The Point of View: Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Stella Rawson woke the next day with some sense of rebellion.
There came with the rest of her post a letter from her betrothed.
And although it was just such a letter as any nice girl engaged of
her own free will to the Bishop's junior chaplain ought to have
been glad to receive, Stella found herself pouting and criticizing
every sentence.

"I do wish Eustace would not talk such cant," she said to herself.
"Even in this he is unable to be natural--and I am sure I shall
not feel a thing like he describes when I stand in St. Peter's. I
believe I would rather go into the Pantheon. I seem to be tired of
everything I ought to like to-day!" And still rebellious she got
up and was taken by her uncle and aunt to the Vatican--and was
allowed to linger only in the parts which interested them.

"I never have had a taste for sculpture," Mrs. Ebley said. "People
may call it what names they please, but I consider it immoral and
indecent."

"A wonder to me," the Uncle Erasmus joined in, "that a prelate--
even a prelate of Rome--should have countenanced the housing of
all these unclothed marbles in his own private palace."

Stella Rawson stopped for a second in front of an archaic Apollo
of no great merit--because it reminded her of the unknown; and she
wished with all her might something new and swift and rushing
might come into her humdrum life.

After luncheon, for which they returned to the hotel, she wearily
went over to the writing-table in the corner of the hall to answer
her lover's chaste effusion--and saw that the low armchair beside
the escritoire was tenanted by a pair of long legs with singularly
fine silk socks showing upon singularly fine ankles--and a pair of
strong slender hands held a newspaper in front of the rest of the
body, concealing it all and the face. It was the English TIMES,
which, as everybody knows, could hide Gargantua himself.

She began her letter--and not a rustle disturbed her peace.

"Dearest Eustace," she had written, "we have arrived in Rome--"
and then she stopped, and fixed her eyes blankly upon the column
of births, marriages, and deaths. She was staring at it with
sightless eyes, when the paper was slowly lowered and over its top
the blue orbs of the stranger looked into hers.

Her pretty color became the hue of a bright pink rose.
"Mademoiselle," a very deep voice said in English, "is not this
world full of bores and tiresome duties; have you the courage to
defy them all for a few minutes--and talk to me instead?"

"Monsieur!" Miss Rawson burst out, and half rose from her seat.
Then she sat down again--the unknown had not stirred a muscle.

"Good," he murmured. "One has to be courageous to do what is
unconventional, even if it is not wrong. I am not desirous of
hurting or insulting you--I felt we might have something to say to
each other--is it so--tell me, am I right?"

"I do not know," whispered Stella lamely. She was so taken aback
at the preposterous fact that a stranger should have addressed her
at all, even in a manner of indifference and respect, that she
knew not what to do.

"I observed you last night," he went on. "I am accustomed to judge
of character rapidly--it is a habit I have acquired during my
travels in foreign lands--when I cannot use the standard of my
own. You are weary of a number of things, and you do not know
anything at all about life, and you are hedged round with those
who will see that you never learn its meaning. Tell me--what do
you think of Rome--it contains things and aspects which afford
food for reflection, is it not so?"

"We have only been to the Vatican as yet," Stella answered
timidly--she was still much perturbed at the whole incident, but
now that she had begun she determined she might as well be hung
for a sheep as a lamb, and she was conscious that there was a
strong attraction in the mild blue eyes of the stranger. His
manner had a complete repose and absence of self-consciousness,
which usually is only to be found in the people of race--in any
nation.

"You were taken to the Sistine Chapel, of course," he went on,
"and to the loggia and Bramant's staircase? You saw some statues,
too, perhaps?"

"My uncle and aunt do not care much for sculpture," Miss Rawson
said, now regaining her composure, "but I like it--even better
than pictures."

The stranger kept his steady eyes fixed upon her face all the
time.

"I have a nymph in my house at home," he returned. "She came
originally from Rome; she is not Greek and she is very like you,
the same droop of head--I remarked it immediately--I am
superstitious--I suppose you would call what I mean by that word--
and I knew directly that some day you, too, would mean things to
me. That is why I spoke--do you feel it, too?"

Stella Rawson quivered. The incredible situation paralyzed her.
She--the Aunt Caroline's niece, and engaged to Eustace Medlicott,
the Bishop's junior chaplain, to be listening to a grotesque-
looking foreigner making subtle speeches of an insinuating
character, and, far from feeling scandalized and repulsed, to be
conscious that she was thrilled and interested--it was hardly to
be believed!

