"Hoop-la!" cried Mabel Clarke joyously. And bending over the neck of her yellow-dun horse she urged him to a trot; Vittorio Lante also brought his horse, a powerful black, to a trot. The amazon and her cavalier trotted side by side for some minutes in a cloud of dust. Descending by the hill that separates the Dorf from the valley of Samaden, going through the little shady, peaceful wood, grazing the tall hedges, fragrant with aroma beneath the matutinal dew, Mabel Clarke brought her horse to a walk and Vittorio Lante imitated her. But when the American girl issued from the wood on to the high road, where the broad valley of Samaden opens out, she perceived that the two equipages, the large white brake and the victoria, containing the rest of the party had made great progress and were hardly to be distinguished, being ahead beyond Celerina and on the way to Pontresina; she felt a sudden rush of infantile impatience, and inciting her horse and the cavalier who accompanied her, she wanted to catch up and pass the two carriages. Dexterously firm in the saddle, in a dark blue habit which made her seem taller and slimmer, and a most attractive dark blue doublet, fastened by tiny buttons, with a white collar fastened by a big gold pin, with a tea rose in her buttonhole, and a round straw hat, surrounded by a blue veil that even restrained the thick, riotous, chestnut hair, and floated behind in transparent blue waves, gloved in yellow deer-skin, booted exquisitely, Mabel Clarke was more than ever fascinating in her florid beauty, in her graceful vigour, and vibrant youth. She did not look at the very bright, almost white, morning sky, a sky of an ineffable softness. She took no heed of the fresh air, so sweet to breathe; and she cared not for a sun that was very bland, whose rays were bright without fierceness. She gave herself up, in happy unconsciousness, to the joy of being young, healthy, beautiful, of guiding and being guided by a strong horse, faithful and safe, passing at a steady trot along the broad road, amidst the meadows soft with dew, only turning every minute to see if her cavalier, Don Vittorio Lante, were following closely. That perfect cavalier, who was trotting with ease and youthful heedlessness, was quite close to her, scarcely bending over his horse, smiling every time at the softly blue-veiled face of Mabel Clarke, who smiled at him for a moment. In the buttonhole of his riding-coat he had placed a tea rose; beneath the brim of his soft grey felt hat a peaceful countenance revealed itself, and an expression full of happiness that was reflected from his glance. His surroundings, with their charm of air and light and perfume, did not affect him; or perhaps they reached him through his dream. Twice with a gesture of fastidiousness the amazon and her knight were forced to rein in their horses, putting them to a walking pace, to pass the little village of Cresta and the district of Celerina, in the narrow, twisting, badly paved streets. But when once again they emerged on to the high road and had passed the sounding wooden bridge over the Inn, they yielded themselves to a strong trot, again inciting and urging each other, always gaining more ground on the carriages.
"Go! go! go!" exclaimed Mabel Clarke gutturally, in English.
Already this gay chase was perceived from the carriages, and many-coloured parasols and white handkerchiefs were to be seen waved in greeting from the brake; the two ladies in the victoria turned their heads, more tranquilly, as if to encourage the proud riders more pacifically, who were advancing and suddenly reached and passed the victoria, Mabel Clarke sending a kiss with the handle of her whip to Mrs. Clarke and a nod to the other lady, Mrs. Gertrude Milner, Don Vittorio Lante bowing and saluting with his whip. They overtook the large brake, skirting it, the one on the right, the other on the left, where, laughing and gesticulating, Ellen and Norah West, Susy Milner, and Rachel Rodd jumped up to welcome them, as well as several young men, who in French and English also welcomed them in pleasant, jolly terms, while Mabel and Vittorio, on their part, laughing and calling out a little, responded to all the enthusiasm.
For a long portion of the road there was a war of chaff between the brake and the two riders as they came up or passed from time to time, an exchange of greetings and apostrophes in French and English, the girls pronouncing Mabel's name a hundred times, and she shaking her beautiful brown head as she smiled and laughed, her veil swelling behind her in blue waves, while Vittorio Lante played his part in regulating his black to Mabel's yellow-dun; and even he was amused by the playful briskness of their chaff.
Annie Clarke and Gertrude Milner in the victoria more quietly contented themselves with a kindly wave of the hand or a nod of the head or an indulgent little smile when Mabel and Vittorio passed them. Annie Clarke was wearing a light grey dress of masculine cut and a round hat, wrapped round with a light grey gauze veil; beneath her white collar on the dark tie, knotted in man's fashion, a very simple pin was fixed, an enormous shining black pearl, a unique jewel. Gertrude Milner was austerely dressed in black, but on the white lace which formed the yoke of her waistcoat she wore a single string of large pearls, which she never took off. People said that Gertrude Milner even wore these pearls at night when she slept.
