Four o'clock in the morning is a graceless hour. Graveyards1 may yawn at twelve but even they are content to slumber3 at four. I don't believe there is anything so desolate4 in this world as the mental perspective one obtains at four o'clock. Tombstones are bright beacons5 of cheer as compared to the monumental regret one experiences on getting up to greet the alleged6 and vastly over-rated glories of a budding day. The sunrise is a pall7! It is a deadly, dour8 thing. It may be pink and red and golden and full of all the splendours of the east, but it is a resurrection and you can't make anything else out of it. Staying up till four and then going to bed gives one an idea of the sunrise that is not supported by the facts; there is but one way to appreciate the real nature of the hateful thing called dawn, and that is to get up with it instead of taking it to bed with you.
Still, I suppose the sun has to come up and perhaps it is just as well that it does so at an hour when people are least likely to suspect it of anything so shabby.
Four o'clock is more than a graceless, sodden9 hour when it ushers10 in a day that you know is to be the unhappiest in your life; when you know that you are to say farewell forever to the hopes begot11 and nurtured12 in other days; when the one you love smiles and goes away to smile again but not for you. And that is just what four o'clock on the morning of the fourteenth of September meant to me.
Britton and I set forth13 in the automobile14 just at the break of dawn, crossing the river a few miles below the castle, and running back to a point on the right hand bank where we were to await the arrival of the boat conveying the Countess and her escort. Her luggage, carefully disguised as crated15 merchandise, had gone to Trieste by fast express a couple of days before, sent in my name and consigned16 to a gentleman whose name I do not now recall, but who in reality served as a sort of middleman in transferring the shipment to the custody17 of a certain yacht's commander.
It was required of me—and of my machine, which is more to the point—that the distance of one hundred and twenty miles through the foothills of the Austrian Alps should be covered and the passengers delivered at a certain railway station fifty miles or more south of Vienna before ten o'clock that night. There they were to catch a train for the little seaport18 on the upper Adriatic, the name of which I was sworn never to reveal, and, as I have not considered it worth while to be released from that oath, I am of necessity compelled to omit the mention of it here.
Mr. Bangs went on to Vienna the night before our departure, taking with him Helene Marie Louise Antoinette, a rather shocking arrangement you would say unless you had come to know the British lawyer as well as we knew him. They were to proceed by the early morning train to this obscure seaport. Colingraft Titus elected to accompany his sister the entire length of the journey, with the faithful Blake and Rosemary.
Billy Smith was to meet us a few miles outside the town for which we were bound, with a word of warning if there was anything sinister19 in the wind.
I heard afterwards from Poopendyke that the departure of the Countess and Rosemary from the castle in the grey; forlorn dawn of that historic fourteenth was attended by a demonstration20 of grief on the part of the four Schmicks that was far beyond his powers of description, and he possesses a wonderful ability to describe lachrymose21 situations, rather running to that style of incident, I may say. The elder Schmicks wailed22 and boo-hooed and proclaimed to the topmost turrets23 that the sun would never shine again for either of them, and, to prove that she was quite in earnest about the matter, Gretel fell off the dock into the river and was nearly drowned before Jasper, Jr., could dive in and get her. Their sons, both of whom cherished amorous24 feelings for Blake, sighed so prodigiously25 all the way down the river that the boat rocked. Incidentally, during the excitement, Jinko, who was to remain behind and journey westward27 later on with Mrs. Titus and Jasper, Jr., succeeded after weeks of vain endeavour in smartly nipping the calf28 of Hawkes' left leg, a feat29 of which he no doubt was proud but which sentenced my impressive butler to an everlasting30 dread31 of hydrophobia and a temporary limp.
It was nearing five o'clock when the boat slipped into view around the tree-covered point of land and headed straight for our hiding place on the bank.
I shall not stop here to describe the first stage of our journey through the narrow, rocky by-roads that ended eventually in the broad, alpine32 highway south and west of Vienna. Let it be sufficient to say that we jostled along for twelve or fifteen miles without special incident, although we were nervously33 anxious and apprehensive34. Our guide book pointed35, or rather twiddled, a route from the river flats into the hills, where we came up with the main road about eight o'clock. We were wrapped and goggled36 to the verge37 of ludicrousness. It would have been quite impossible to penetrate38 our motor-masks and armour39, even for one possessed40 of a keen and practiced eye. The Countess was heavily veiled; great goggles41 bulged42 beneath the green, gauzy thing that protected her lovely face from sun, wind and man. A motor coat, two or three sizes too large, enveloped43 her slender, graceful44 figure, and gauntlets covered her hands. Even Rosemary's tiny face was wrapped in a silken veil of white. As for the rest of us, we could not have been mistaken for anything on earth but American automobilists, ruthlessly inspired to see Europe with the sole view to comparing her roads with our own at home. You would have said, on seeing us, that we knew a great deal about roads and very little about home.
Colingraft and Britton,—the latter at the wheel,—sat in the front seat, while I shared the broad cushions of the tonneau with the Countess, part of the time holding Rosemary, who was clamouring for food, and the rest of the time holding my breath in the fear that we might slip over a precipice45. I am always nervous when not driving the car myself.