"Will you tell me from where you come?" she asked with sweet
bashfulness, raising two eyes as soft as brown velvet. "You speak
English so very well--one cannot guess."

"I am a Russian," he said simply. "I come from near Moscow--and my
name is Sasha Roumovski, Count Roumovski. Yours, I am aware, is
Rawson, but I would like to know how you are called--Mary,
perhaps? That is English."

"No, my name is not Mary," she answered, and froze a little--but
the Russian's eyes continued to gaze at her with the same mild
frankness which disarmed any resentment. She felt they were as
calm as deep pools of blue water--they filled her with a sense of
confidence and security--which she could not account for in any
way.

Her color deepened--something in his peaceful expectancy seemed to
compel her to answer his late question.

"My Christian name is Stella," she said, rather quickly, then
added nervously: "I am engaged to Mr. Eustace Medlicott, an
English clergyman--we are going to be married in September next."

"And this is May," was all Count Roumovski replied; then, for the
first time since he had addressed her, he turned his eyes from her
face, while the faintest smile played round his well-cut mouth.

"A number of things can happen in four months. Are you looking
forward to your life as the wife of a priest--but I understand it
is different in England to in my country--there I could not
recommend the situation to you."

Stella found absolutely no answer to this. She only felt a sudden,
wild longing to cry out that the idea of being a curate's wife--
even the Bishop's junior young gentleman with eight hundred a year
of his own--had never appeared a thrilling picture, and was now
causing her a feeling of loathing. She thought she ought to talk
no longer to this stranger, and half rose from her seat.

He put out a protesting hand, both had been clasped idly over the
Times until then without a movement.

"No--do--not go--I have disturbed you--I am sorry," he pleaded.
"Listen, there is a great reception at your Embassy to-morrow
night--for one of our Royal Family who is here. You will go,
perhaps. If so, I will do so also, although I dislike parties--and
there I will be presented to you with ceremony--it will appease
that English convention in you, and after that I shall say to you
a number of things--but I prefer to sit here and speak behind the
Times."

At this instant he raised the paper, and appeared again the
stranger almost entirely hidden from view. And Stella saw that her
Uncle Erasmus was rapidly approaching her with an envelope in his
hand. She seized her pen again and continued her broken sentence
to Eustace--her betrothed. Canon Ebley viewed the Times and its
holder with suspicion for an instant, but its stillness reassured
him, and he addressed his niece.

"Very civil of the Embassy to send us a card for the reception to-
morrow night, Stella; I am glad we wrote names when we arrived.
Your Aunt Caroline bids you accept, as her spectacles are
upstairs."

Miss Rawson did as she was bid, and her uncle waited, fidgeting
with his feet. He wished the stranger to put down the Times, which
he wanted himself--or, at all events, remove his long legs and
hidden body from such a near proximity to his niece; they could
not say a word that he could not overhear, Canon Ebley mused.

However, the unknown remained where he was, and turned a page of
the paper with great deliberation.

"Your aunt will be ready to go out again now," the Uncle Erasmus
announced, as Stella placed her acceptance in the envelope. "You
had better go up and put your hat on, my dear."

The Times rustled slightly--and Stella replied a little hurriedly:
"I was just finishing a letter, uncle, then I will come."

"Very well," said Canon Ebley, not altogether pleased, as he
walked away with the note.

The newspaper was lowered a few inches again, and the wise blue
eyes beneath the saintly parted hair twinkled with irresistible
laughter, and the deep voice said:

"He would greatly disapprove of our having conversed--the uncle--
is it not so? How long are you going to stay in Rome?"

Stella smiled, too--she could not help it.

"A week--ten days, perhaps," she answered, and then rapidly
addressed an envelope to the Rev. Eustace Medlicott.

"Perhaps, in that case, I can afford to wait until to-morrow
night; unless it amuses you, as it does me, to circumvent people,"
Count Roumovski said. "We are all masters of our own lives, you
know, once we have ceased to be children--it is only convention
which persuades us to submit to others' authority."

Stella looked up startled. Was this indeed true? And was it simply
convention which had forced her into an engagement with Eustace
Medlicott, and now forced her to go up and put on her hat and
accompany her uncle and aunt to see the Lateran, when she would
have preferred to remain where she was and discuss abstract
matters with this remarkable stranger.

"The notion surprises you, one sees," Count Roumovski went on,
"but it is true--"

"I suppose it is," said Stella lamely.

