The Princess Passes Volume 56 by Alice Muriel Williamson, Charles Norris Williamson (great book club books .txt) 📕

Fire-Escape To The Top Of A New York Sky-Scraper, But We Earned The

Right To Cry "Excelsior!" At Last, Had We Not By That Moment Been

Speechless. History Now Repeated Itself. I Rang; The Castle Gate Was

Opened, But This Time By A Major-Domo Who Had Already In Some

Marvellous Way Learned That Strangers Might Be Expected.

Never Was So Appallingly Hospitable A Man, And I Trusted That Even The

Boy Suffered From His Kindness. Madame La Baronne, Who Was Away For

The Afternoon, Would Chide Him If Guests Were Allowed To Leave Her

House Without Refreshment. Eat We Must, And Drink We Must, In The

Beautiful Hall Evidently Used As A Sitting-Room By The Absent

Châtelaine. Her Wine And Her Cakes Were Served On An Ancient Silver

Tray, Almost As Old As The Family Traditions, And It Was Not Until We

Had Done To Both Such Justice As The Major-Domo Thought Fair That He

Would Consent To Let Us Go Further.

The House Was Really Of Superlative Interest, Though Spoiled Here And

There By Eccentric Modern Decoration. Much Of The Window Glass Had

Remained Intact Through Centuries; The Walls Were Twelve Feet Thick;

The Oak-Beamed Ceilings Magnificent, And The Secret Stairways And

Rooms In The Thickness Of The Walls, Bewildering; But When Our

Conductor Began Leading Us Into The Bedrooms In Daily Use By The

Ladies Of The Castle, My Gorge Rose. "This Is Awful," I Said. "I Can't

Go On. What If Madame La Baronne Returns And Finds A Strange Man And A

Boy In Her Bedroom? Good Heavens, Now He's Opening The Door Of The

Bath!"

"We Must Go On," Whispered The Boy, Convulsed With Silent Laughter.

"If We Don't, The Major-Domo Won't Understand Our Scruples. He'll

Think We're Tired, And Don't Appreciate The Castle. It Would Never Do

To Hurt His Feelings, When He Has Been So Kind."

"To The Bitter End, Then," I Answered Desperately; And No Sooner Were

The Words Out Of My Mouth Than The Bitter End Came. It Consisted Of A

Collision With The Baronne's Dressing-Jacket, Which Hung From A Hook,

And Tapped Me On The Shoulder With One Empty Frilled Sleeve, In Soft

Admonition. I Could Bear No More. One Must Draw The Line Somewhere,

And I Drew The Line At Intruding Upon Ladies' Dressing-Jackets In

Their Most Sacred Fastnesses.

If I Had Been A Woman, My Pent-Up Emotion At This Moment Would Have

Culminated In Hysterics, But Being A Man, I Merely Bolted, Stumbling,

As I Fled, Over My Absent Hostess' Bedroom Slippers. I Scuttled Down A

Winding Flight Of Tower Stairs, Broke Incontinently Into A Lighted

Region Which Turned Out To Be A Kitchen, Startled The Cook, Apologised

Incontinently, And Somehow Found Myself, Like Alice In Wonderland,

Back In The Great Entrance Hail. There, Starting At Every Sound, Lest

A Returning Family Party Should Catch Me "Lurking," I Awaited The Boy.

We Left, Finally, Showering Francs And Compliments; But I Crawled Out

A Decrepid Wreck, And Refused Pitilessly To Do More Than View The

Exterior Of Other Châteaux. It Was Evening When We Saw Our White Hotel

Once More, And A Haze Of Starlight Dusted The Sky And All The Blue

Distance With Silver Powder.

    "And Then They Came To The Turnstile Of Night."

                                 --Rudyard Kipling.

This Was To Be Our Last Night At Aosta, Perhaps Our Last Night

Together, For The Boy's Plans Kept His Name Company In Some Secret

"Hidie Hole" Of His Mind. As, For The Third Time, We Dined On The

Loggia, Before The Rising Of The Moon, We Drifted Into Talk Of

Intimate Things. It Was I Who Began It. I Harked Back To The Broken

Conversation Which Had First Made Us Friends, And To His Chance Sketch

Of Helen Blantock And Her Type. In That Connection, I Ventured To

Bring Up The Subject Of His Sister.

"What You Said About Her Disillusionment Interested Me Very Much," I

Told Him. "You See, I've Just Come Through An Experience Something

Like It Myself, Do You Mind Talking About Her?"

"Not In This Place--And This Mood--And To You," He Answered. "But

First--What Disillusioned You?"

"Disappointment In Someone I Cared For,--And Believed In."

"It Was The Same With--My Sister."

"Poor Princess."

"Yes, Poor Princess. Was It--A Man Friend Who Disappointed You?"

"A Woman. The Old Story. As A Matter Of Fact, She Threw Me Over

Because Another Fellow Had A Lot More Money Than I."

"Horrid Creature."

"Oh, Just An Ordinary, Conventional, Well Brought Up Girl. Now You See

I Have As Much Right To A Grudge Against Women, As Your Sister The

Princess Has Against Men."

