Part 53 (1/2)
”Isn't it getting to be a habit?”
”Breakfast or--you?”
”Breakfast _and_ me.”
”I confess, my dear Countess, that I like you for breakfast,” I said gallantly.
”That is a real tribute,” she said demurely, and took her place beside me. Together we crossed the courtyard.
On the steps Colingraft t.i.tus was standing. I uttered an audible groan and winced as if in dire pain.
”What is it?” she cried quickly.
”Rheumatism,” I announced, carefully raising my right arm and affecting an expression of torture. I am not a physical coward, kind reader. The fact that young Mr. t.i.tus carried in his hands a set of formidable looking boxing-gloves did not frighten me. Heaven knows, if it would give him any pleasure to slam me about with a pair of gloves, I am not without manliness and pluck enough to endure physical pain and mental humiliation. It was diplomacy, cunning, astuteness,--whatever you may choose to call it,--that stood between me and a friendly encounter with him. Two minutes' time would serve to convince him that he was my master, and then where would I be? Where would be the prestige I had gained? Where my record as a conqueror? ”I must have caught cold in my arms and shoulders,” I went on, making worse faces than before as I moved the afflicted parts experimentally.
”There!” she exclaimed ruefully. ”I _knew_ you would catch cold. Men always do. I'm so sorry.”
”It's nothing,” I made haste to explain:--”that is, nothing serious.
I'll get rid of it in no time at all.” I calculated for a minute. ”A week or ten days at the most. Good morning, Colingraft.”
”Morning. h.e.l.lo, sis. Well?” He dangled the gloves before my eyes.
My disappointment was quite pathetic. ”Tell him,” I said to the Countess.
”He's all crippled up with rheumatism, Colly,” she said. ”Put those ugly things away. We're going in to breakfast.”
He tossed the gloves into a corner of the vestibule. I felt a little ashamed of my subterfuge in the face of his earnest expression of concern.
”Tell you what I'll do,” he said warmly. ”I know how to rub a fellow's muscles--”
”Oh, I have a treasure in Britten,” said I, hastily. ”Thanks, old man.
He will work it out of me. Sorry we can't have a go this morning.”
The worst of it all was that he insisted, as a matter of personal education, on coming to my room after breakfast to watch the expert manoeuvres of Britton in kneading the stiffness out of my muscles. He was looking for new ideas, he explained. I first consulted Britton and then resignedly consented to the demonstration.
To my surprise, Britton was something of an expert. I confess that he almost killed me with those strong, iron-like hands of his; if I was not sore when he began with me, I certainly was when he finished.
Colingraft was most enthusiastic. He said he'd never seen any one manipulate the muscles so scientifically as Britton, and ventured the opinion that he would not have to repeat the operation often. To myself I said that he wouldn't have to repeat it at all.
We began laying our plans for the fourteenth. Communications arrived from Italy, addressed to me but intended for either the Countess or the rather remote Mr. Bangs, who seemed better qualified to efface himself than any human being I've ever seen. These letters informed us that a yacht--one of three now cruising in the-Mediterranean--would call at an appointed port on such and such a day to take her out to sea. Everything was being arranged on the outside for her escape from the continent, and precision seamed to be the watchword.
Of course I couldn't do a stroke of work on my novel. How could I be expected to devote myself to fiction when fact was staring me in the face so engagingly? We led an idle, _dolce far niente_ life in these days, with an underlying touch of anxiety and excitement that increased as the day for her departure drew near. I confess to a sickening sense of depression that could not be shaken off.
Half of my time was spent in playing with Rosemary. She became dearer to me with each succeeding day. I knew I should miss her tremendously.
I should even miss Jinko, who didn't like me but who no longer growled at me. The castle would be a very gloomy, drear place after they were out of it. I found myself wondering how long I would be able to endure the loneliness. Secretly I cherished the idea of selling the place if I could find a lunatic in the market.
An unexpected diversion came one day when, without warning and figuratively out of a clear sky, the Hazzards and the Billy Smiths swooped down upon me. They had come up the river in the power boat for a final September run, and planned to stop over night with me!
They were the last people in the world whom I could turn away from my door. There might have been a chance to put them up for the night and still avoid disclosures, had not circ.u.mstance ordered that the Countess and I should be working in the garden at the very moment that brought them pounding at the postern gates. Old Conrad opened the gate in complete ignorance of our presence in the garden. (We happened to be in a somewhat obscure nook and seated upon a stone bench--so he must be held blameless.) The quartette brushed past the old man and I, hearing their chatter, foolishly exposed myself.
I shall not attempt to describe the scene that followed their discovery of the Countess Tarnowsy. Be it said, however, to the credit of Elsie and Betty Billy, the startled refugee was fairly smothered in kisses and tears and almost deafened by the shrill, delighted exclamations that fell from their eager lips. I doubt if there ever was such a sensation before!