"I submit to no authority--I mean, as to the controlling of my
actions and wishes. We must all submit to the laws of our country,
to do so is the only way to obtain complete personal freedom."

"That sounds like a paradox," said Stella.

"I have just been thinking," he went on, without noticing the
interruption, "it would be most agreeable to take a drive in my
automobile late this after-noon, when your guardians have returned
and are resting. If you feel you would care to come I will wait in
this hall from five to six. You need not take the least notice of
me, you can walk past, out of the hotel, then turn to the left,
and there in the square, where there are a few trees, you will see
a large blue motor waiting. You will get straight in, and I will
come and join you. Not anyone will see or notice you--because of
the trees, one cannot observe from the windows. My chauffeur will
be prepared, and I will return you safely to the same place in an
hour."

Stella's brown eyes grew larger and larger. Some magnetic spell
seemed to be dominating her, the idea was preposterous, and yet to
agree to it was the strongest temptation she had ever had in all
her life. She was filled with a wild longing to live, to do what
she pleased, to be free to enjoy this excitement before her wings
should be clipped, and her outlook all gray and humdrum.

"I do not know if they will rest--I cannot say--I--" she blurted
out tremblingly.

The stranger had put down the Times, and was gazing into her face
with a look almost of tenderness.

"There is no need to answer now," he said softly. "If fate means
us to be happy, she will arrange it--I think you will come."

Miss Rawson started to her feet, and absently put her letter to
her fiance--which contained merely the sentence that they had
arrived in Rome--into its envelope and fastened it up.

"I must go now--good-bye," she said.

"It is not good-bye," the Russian answered gravely. "By six
o'clock, we shall be driving in the Borghese Gardens and hearing
the nightingales sing."

As Stella walked to the lift with a tumultuously beating heart,
she asked herself what all this could possibly mean, and why she
was not angry--and why this stranger--whose appearance outraged
all her ideas as to what an English gentleman should look like--
had yet the power to fascinate her completely. Of course, she
would not go for a drive with him--and yet, what would be the
harm? After September she would never have a chance like this
again. There would be only Eustace Medlicott and parish duties--
yes--if fate made it possible, she would go!

And she went on to her room with exhilarating sense of adventure
coursing through her veins.

"I have found out the name of the peculiar-looking foreigner who
sat near us last night," Canon Ebley said, as they drove to the
Lateran in a little Roman Victoria, "it is Count Roumovski; I
asked the hall porter--reprehensible curiosity I fear you will
think, my dear Caroline, but there is something unaccountably
interesting about him, as you must admit, although you disapprove
of his appearance."

"I think it is quite dreadful," Mrs. Ebley sniffed, "and I hear
from Martha that he has no less than two valets, and a suite of
princely rooms and motor cars, and the whole passage on the second
floor is filled with his trunks."

Martha had been Mrs. Ebley's maid for twenty-five years, and as
Stella well knew was fairly accurate in her recounting of the
information she picked up. This luridly extravagant picture,
however, did not appal her. And she found herself constantly
dwelling upon it and the stranger all the time she followed her
relations about in the gorgeous church.

Fate did not seem to be going to smile upon the drive project,
however--for Mrs. Ebley, far from appearing tired, actually
proposed tea in the hall when they got in--and there sat for at
least half an hour, while Stella saw Count Roumovski come in and
sit down and leisurely begin a cigarette, as he glanced at an
Italian paper. He was so intensely still, always peace seemed to
breathe from his atmosphere, but the very sight of him appeared to
exasperate the Aunt Caroline more and more.

"I wonder that man is not ashamed to be seen in a respectable
place," she snapped, "with his long hair and his bracelet--such
effeminacy is perfectly disgusting, Erasmus."

"I really cannot help it, my dear," Canon Ebley replied,
irritably, "and I rather like his face."

"Erasmus!" was all Mrs. Ebley could say, and prepared to return to
her room. Dinner would be at a quarter to eight, she told Stella
at her door, and recommended an hour's quiet reading up of the
guide-book while resting to her niece.

It was quarter after six before Miss Rawson descended the stairs
to the hall again. She had deliberately made up her mind--she
would go and drive with the count. She would live and amuse
herself, if it was only for this once in her life, come what might
of it! And since he would be presented with all respectable
ceremony at the English Embassy the following night, it could not
matter a bit--and if it did--! Well, she did not care!