"But I Don't Believe The Girl _Could_ Have Been As Cruel To You, As

This Man I'm Thinking Of Was To--Her. They'd Known Each Other For

Years, Since Childhood. He Used To Call Her His 'Little Sweetheart'

When She Was Ten And He Was Fifteen. How Was She To Dream That Even

When He Was A Boy, He Didn't Really Like Her Better Than Other Little

Girls, That Already He Was Making Calculations About Her Money? She

Thought He Was Different From The Others, That _He_ Cared For Herself.

They Were Engaged, The Bridesmaids Asked, The Trousseau Ready, The

Invitations Out For The Wedding, And Then--One Night She Overheard A

Conversation Between Him And A Cousin Of His, Who Was To Be One Of Her

Bridesmaids. Only A Few Words--But They Told Everything. It Was The

Other Girl He Loved, And Had Always Loved. But He Was Poor, And

So--Well, You Can Guess The Rest. My Sister Broke Off Her Engagement

The Next Day, Though The Man Went On His Knees To Her, And Vowed He

Had Been Mad. Then She Left Home At Once, And Soon She Was Taken Very

Ill."

"She Loved That Worthless Scoundrel So Much?"

"I Don't Know. I Don't Think She Knows. It Was The Destruction Of An

Ideal Which Was Terrible. She Had Clung To It. She Had Said To

Herself: 'Many Men May Be False, And Mercenary, And Unscrupulous, But

This One Is True.' Suddenly, He Had Ceased To Exist For Her. She Stood

Alone In The World--In The Dark."

"Except For You."

"Except For Me, And A Few Friends,--One Girl Especially, Who Was

Heavenly To Her. But The Dearest Girl Friend Can't Make Up For The

Loss Of Trust In A Lover."

"That's True. By Jove, I Thought I Had Been Roughly Used, But It's

Nothing To This. I Feel As If I Knew Your Sister, Somehow. I Wonder,

Since You And She Are Such Pals, That You Can Bear To Leave Her."

"She Wanted To Be Alone. She Said She Didn't Feel At Home In Life Any

More, And It Made Her Restless To Be With Anyone Who Knew Her Trouble,

Anyone Who Pitied Her. I Was Ill Too,--From Sympathy, I Suppose,

And--She Thought A Tramp Like This Would Do Me Good. So It Has. Being

Close To Nature, Especially Among Mountains, As I've Been For Weeks

Now, Makes One's Troubles And Even One's Sister's Troubles Seem

Small."

"You Are Young To Feel That."

"My Soul Isn't As Young As My Body. Maybe That's Why Nature Is So Much

To Me. I Am More Alive When I'm Away From Big Towns. Sunrises And

Sunsets Are More Important Than The Rising And Falling Of Money

Markets. They--And The Wind In The Trees. What Things They Say To You!

You Can't Explain; You Can Only Feel. And When You _Have_ Felt, When

You Have Heard Colour, And Seen Sounds, You Are Never Quite The Same,

Quite As Sad, Again,--I Mean If You _Have_ Been Sad."

"I've Said All That--Precisely That--To Myself Lately," I Exclaimed,

Forgetting That I Was A Man Talking To A Child. The Strange Little

Person Whom I Had Apostrophised As "Brat" Seemed Not Only An Equal,

But A Superior. I Found Myself Intensely Interested In Him, And All

That Concerned Him. "Odd, That You, Too, Should Have Thought That

Thing About Colour And Sound! This Evening-Blue, For Instance. Do You

Hear The Music Of It?"

"Yes. I'm Not Sure It Isn't That Which Has Made Me Answer Your

Questions. But Now Let's Talk Of Something Else--Or Better Still,

Let's Not Talk At All, For A While."

We Were Silent, And I Wondered If The Boy's Thoughts Ran With Mine, Or

If He Had Closed And Locked The Secret Door In His Brain, And Listened

Dreamily To The Sweet Evening Voices Of This Valley Of Musical Bells.

Suddenly, Into The Many Sounds Of The Silence, Broke A Loud And

Jarring Note; The Trampling Of Men's Feet And Horses' Hoofs; Loud

Laughter And The Jingling Of Accoutrements. We Looked Over The

Balustrade To See A Battalion Of Soldiers Marching At Ease, On Their

Way Back From Some Mountain Manoeuvres, And As We Gazed Down, They

Stared Up, A Young Fellow Shouting To The Boy That He Had Better Join

Them.

"It's Like Life Calling One Back," Said The Strange Child. "I Suppose

One Must Always Go On, Somewhere Else. And We--We Must Go On, Though

It Is Sweet Here."

"It Was What I Was Thinking Of Just Now," I Answered. "Are We To Part

Company?"

The Boy Laughed--An Odd Little Laugh. "Why, That Depends," Said He

Abruptly, "On Where You Are Going. I've Planned To Walk Back Over The

St. Bernard To Martigny, And So By Way Of The Tête Noire To Chamounix.

That Name--Chamounix--Has Always Been To My Ears, As Stevenson Says,

'Like The Horns Of Elf-Land, Or Crimson Lake.' I Want To Come Face To

Face With Mont Blanc, Of Which I've Only Seen A Far-Off Mirage, Long

Ago When I Was A