Читать книгу The Automobile Girls at Palm Beach: or, Proving Their Mettle Under Southern Skies - Crane Laura Dent - Страница 4

“Girls!” exclaimed Ruth, who lay curled up on the foot of her bed in a pale blue silk kimono. “I feel like offering a libation to the Storm King to-night for sending us that squall.”

“Why?” inquired Grace, who was not gifted with an Oriental imagination.

“Because, if there had been no storm, there would have been no Countess Sophia,” replied her friend.

“She is hard to understand, but she is so beautiful, so gentle and so noble,” observed Barbara.

“And she kissed me!” cried Mollie.

“As, yes, Mollie darling, she had a fearful crush on you,” laughed Ruth. “We are already green with jealousy. It’s those golden baby curls of yours that do the business, I suppose. First, it was the lovely Mrs. Cartwright you won from us at Newport. Now your cerulean eyes have hypnotized the Countess Sophia. What shall we do to her, girls?”

“Destroy her beauty!” cried Barbara. “Cut off her curls and give her two black eyes.”

The three girls pounced on Mollie. There was a real tom-boy romp which ended in a burst of joyous laughter. For Miss Sallie’s familiar rap-tap was heard on the door. Her voice was raised in mild protest:

“Children, remember that this is a hotel.”

The girls subsided.

“Do you suppose it would be good form to call on the countess to-morrow, when we met her only this afternoon?” asked Ruth, as soon as she had regained her breath.

“It would be rather rushing things,” answered Barbara.

“If you will be good, and promise not to lay violent hands on me again, I will tell you something,” Mollie volunteered.

“We promise,” cried three voices in unison.

“The countess is going to ask us to luncheon to-morrow. She whispered it to me just before we left her villa this afternoon.”

“Oh, joy!” exclaimed Ruth. “Do you mean that she intends to invite the entire party – the De Lancey Smythes and all that aggregation?”

“No,” Mollie declared, answering Ruth’s previous question. “The countess intends to invite only Miss Sallie, Mr. Stuart and the ‘Automobile Girls.’”

“But what are we to do about Maud Warren?” queried Ruth. “Father has promised Mr. Warren we would help him out with Maud. Here we are already trying to shake her off. If we are going to see a great deal of the countess, how shall we manage? I am sure the stern old dowager would never endure Maud’s grown up manner for a moment. And Maud won’t give up those De Lancey Smythes.”

“I think it would be a good idea to take the Countess Sophia into our confidence, if we have an opportunity,” suggested Barbara. “It would not be a betrayal of trust. Because what we wish to accomplish is to persuade Maud Warren to see the difference between really well-bred people like the countess and those who pretend to be. I think the Smythes are pretenders, the mother at least. She seems to be continually on the alert. I watched her yesterday, and that high and mighty air that she assumes is a cloak to hide her real character. It seems to me that she and that Duval man have some sort of secret understanding. I think – ” Barbara paused.

“Well, Sherlock, what do you think?” queried Ruth impertinently. “And when you unearth her family skeleton may I go along and play Doctor Watson?”

“How ridiculous you are, Ruth,” returned Barbara, laughing. “I suppose I deserve to be teased. I’m always suspecting people’s motives. But really I do believe that that Mrs. Smythe has a hurtful influence over Maud. Mr. Warren doesn’t like to have Maud with her, either. You heard the way he spoke this morning.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Ruth. “We also heard Miss Maud defy him. She is dreadfully spoiled, and we shall be obliged to handle her very carefully. If she even suspects we are trying to reform her, she will shun our beneficial society as she would the plague.”

“I believe I could bear that misfortune,” sighed Mollie.

But Barbara was serious. “I am truly sorry for Maud Warren,” she declared. “I think she is just like a blind person. She can’t see anything that is good and true. She thinks of nothing but money, titles and sham society. I don’t see how we can do her any good.”