As they sped towards Pontresina neither the amazon nor her cavalier, nor the young girls in the brake, nor the ladies in the victoria seemed aware of how they were leaving behind them the meadows of Celerina, the distances of Samaden, and the heights of the Muottas and the Corvatsch; the profile of Pizalbris to the left, and to the right the curve of the Fuorcla, the deep woods that alternate with arid glebe and stones and rocks, and the white Flatzbach, that milky, tumultuous torrent which comes from the white Bernina. They seemed not to see how in grandiose and solemn line the two mountains opened, to show the gigantic Roseg glacier in a bluish whiteness beneath the bland sun. Perhaps the fresh, caressing air, the vault of heaven brighter than ever, and the soft morning light vibrated within them as intimate and secret elements of serenity, content, and subtle intoxication. But none of them wanted to, or knew how to, take account of these hidden influences. They enjoyed everything without analysing, and the strong desire of arriving quickly at their goal possessed them. The horses of the riders, of the brake, of the victoria, urged on by spur and whip, sped on to arrive together more quickly than anyone had ever made the journey, with the headstrong anxiety of always being first, which is one of the forces of the American race. The maids and youths in the brake were annoyed at every other vehicle, and tried to pass them, urging on the driver, the robust Joe Wealther, the fiancé of Ellen West. Mabel and Vittorio were annoyed with whatever they met in the way, an obstacle to their race; and with smiling and mischievous eyes they exchanged, the American and the Italian, their impetuous desire of ever speeding ahead, as they disturbed groups of pedestrians, and scattered clouds of dust over the other carriages. In the victoria Annie Clarke and Gertrude Milner, the two peaceful and dignified matrons, grew weary of all the other road-farers; they drew the rug over their knees in a distracted and distant manner, appearing to be not the least aware of other wayfarers on foot or in carriage. They grew proudly weary, desiring quietly, as the others desired ardently, to reach the Morteratsch glacier quickly, whither all were directed, and where they must see everything in the shortest time and return at once to St. Moritz Dorf for luncheon at the Palace Hotel.
"The lunch is execrable here at the glacier restaurant," Annie Clarke declared, with a knowing air.
Still, in spite of all their American hurry, on entering that strange district of Pontresina, studded with little wooden houses, in two rows, as if from a child's box of toys, carriage and riders were forced to go at a foot-pace. The row of carriages became much longer—hotel omnibuses, barouches coming and going in every direction to and from the Roseg, towards Samaden and the Bernina. Even denser were the people on foot, who came and went, and grouped themselves at the doors of the hotels with their hundred rooms, before the cafés and the confectionery shops—a bizarre crowd, so different from that of St. Moritz.
"Très inélégante, Pontresina," declared Gertrude Milner, in her turn, with American gravity.
However, they were forced to halt in the square before the Post Office, like all the other carriages, to let the horses have a moment's breather. The girls in the brake clamoured for the famous chocolate truffle of the Pasticceria, A Ma Compagne, so their two cavaliers jumped from the brake to go and fetch some; two others went for a whisky and soda. Vittorio Lante patiently allowed his horse to drink at a fountain near by. Mabel approached her mother's carriage and bent over her as fresh as a flower.
"Happy, Mabel?" asked the mother tranquilly, scarcely smiling.
"Most happy, mammy, very happy!" exclaimed the daughter.
Smiling, chatting, and exchanging chocolates and caramels, the girls in the brake pretended that Joe Wealther should make the horses go furiously on leaving Pontresina; but he imperturbably kept an even pace in spite of their protests. Mabel and Vittorio again trotted briskly, and even the peaceful victoria was transported at a trot. Beneath a sky increasingly pale, as if a great pallor had been diffused beneath the blue, with the light of the sun now veiled, the countryside was profoundly changed. A broad, deserted valley, between two rows of black, rocky mountains, opened out, and stretched monotonously and sadly. Here and there a rare herb grew between the rocks with some big, dusty, yellow flower. Stones were everywhere, from the little pebble to the massive boulder, heaps of dry earth were crumbling, and little mounds of black earth concealed the meagre course of a stream which now and then reappeared, weak and tinged. So silent was the sadness of that valley, and the death of everything lively and gracious, that behind her blue veil Mabel's grey eyes grew disturbed and she felt the need of breaking the sad silence that oppressed her, and of hearing the voice of her cavalier.
"Do you love all this, Lante?"
They were alone, sufficiently far from the carriage; their horses close together, head to head, relaxed their pace to the reins held slackly in their hands.
"I love you, Miss Clarke," he replied promptly, with an unwonted impulse, more passionate than sentimental.
"Do you even love me here, in this arid, gloomy place?" she asked, as if another, a more intense amorous declaration were necessary for her, to conquer, perhaps, the melancholy that weighed her down, or for some other mysterious uncertainty of her soul.
"Here, and everywhere, and always," he said seriously, as if he were proclaiming a shining truth and pronouncing a sublime oath.
"Ah!" she exclaimed simply, as if in a dream.
For an instant, almost in a dream, Mabel bowed her head, as if she wished to drive away every molesting care. She pulled sharply at her horse's rein, to resume a more rapid pace.
The carriages approached. Mabel and Vittorio distanced them again. The man was silent and thoughtful, as if disturbed at what had bubbled forth from his soul in a cry of sincerity. She was silent, watching him now and then, as if to scrutinise his thoughts and feelings, because the accent, which had been more earnest than she had previously heard, had reached her. The horses trotted head to head.
"Is this the Bernina road, Lan............