He was sitting there as immovable as before, and she thrilled as
she crossed the hall. She was so excited and frightened that she
could almost have turned back when she reached the street, but
there, standing by the trees, was a large blue motor car, and as
she advanced the chauffeur stepped forward and opened the door,
and she got in--and before she had time to realize what she had
done, Count Roumovski had joined her and sat down by her side.

"You have no wrap," he said. "I thought you would not have, so I
had prepared this," and he indicated a man's gray Russian,
unremarkable-looking cloak, which, however, proved to be lined
with fine sable, "and here, also, is a veil. If you will please me
by putting them on, we can then have the auto open and no one will
recognize you--even should we meet your uncle and aunt; that is
fun, is it not?"

Stella had thrown every consideration to the winds, except the
determination to enjoy herself. Years of rebellion at the boredom
of her existence seemed to be urging her on. So she meekly slipped
into the cloak, and wrapped the veil right over her hat, and they
started. Her heart was thumping so with excitement she could not
have spoken for a moment.

But as they went rapidly on through the crowded streets, her
companion's respectful silence reassured her. There seemed to be
some rapport between them, she was conscious of a feeling that he
understood her thoughts, and was not misjudging her.

"You are like a little frightened bird," he said presently. "And
there is nothing to cause you the least fear. We shall soon come
to the lovely gardens, and watch the lowering sun make its
beautiful effects in the trees, and we shall hear the nightingales
throbbing out love songs--the world is full of rest and peace--
when we have had enough passion and strife and want its change--
but you do not know anything of it, and this simple drive is
causing you tumults and emotions--is it not so?"

"Yes," said Stella, with a feeling that she had burnt all her
ships.

"It is because you have never been allowed to be YOU, I suppose,"
he went on softly. "So doing a natural and simple thing seems
frightful--because it would seem so to the rigid aunt. Now, I have
been ME ever since I was born--I have done just what seemed best
to me. Do you suppose I am not aware that the way my hair is cut
is a shock to most civilized persons; and that you English would
strongly disapprove of my watch and my many other things. But I
like them myself--it is no trouble for one of my valets to draw a
straight line with a pair of scissors--and if I must look at the
time, I prefer to look at something beautiful. I am entirely
uninfluenced by the thoughts or opinions of any people--they do
not exist for me except in so far as they interest me and are
instructive or amusing. I never permit myself to be bored for an
instant."

"How good that must be," Stella ventured to say--her courage was
returning.

"Civilized human beings turn existence into a prison," he went on,
meditatively, "and loaded themselves with shackles, because some
convention prevents their doing what would give them innocent
pleasure. If I had been under the dominion of these things we
should not now be enjoying this delightful drive--at least, it is
delightful to me--to be thus near you and alone out of doors."

Stella did not speak, she was altogether too full of emotion to
trust herself to words just yet. They had turned into the Corso by
now, and, as ever, it appeared as though it were a holiday, so
thronged with pedestrians was the whole thoroughfare. Count
Roumovski seemed quite unconcerned, but Miss Rawson shrank back
into her corner, a new fear in her heart.

"Do not be so nervous," her companion said gently. "I always
calculate the chances before I suggest another person's risking
anything for me. They are a million to one that anyone could
recognize you in that veil and that cloak; believe me, although I
am not of your country, I am at least a gentleman, and would not
have persuaded you to come if there had been any danger of
complications for you."

Stella clasped her hands convulsively--and he drew a little nearer
her.

"Do put all agitating ideas out of your mind," he said, his blue
eyes, with their benign expression, seeking hers and compelling
them at last to look at him. "Do you understand that it is foolish
to spoil what we have by useless tremors. You are here with me--
for the next hour--shall we not try to be happy?"

"Yes," murmured Miss Rawson, and allowed herself to be magnetized
into calmness.

"When we have passed the Piazza del Popolo and the entrance to the
Pincio, I will have the car opened; then we can see all the
charming young green, and I will tell you of what these gardens
were long ago, and you shall see them with new eyes."

Stella, by some sort of magic, seemed to have recovered her self-
possession as his eyes looked into hers, and she chatted to him
naturally, and the next half hour passed like some fairy tale. His
deep, quiet voice took her into realms of fancy that her
imagination had never even dreamed about. His cultivation was
immense, and the Rome of the Caesars appeared to be as familiar to
him as that of 1911.

The great beauty of the Borghese Gardens was at its height at the
end of the day, the nightingales throbbed from the bushes, and the
air was full of the fresh, exquisite scents of the late spring, as
the day grew toward evening and all nature seemed full of beauty
and peace. It can easily be imagined what this drive meant, then,
to a fine, sensitive young woman, whose every instinct of youth
and freedom and life had been crushed into undeveloped nothingness
by years of gray convention in an old-fashioned English cathedral
town.