“Well, her father thinks we can,” Grace added. “He told me on our way back from the launch party, that he hoped we would be friends with Maud, for she needed the companionship of sensible girls. He said that he hoped she would take more interest in outdoor sports, and drop some of the newfangled society ideas she has adopted.”

“I’ll tell you a secret,” said Barbara slowly. “I think that Maud was impressed with the Count de Sonde, or rather his title.”

“And the count seemed to be equally impressed with Maud,” interposed Ruth. “I believe he is one of those foreigners with no money, and plenty of title that one reads about in the Sunday papers.”

“Some of them don’t have even the title,” said Mollie with a worldly air that contrasted oddly with her baby face. “They are just waiters who pretend that they are real counts.”

“Hear, hear,” cried Ruth, “Mollie the worldly wise is holding forth!”

“Well, you needn’t make fun of me, Ruth,” said Mollie stoutly. “It’s all true. I read about one last week who married a rich American girl. She fell in love with his title. After she had married him she found out that his name was Jean, something or other, that he had been a waiter, and was wanted by the police for forgery. Just think girls how dreadfully she must have felt!”

“I should say so,” averred Grace, who always championed Mollie’s cause.

“What’s your opinion of the Count de Sonde, Barbara?” asked Ruth.

“He didn’t impress me favorably,” replied Bab. “He’s too artificial, and too conceited. He reminds me of a comic opera Frenchman. He looks as though he were ready to run about on his toes and shrug his shoulders at the slightest pretext.”

“That exactly describes him,” Ruth agreed. “I imagine him trilling a silly French song:

Ruth bowed low, first to Mollie and then to Grace. She shrugged her dainty shoulders in a perfect imitation of the count.

“But what about Monsieur Duval?” queried Mollie.

“He’s the backbone of the little count,” said Barbara. “He’s the brains and strength of the company. If there is any little game to be played at Palm Beach – look out for Mr. Duval!”

“But do you suppose they really have a game to play?” persisted Ruth.

Bab shook her head. “I don’t know. I suppose I am only joking,” she answered. “But did you notice how often Mr. Duval came to the count’s rescue? He helped him out of a number of tight places. Of course it is ridiculous to suppose those men have any scheme afoot. They are certainly not thieves, like Harry Townsend at Newport. I wonder what they are after?”

“Oh, nothing, Bab. You are too mysterious,” protested Mollie. “I thought we were talking about Maud Warren and how we could best make friends with her.”

“Girls, let’s enter into a solemn compact,” Ruth suggested, lowering her voice to a whisper in order to persuade the other girls to listen.

“What kind of compact, child?” Bab demanded.

“A compact to do our best for Maud Warren,” said conscientious Ruth. “I tell you, girls, it won’t be easy, for Maud isn’t our kind. And you know how we like to keep together and don’t care much for any outside girl. I know we shall have to make a good many sacrifices. But Maud must not run around with the Smythes and that little French count all the time. Let’s make a compact to do our best for Maud. Come, join hands.”

The four girls clasped hands. They could not foresee into what difficulties this compact would lead them.

Tap! tap! Miss Sallie knocked again at the door.

“Go to bed at once; it is very late,” she ordered.

Ruth dreamed that night that the four girls were sitting in a circle with the Countess Sophia von Stolberg. They had hold of one another’s hands. They were repeating their vow about Maud. Suddenly they were interrupted. Monsieur Duval appeared in their midst. The Countess Sophia saw the Frenchman. She gave a cry of terror and fainted.

Ruth awakened with a start. The night was still. The moon shone brightly through the open windows and the air was filled with the perfume of magnolia blossoms.

“I wonder what the Countess Sophia’s history is?” thought Ruth sleepily, as she dropped into slumber once more.

At her villa, looking across the moonlit lake, the beautiful young countess was at that moment writing a letter. It was a long letter, penned in close fine handwriting. When she had finished she slipped the letter into an envelope, which she addressed carefully to “M. Le Comte Frederic de Sonde.”