Polly the Pagan Part 18

A. D. TO POLLY

_Cable from Rome, Evening, April 1._

Another cable was brought me late tonight. "April Fool!" it read.

Thank G.o.d. Polly, don't do that again.

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, April 2d._

Your dear cablegram came this morning begging my forgiveness. You have it, dearest, absolutely. Evidently somebody's little conscience troubled her about her naughty message of April first. You'll get, I fear, a pretty sharp letter which ought not, however, to offend you.

Anyway the last cable made me happy, and yet another, telling me that the Senate had confirmed the nomination of the new Amba.s.sador, made me happier still and my heart lighter than it had been for weeks. At least, someone is coming now.

But we're doing the only thing to be done under the circ.u.mstances, and my Polly, I know, expects every man to do his duty, doesn't she? I shall be home by May, you can be sure, even if I have to resort to the desperate measure of deserting my post. But that would be a hard step to take.

Yesterday I went about a bit--that is, this earthly sh.e.l.l of mine did, while my heart and soul were with you, dear--first to take luncheon with Peppi and to look at his curious copies of old masters. Do you know, he has even taken to painting them on wood, exactly like the fifteenth century--and his own Mona Lisa is uncannily like the one in the Louvre. I told him so and he looked queerly at me. Some had been boxed for sending and whose name do you think was blackly lettered on them? The Prince's--and the address somewhere down on New York's east side. Curious, isn't it?

I didn't stay long, being too distracted (my nerves are so strung up, they make me the worst company in the world). So I wandered home through the beautiful sunny streets, down past the foot of the Spanish steps where we used to meet, past the fountain and the flower-sellers.

Write soon, won't you?

POLLY TO A. D.

_New York, April._

Truly you lost no time in hurrying to your Mona Lisa with my cablegram. Moreover, there's a little doubt in your letter when you ask, "Is it the Prince?" Can you blame me if--well, I'll leave the rest unwritten. In the meantime, Aunt is going to take Checkers, Sybil and me to Louisville for the races, and then to Canada, just for a brief camping trip. She says it's to cheer me up, for I showed her your letter and she's much annoyed with you. Indeed it raised the poor thing's hopes that I was making the April Fool joke a reality. It did come rather near to being serious. The Prince joins us at Louisville.

Strange about those pictures. I guess I'll watch him.

Do you still think I really gave Boris your lion? Well, only to show you how wrong you are about me, I will tell you that I did lose it in Paris, but not until your letter came, did I have any idea the Prince had it. I suppose he must have picked it up, and I am not at all sure he even knew that it was mine. Now aren't you ashamed?

I'm going right on, however, with preparations for the wedding in spite of Aunt's denials. A few presents are arriving, for I put a bold face on to my friends and say we are engaged and you are coming soon.

We have a vase, a tea-set, a great silver bowl; so far that's about all. My old beaux are sending things, all except Boris, who seems to think his constant presence is the one thing to bestow. I am working on the wedding list,--it seems endless, and Aunt sniffs incredulously when she sees me at it.

How long I've sat over this letter I don't know, just dreaming of you and thinking of Venice so many months ago. Now it is Spring and warm and lovely; the flowers are in bloom and you are not here. Will any of my dreams come true, I wonder?

A. D. TO POLLY

_Rome, April._

Sweetheart, on coming home I found a letter from the new Secretary who is leaving Was.h.i.+ngton for Rome even before the Amba.s.sador. I am going to pack up at once and be ready to start as soon as he arrives.

Now you can settle on some date towards the end of May for the wedding.

Hurrah! Gilet shall go around and get my bills in to pay them, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker. There must be some official cards printed with a little p.p.c. in the lower left-hand corner ready to leave. I must look up the dates of sailings of the s.h.i.+ps for home, say goodbye, give a lot of tips to porters, ushers, chambermaids, _sommeliers_, and go to the station and so to you!

Peppi, who, I believe, is more and more hopelessly in love every day with the lady Lisa, got up a party for her, and invited some painters, sculptors, a few Dips and their wives, all to drive out for tea at the excavation of the Villa Olivia. We met at the foot of our Spanish Steps, and drove through the Porto del Populo across the Campagna, along the valley of the Tiber by Civita Castellana, to the Villa standing on a hill. After our tea and little cakes, we romped through a wild Virginia reel. I danced with Mona while Peppi, sick with jealousy, stared sombrely at me as if he wished to tuck a _stiletto_ beneath my fifth rib. It was a relief to come away, though, for the lady's gray eyes glittered when she asked me what further news you had deigned to give me regarding your flirtation with the Prince. I trust my Polly.