Stella Rawson forgot that she and this Russian were strangers, and
she talked to him unrestrainedly, showing glimpses of her inner
self that she had not known she possessed. It was certainly
heaven, she thought, this drive, and worth all the Aunt Caroline's
frowns.

Count Roumovski never said a word of love to her: he treated her
with perfect courtesy and infinite respect, but when at last they
were turning back again, he permitted himself once more to gaze
deeply into her eyes, and Stella knew for the first time in her
existence that some silences are more dangerous than words.

"You do not care at all now for the good clergy-man you are
affianced to," he said. "No--do not be angry-I am not asking a
question, I am stating a fact--when lives have been hedged and
controlled and retenu like yours has been, even the feelings lose
character, and you cannot be sure of them--but the day is
approaching when you will see clearly and--feel much."

"I am sure it is getting very late," said Stella Rawson, and with
difficulty she turned her eyes away and looked over the green
world.

Count Roumovski laughed softly, as if to himself. And they were
silent until they came to the entrance gates again, when the
chauffeur stopped and shut the car.

"We have at least snatched some moments of pleasure, have we not?"
the owner whispered, "and we have hurt no one. Will you trust me
again when I propose something which sounds to you wild?"

"Perhaps I will," Stella murmured rather low.

"When I was hunting lions in Africa I learned to keep my
intelligence awake," he said calmly, "it is an advantage to me now
in civilization--nothing is impossible if one only keeps cool. If
one becomes agitated one instantly connects oneself with all other
currents of agitation, and one can no longer act with prudence or
sense."

"I think I have always been very foolish," admitted Stella,
looking down. "I seem to see everything differently now."

"What we are all striving after is happiness," Count Roumovski
said. "Only we will not admit it, and nearly always spoil our own
chances by drifting, and allowing outside things to influence us.
If you could see the vast plains of snow in my country and the
deep forests--with never a human being for miles and miles, you
would understand how nature grows to talk to one--and how small
the littlenesses of the world appear." Then they were silent
again, and it was not until they were rushing up the Via Nazionale
and in a moment or two would have reached their destination, that
Count Roumovski said:

"Stella--that means star--it is a beautiful name--I can believe
you could be a star to shine upon any man's dark night--because
you have a pure spirit, although it has been muffled by
circumstances for all these years."

Then the automobile drew up by the trees, at perhaps two hundred
yards from the hotel, near the baths of Diocletian.

"If you will get out here, it will be best," Count Roumovski told
her respectfully, "and walk along on the inner side. I will then
drive to the door of the hotel, as usual."

"Thank you, and good-bye," said Stella, and began untying the
veil--he helped her at once, and in doing so his hand touched her
soft pink cheek. She thrilled with a new kind of mad enjoyment,
the like of which she had never felt, and then controlled herself
and stamped it out.

"It has been a very great pleasure to me," he said, and nothing
more; no "good-bye" or "au revoir" or anything, and he drew into
the far corner as she got out of the car, letting the chauffeur
help her. Nor did he look her way as he drove on. And Stella
walked leisurely back to the hotel, wondering in her heart at the
meaning of things.

No one noticed her entrance, and she was able to begin to dress
for dinner without even Martha being aware that she had been
absent. But as she descended in the lift with her uncle and aunt
it seemed as if the whole world and life itself were changed since
the same time the night before.

And when they were entering the restaurant a telegram was put into
Canon Ebley's hand--it was from the Rev. Eustace Medlicott, sent
from Turin, saying he would join them in Rome the following
evening.

"Eustace has been preparing this delightful surprise--I knew of
it," the Aunt Caroline said, with conscious pride, "but I would
not tell you, Stella, dear, in case something might prevent it. I
feared to disappoint you."

"Thank you, aunt," Miss Rawson said without too much enthusiasm,
and took her seat where she could see the solitary occupant of a
small table, surrounded by the obsequious waiters, already sipping
his champagne.

He had not looked up as they passed. Nor did he appear once to
glance in their direction. His whole manner was full of the same
reflective calm as the night before. And, for some unaccountable
reason, Stella Rawson's heart sank down lower and lower, until at
the end of the repast she looked pale and tired out.

Eustace, her betrothed, would be there on the morrow, and such
things as drives in motor cars with strange Russian counts were
only dreams and not realities, she now felt.

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