditch had to be taken together. On the very rise of the jump he switchedhis chestnut's flanks, and just as the conductor's baton seems a wandvisibly producing the swell of the orchestra, so this light motionseemed to give the impulse to the horse's spring. The clatter of hisfeet on the hard turf beyond announced him the winner amid cheers.Leroy's white took the ditch gallantly, too, but the blood showed red inits nostrils.
Instead of reining up at the goal, Harry executed a characteristiccaprice. The fence surrounding the race-track was nearly five feet high.Careering on at full gallop, the victor urged his animal toward thisobstacle. A great shout greeted him as he cleared it, the chestnut'shind hoofs grazing the boards. Then, swiftly turning to the right, hecantered up to Rosalie's carriage, gracefully backed his horse andsaluted. 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 theflagstaff 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 Arnoldand the beautiful Rosalie March were definitely betrothed. When itreached Mrs. Arnold in Hillsborough, as though by special messenger, sheretired at once to her room.
The coaching party paraded out and dispersed amid merrymakings freerthan before. Mme. Violet was bewitching during the journey home, makingup by a double stream of effortless prattle for Rosalie's unwontedsilence.
"But Poe," protested the girl, as if waking suddenly, when the earl, whohad got back to book talk again, inveighed against the poverty of ourliterature.
"Ting-a-ling," said his noble lordship. The carriage had just stopped toleave Count L'Alienado at his hotel.