PRINCE BORIS TO POLLY

_Was.h.i.+ngton, April._

You ask me what I do--and what I think of North America? I busy and do much work, travel and not think of any girls but you. Men I see in street, without mustache, wear gla.s.ses, have dentist fill mouth with gold, rush about madly and speak, "What say?" and "Sure!" and "Do tell," wear celluloid collar and ready-made suit and hang big cigar from corner of mouth and--spit! Excuse my funs, dear.

People are lavish if you are Prince, turn somersaults on top of each other to entertain you, but of foreigners suspicious more or less.

All American women have too much freedom and know too well how to flirt, and too pretty they are for the heart of a man. Most of the men are uneducate in art and languages and such things; they only know business and politics.

Many buildings are handsome like in Paris and Berlin, but the cities rising into the sky are astounding, abominable. The country and the mountains so very beautiful, they are create to be a home for you, my little wild bird.

Perhaps you not like me say such things but you ask me. I travel now again from place to place. Your army is small, and your big guns burst by each fire. Soon I will be with you at Louisville. Please tell your Aunt that I kiss her hand, and your little hands, I kiss both.

POLLY TO A. D.

_Louisville, Ky., April._

Such a wonderful trip as we have had on the train! We are now in the land of the clayeaters, moons.h.i.+ne, and mountain feuds, in the region of blue gra.s.s, fast horses, and pretty women. Every man is a colonel and every woman a cousin. Our days are filled with hearty handshakes and racy stories, our mouths cooled with mint juleps in silver frosted cups, and our appet.i.tes satisfied with beaten biscuits and other delicious Southern dishes.

Sports from all over the country have gathered here for the great Derby--forty thousand or more were at the races--such a mixed crowd, men in checked suits, painted ladies, blacks, whites, all together.

First we watched them making bets, then we strolled into the paddock to see the race-horses being led round and round in an enclosed ring, covered with blankets so that only their beautiful heads and bandaged legs could be seen. Each one had his pony or stable companion, as he is called. We hung over the railing and I did love it. Such a variety of names the horses had--By Golly, Up Shot, Bungo Buck. The great race we watched from a box in the grand stand. There was much excitement, cheering, clapping, and money changing hands. On came the horses round the track, faster and faster, till Speed Limit unexpectedly won the race, leaving some people very sad and others wildly hilarious.

Checkers has won--not money on the races--but something else. And what? A girl! Guess if you can--Sybil! ! ! And she is the dearest girl in the world. Checkers is in kingdom come; he declares, "She's as pretty as a pair of pink boots and as enticing as a gla.s.s of Kentucky moons.h.i.+ne. I can go to the races and lose; I can pick a horse with nothing but a mane and a tail; can't pick a clown in a circus, but I can pick a blue-eyed doll all right!"

How did he ever do it? Why, those two scamps pretended, just to amuse each other and everybody else, to have a mock engagement--Checkers called it a "trial hitch." He says it worked like magic and they're onto it for all time and that you must give him "the glad hand." But oh, how unexpected for the rest of us--they've known each other for years. Seeing them so happy together makes me very lonely, A. D. I am glad to hear the new secretary has started over.

The house where we are staying is quite beautiful--of gray stone built in the chateau style, surrounded by formal gardens and terraces with fountains and statues. Mrs. Courtney serves mint juleps every afternoon in the gallery where superb tapestries hang on the walls, and the enormous stone fireplace has logs as big as trees burning in it. The German Amba.s.sador, an old friend of Boris', by the way, is here, and also some racing swells.

Boris and I took a walk in the garden today and he pretended to tell me the story of his life, how his father was a Russian, his mother a German countess,--how he had lived in St. Petersburg till his father died,--how (and then he became vague), he wandered from place to place, but perhaps you know all this. He is pa.s.sionately fond of horses, "me much Cossack" he said, whereupon I proposed a ride.

My mare pulled a good deal and Boris tightened the bit, but as we galloped along, both our mounts became excited and went faster and faster. Nearing a sharp corner, I sang out a warning to the Prince who was just behind. Then, suddenly his horse stumbled and fell. My mare stopped for I turned off the road into a brook. Looking back, I saw Boris lying on the ground very still, the horse standing by.

The terrifying thought swept over me that he had been killed and it was my fault, but he was only stunned and his face considerably cut and scratched. Though pretty well knocked out, Boris was game enough to mount again, so back we rode. He is going to wear a scar, but says it is nothing to the wound I have made on a more vital organ. Rather neat, don't you think so? Of course I have to be extra sweet to him on account of the accident.

We had great fun at dinner, just a series of jokes and laughs.

Afterwards Mrs. Courtney went to the piano and we danced and danced till the clock struck twelve. The whole house is like fairyland, it is so wonderful, and oh, there's a winding secret stairway that is very mysterious. I can't make out where it comes from or where it goes, but in one place Mrs. Courtney can suddenly emerge into the library by slipping back a concealed panel. The Prince is greatly intrigued with it; I surprised him as he was trying to make a diagram of its wanderings.