That Stick ...

Mrs. Morton and Ida were of that order of tourists who do not so much care for sights as for being on a level with those who have seen them; and besides, Ida was scarcely well or in spirits p. 174enough for much exertion till after her first month at Nice, which restored her altogether to her usual self, and made her impatient of staying in one place.

It is not, however, worth while to record the wanderings of the trio, until in the next summer they reached Venice, where Ida declared her intention of penetrating into the Dolomites.  There was an outcry.  What could she wish for in that wild and savage country, where there was no comfortable hotel, no society, no roads—nothing in short to make life tolerable, whereas an hotel full of Americans of extreme politeness to ladies, and expeditions in gondolas, when one could talk and have plenty of attention, were only too delightful?

That peaks should be more attractive than flirtations was inexplicable, but at last in secret confabulation Ida disclosed her motive, and in another private consultation Mrs. Morton begged Miss Gattoni to agree to it, as the only means of satisfying the young lady, or putting her mind at rest about a fancy her mother could not believe in; though even as she said, ‘it would be so very shocking, it is perfectly ridiculous to think my brother Lord Northmoor would be capable,’ the shrewd confidante detected a lingering wish that it might be so!

Maps and routes were consulted, and it was decided that whereas to go from Venice through Cadore would involve much mule-riding and rough roads, the best way would be to resort to the railway to Verona, and thence to Botzen as the nearest point whence Ratzes could be reached.

p. 175CHAPTER XXVI

IDA’S WARNING

Botzen proved to be very hot and full of smells, nor did Mrs. Morton care for its quaint old medieval houses, but Ida’s heart had begun to fail her when she came so near the crisis, and on looking over the visitors’ book she gave a cry.  ‘Ah, if we had only known!  It is all of no use.’

‘How?’ she was asked.

‘That horrid Mrs. Bury!’

‘There?’

‘Of course she is.  Only a week ago she was here.  If she is at Ratzes, of course we can do nothing.’

‘And the road is affreux, perfectly frightful,’ said Mademoiselle.  ‘I have been inquiring about it.  No access except upon mules.  A whole day’s journey—and the hotel!  Bah, it is vilain!’

‘If Ida is bent on going she must go without me,’ said Mrs. Morton.  ‘I—I have had enough of those horrid beasts.  Ida’s nonsense will be the death of me.’

‘I don’t see much good in going on with that p. 176woman there,’ said Ida gloomily.  ‘She would be sure to stifle all inquiry.’

‘A good thing too,’ muttered poor, weary Mrs. Morton.

Ida turned the leaves of the visitors’ book till she found the names of Lord and Lady Northmoor, and then, growing more eager as obstructions came in her way, and not liking to turn back as if on a fool’s errand, she suggested to Miss Gattoni that questions might be asked about their visit.  The Tyrolean patois was far beyond her, and not too comprehensible to her friend, but there was a waiter who could speak French, and the landlady’s German was tolerable.

The milord and miladi were perfectly remembered, as well as their long detention, but the return had been by way of Italy, so they had not revisited Botzen with their child the next spring.

‘But,’ said the hostess, ‘there is a young woman in the next street who can tell you more than I.  She offered herself as a nurse.’

This person was at once sent for.  She was the same who had been mentioned by Mrs. Bury, but she had exchanged the peasant costume, which had, perhaps, only been assumed to please the English ladies, for the townswoman’s universal endeavour at French fashion, which by no means enhanced her rather coarse beauty, which was more Italian than Austrian.

Italian was the tongue which chiefly served as a medium between her and Miss Gattoni, though hers was not pure enough to be easily understood.  Mrs. Morton and Ida put questions which Miss Gattoni p. 177translated as best she could, and made out as much as possible of the answers.  It was elicited that she had not been allowed to see the English miladi.  All had been settled by the signora who came yearly, and they had rejected her after all her trouble; the doctor had recommended her, and though her creatura would have been just the right age, and that little ipocrila’s child was older, ever so much older—she spread out her hands to indicate infinity.

‘Ah!’ said Ida, ‘I always thought so.’

‘Ask her how much older,’ demanded Mrs. Morton.

The replies varied from nearly un sanestre to tre settimane—and no more could be made of that question.

‘Where was the foster-child?’