Spring on the Pincian Hill

NANCY HALE

Ah, there was something up. Old. old Mrs. Carpenter Carstairs shook her beautiful white head, slyly, to herself; she knew there was something up, and her daughter and her granddaughter thought she was too old, too lost in the twilight dreams of age, to realize it. But she knew. She shook that once-lovely, once-famous head, and laughed sagely under her breath. She knew—what? Oh yes, that there was something up, that was it; something her daughter and her granddaughter had been concealing from her all day.

Old Mrs. Carpenter Carstairs sat in the sitting-room of her suite in a wing of her daughter's house. The once-admired, ancient body supported a magnificent dress of mauve brocade; there was a crescent of lace upon the white hair, and a tortoiseshell and gold cross at the withered neck, still white. The little hands were folded upon her lap. She sat still and pieced together her suspicions, very shrewdly, she thought. NOAV, AVIIV was she going doAvn to her daughter's dinner-party, when usually they told her that the exertion would tire her? Why was there all this stifled thrill in the air about her coining down tonight? What were they up to? Why had they dressed her so carefully, Why had they put the tiny mauve slippers with diamante buckles on her feet? Why? They thought she was too old, too forgetful, to notice such things. They thought she had lost her memory.

The white head lifted on its withered throat. She had not forgotten. She had not forgotten that she was Lily Carstairs—Lily Carstairs. More beautiful than her daughter or her granddaughter would ever he. They would never have that charm that had been hers, she thought, nor her wrists and ankles. They would neither of them ever be known as a beauty—the beauty—"the toast of two continents" was the phrase. When had they ever danced with crown princes? The long and brilliant confusion of the past rose like pale mist before old Lily Carstairs' beautiful eyes. The glory, the fame, pleasure, intrigues, music, champagne, the adorers—. She thought with contempt of her daughter and granddaughter. They imagined that they could conceal something from her.

Conceal what? Now, what was it—what was it that they thought they could conceal? Dear, dear, What was it ? Oh yes, she remembered slyly with triumph—that something very unusual was up tonight.

Here was her daughter, in white satin with a train, come to take her down to dinner, breathing that strange, suppressed excitement. Lily Carstairs compressed her lips as her daughter kissed her; she was no fool, she could still smell a rat.

"My darling, you look so beautiful! Will you come down now? There is someone doAvnstairs whom I hope you will enjoy seeing. A very distinguished, very great gentleman."

So they were pretending that that was it. As if it were any treat to Lily Carstairs

Lily Carstairs—to see a gentleman, however distinguished. Oh no, she thought, descending the staircase on her daughter's arm; they Avere still concealing something; but they couldn't fool her, oh no.

What an old man it was, too, that they led forward to present to her; the old fool; she nearly sniffed at him; she had never cared for old men.

"Darling mother, you must remember Mr. de Vries, our ex-ambassador, of course, to Italy ? Darling, you do remember? her daughter pressed, looking at her so strangely.

"Certainly 1 remember. Lily felt hot 1A resentful, and stretched out a haughty hand, with only the ghost of her famous smile.

Remember indeed! she kept thinking as the old man talked on and on in his foolish doddering voice, and as they went in to dinner, and as his sat beside her, still talking. Remember -certainly she could remember; but if, in truth, this old felloAv did look a trifle unfamiliar to her, a trifle —like a complete stranger?—then that was only because he was the sort of old felloAv that she would never have noticed. Did they imagine that Lily Carstairs could remember every ancient ambassador that had knelt before her special throne?

He did talk on so. She detested age. He was boasting, too, in his vain senescence. She sat very straight, very exquisite, and let him talk to her about Europe. Telling her about Europe! What was he saying, in his tremulous voice? What was that?

"—Rome in April. Ah, that was spring on the Pincian hill. And she and I-I do so wish I could remember her name. But she was a lovely creature. We would walk there, and Ave were in love. What was her name?" he shook his head. "But I remember her lovely little feet running across the grass of the gardens.

Strange how the roseate mists of the past rose before her eyes. Rome and the Pincian Hill—and love. That was part of her past, but so delicate in mist now. It was part of her beautiful, unique past. What did this old fool know about such glories. Why—it was there, in Rome, walking on the Pincian Hill, that she had been so supremely in love, that time. That time that was the loveliest of all, that greatest love. And this doddering felloAv talked of love on the Pincian Hill! She spoke to him sharply.

"1 knew Rome very well," she said. "And the Pincian Hill. I was in love there, with a very handsome young man. His name was —curious, I cannot remember, for the minute. But it was a very beautiful thing. I shall always remember it. We swore never to forget each other.

Having reproved this ancient ambassador, she let her thoughts stray away from him again. Remember, remember, there was so much to remember. Oh, she thought, and she must remember that there was something up tonight, something they were concealing from her.