We stopped for breakfast at a small mountain inn, fifteen miles from our starting place. The Countess, a faint red spot in each cheek and a curiously46 bright, feverish47 glow in her dark eyes, revealed a tendency to monopolise the conversation, a condition properly attributed to nervous excitement. I could see that she was vastly thrilled by the experiences of the hour; her quick, alert brain was keeping pace with the rush of blood that stimulated48 every fibre in her body to new activities. She talked almost incessantly49, and chiefly about matters entirely50 foreign to the enterprise in hand.
The more I see of women, the less I know about them. Why she should have spent the whole half hour devoted51 to breakfast to a surprisingly innocuous dissertation52 on Schopenhauer and Nietzsche is—or was—beyond me.
How was I to know that tears lay close to the surface of those shimmering53, vivacious54 eyes? How was I to know that sobs56 took refuge behind a simulated interest in philosophy?
We had luncheon57 picnic fashion half-way to our journey's end, diverging58 from the main road to find a secluded59 spot where we could spread our cloth and open our hampers60 without fear of interruption or, to use a more sinister word, detection. It was rather a jolly affair, that first and last al fresco61 banquet of ours under the spreading branches of mighty62 trees and beside the trickling63 waters of a gay little mountain brook64 that hurried like mad down to the broad channel of the Danube, now many miles away. The strain of the first few hours had slackened. Success seemed assured. We had encountered no difficulties, no dangers in town or country. No one appeared to be interested in us except through idle curiosity; villagers and peasants stared at us and grinned; policemen and soldiers stood aside to let us pass, or gave directions politely when requested to do so. There were no signs of pursuit, no indications of trouble ahead. And so we could afford to be gay and confident at our midday meal in the hills bordering the broad highway.
We even went so far as to arrange for a jolly reunion in New York City at no distant day! I remember distinctly that we were to dine at Sherry's. To me, the day seemed a long way off.
I suppose, being a writer of fiction, I should be able to supply at this point in the narrative65, a series of thrilling, perhaps hair-raising encounters with the enemy, in the form of spies, cut-throats, imperial mercenaries or whatever came handiest to the imagination. It would be a very simple matter to transform this veracious66 history into the most lurid67 of melodramas68 by the introduction of the false and bizarre, but it is not my purpose to do so. I mean to adhere strictly69 to the truth and stand by the consequences. Were I inclined to sensationalism it would be no trouble at all for me to have Tarnowsy's agents shooting at our tires or gasoline tank from every crag and cranny; or to have Rosemary kidnapped by aeroplanists supplied with drag-hooks; or to have the Countess lodged70 in a village prison from which I should be obliged to liberate71 her with battle-axe and six-shooter, my compensation being a joyous72 rest in a hospital with the fair Aline nursing me back to health and strength and cooing fond words in my rapacious73 ear the while I reflected on the noble endowments of a nature that heretofore had been commonplace and meek74. But, no! None of these things happened and I decline to perjure75 myself for the privilege of getting into the list of "six best sellers."
So far as I am able to judge, there was absolutely no heroism76 displayed during our flight through the hills and valleys, unless you are willing to accept as such a single dash of sixty miles an hour which Britton made in order to avoid a rain-shower that threatened to flank us if we observed the speed laws.
But wait! There was an example of bravado77 on my part that shall not go unrecorded. I hesitated at first to put it down in writing, but my sense of honour urges me to confess everything. It happened just after that memorable78 picnic luncheon in the shady dell. The Countess, I maintain, was somewhat to blame for the incident. She suggested that we,—that is to say, the two of us,—explore the upper recesses79 of this picturesque80 spot while the others were making ready for the resumption of our journey.
Shame, contrition81, humiliation82 or whatever you may elect to call it, forbids a lengthy83 or even apologetic explanation of what followed her unfortunate suggestion. I shall get over with it in as few words as possible.
In the most obscure spot in all those ancient hills, I succumbed84 to an execrable impulse to take her forcibly in my arms and kiss her! I don't know why I did it, or how, but that is just what happened. My shame, my horror over the transcendental folly85 was made almost unbearable86 by the way in which she took it. At first I thought she had swooned, she lay so limp and unresisting in my arms. My only excuse, whispered penitently87 in her ear, was that I couldn't help doing what I had done, and that I deserved to be drawn88 and quartered for taking advantage of my superior strength and her gentle forbearance. Strange to say, she merely looked at me in a sort of dumb wonder and quietly released herself, still staring at me as if I were the most inexplicable89 puzzle in the world. Her cheeks, her throat, her brow grew warm and pink with a just indignation; her lips parted but she uttered no word. Then I followed her dejectedly, cravenly back to the roadside and executed an inward curse that would hang over my miserable90 head so long as it was on my shoulders.
Her vivacity91 was gone. She shrank down into the corner of the seat, and, with her back half turned toward me, gazed steadfastly92 at the panoramic93 valley which we were skirting. From time to time I glanced, at her out of the corners of my eyes, and eventually was somewhat relieved to see that she had closed her own and was dozing94. My soul was in despair. She loathed95, despised me. I could not blame her. I despised myself.
And yet my heart quickened every time I allowed myself to think of the crime I had committed.
The day was a glorious one and the road more than passably good. We bowled along at a steady rate of speed and sundown found us about twenty-five miles from our destination. Not caring to run the risk of a prolonged ............