But the duchess held up her hand.
"One moment, Fritz," she interrupted, sternly. "Don't begin throwing stones until you are quite sure you are not yourself in a glass house. As I have said, Monsieur Tellier had many things of interest to relate."
"Well, my dear aunt," retorted the Prince, "now that he has related them, I trust we may dispense with his company. I will settle my account with him another time."
"First," said the duchess, with cold irony, "tell me what progress you have made with your embassy, Fritz!"
"Very little, I am sorry to say, madame. But in three days, Lord Vernon has promised to consider the matter."
"Three days! And do you imagine all the rest of the world will stand still at your command, Fritz, and wait for you? Are you another Joshua?"
The Prince flushed. There was no denying the justice of the taunt.
"But that aside for the moment," continued the duchess. "Tell me something of this American girl you have met here, and with whom you have grown so fond of making the promenade."
"I hope soon to have the pleasure of presenting her to you, madame," said the Prince, flushing still more. "I believe you will find her admirable."
"Perhaps," said the duchess, sceptically. "Is it really necessary thatI should meet her?"
"That, of course, will be as madame pleases. I thought you would naturally wish to meet the woman whom it is my intention to marry."
The duchess fairly jumped in her chair.
"To marry!" she cried. "To marry! What nonsense!"
"You will see," continued the Prince, calmly, "how unwise it was to begin the conversation in the presence of this—gentleman."
"No!" cried the duchess. "It was more than ever wise! Do you happen to know who this woman is?"
"I refuse to discuss my affairs further," said the Prince, "until we are alone."
"But do you know who she is? She has no dot! Perhaps you will say that is nothing, that you expected none, though it seems to me it is your duty to repair the fortunes of our house. But it is even worse than that—she is the daughter of an inn-keeper."
"I refuse to believe it," answered the Prince, quietly.
"Monsieur Tellier, relate to him—"
"If Tellier so much as moves a finger, I will kick him down the stairs," added the Prince, still more calmly.
"But he has the papers from the notary!"
"That is nothing to me."
The duchess made a gesture of despair.
"Yet, after all," she cried, "that is a little thing beside this other. Look at this," and she snatched a folded paper from the table at her elbow. "She is a traitor to you—she has been playing with you—she has been assisting these Englishmen to deceive you! You who are such a stickler for honour in women no less than men! Look at this!"
"What is this paper?" asked the Prince, making no motion to take it from her eager hand.
"It is a note which this impostor wrote to her and to her sister."
"And obtained how?" he questioned, a little pale, but keeping himself well in hand.
"Obtained by Monsieur Tellier," replied the duchess. "It does not matter how."
"No," said the Prince, "perhaps not; yet one can easily guess. By bribing the chambermaid, perhaps; by forcing a lock; by rifling her desk, examining her private papers. Oh, it is abominable!" and he turned upon the Frenchman, fury in his eyes.
"No, no, Monsieur le Prince!" protested Tellier. "It was none of these—I swear it! She left the note lying quite carelessly—"
But the Prince was upon him. With one hand at the back of his neck, he steered him, sputtering, to the door.
"Glück!" he cried, and pitched the Frenchman into the arms of the faithful servant. The duchess, sitting within the room, caught the sound of a scuffle, of fierce swearing; then a succession of dull bumps sounded through the apartment. The Prince closed the door and turned back to her.
"But, my dear Fritz!" she protested. "It may be true that Tellier is abominable, yet sometimes one must use such instruments—surely, at this moment, we are justified in using any instrument. I have paid him, thank heaven! You must listen to reason. You have been fooled—we have all been fooled—they have been playing with us—laughing at us behind our backs for our simplicity—the girl as well as the others."
"No!" he said, fiercely. "No!"
"Fritz," she cried, her voice trembling, a mist before her eyes as she looked at him, "you believe that I love you, do you not—oh, better than anything else in the world. You believe that I desire your happiness! But it must be happiness with honour, Fritz, as becomes a Markeld. You have your name to consider, your house. You know that I would rather—oh, a hundred times!—wound myself than wound you! You must listen, then, when I tell you that this girl is not worthy of you; when I tell you that this note proves it!"
"Read it!" he commanded, in a hoarse voice. "Read it, then!"
"'Lord Vernon will be deeply grateful,'" she read, "'if he is not mentioned in connection with to-day's adventure.' To-day's adventure—when he kicked Jax away from her. Can you doubt? Can you be so stupid as to doubt? These Americans—they have no sense of honour!"
He turned to the window without answering, but his face was drawn and white.
Man's perfidy
To Archibald Rushford, sitting ruminant in his room, staring absently out at the dunes and the sea, his paper forgotten, there entered presently Susie—a rather subdued Susie, as he noted from the corner of his eye—who drew up a chair very close to his and sat down and propped her chin in her hands and looked up at him.
It came to him in a flash of revelation that, did she have a mother, it was to her she would have gone at this moment, and not to him, and his eyes were a little misty as he looked down at her. That she and her sister should have grown, motherless, to such sweet, triumphant womanhood struck him in this instant as a kind of miracle—he had never thought of it before. He had taken their beauty, their wit, their sanity, as matters of course; he had never looked at them, clearly, from the outside; he had never quite thoroughly appreciated them. They had come this far, guideless, in the journey of life, and had done well and bravely; but now Susie, at least, had reached a point in the path where she needed help and counsel. She had come to him for it and he must give her the best he had.
"Dad," she began, a little tremulously, "would you mind soverymuch if I should m-marry and live in Europe? Of course," she added, hastily, to break the force of the blow, "you would come over very often and stay with us, and we would go over very often to see you."
"So hehasspoken to you, has he?" laughed her father. "He told me he hadn't."
"Spoken! You know about it? Oh, dad, what do you mean?"
"I mean that a certain William Frederick Albert, of Markeld—I believe that's his name—or most of it—was in here a while ago and had the impudence to ask me to give you to him."
"Oh!" gasped Susie, with flaming cheeks, and sank back in her chair and I dare say cried a little; but her father didn't see her, for his own eyes were full of tears. The moment passed, the tears were wiped away—"Tell me about it, dad," she said.
"Tell you about it? I have told you!"
"About what he said. How did he look?"
"I dare say he looked about as he always does—a little pale around the gills, perhaps, as one usually does when one's performing an unpleasant duty!"
"Dad!"
"You don't mean to say you think he enjoyed it?"
"They—they always have to do it in Europe," faltered Sue.
"So I understand. But he said he hadn't told you."
"He hasn't—he hasn't said a word."
"Oh—youjust sort of scented it in the air, I suppose—sort of saw it coming."
"Every woman can tell when a man is in l-love with her," explained Susie, with dignity, but boggling a little at the crucial word. "What did you tell him, dad?"
"I told him to take you and welcome."
"Now, dad, you mustn't tease!"
"Well, then, I told him he'd better see you first, since you're the party principally concerned."
"But you like him?"
"Immensely!"
Susie's arms were about his neck, and her cheek was against his cheek, and a pearly tear plashed down upon his shirt-front.
"Oh, you dear dad!" she cried. "I knew you'd like him!"
"He seems a pretty straight sort of fellow," observed her father, "he looks clean, and he talks like a man."
"And you won't mind so very much?"
"Not if it makes you happy, my dear. All girls have to marry sometime, I suppose. You'll be rather farther away from me than I could wish, but I dare say the Prince will let me come over and stay in his castle occasionally, and eat at the second table—"
"Letyou! Why, he'llbegyou to. Why couldn't you come over and live with us, dad?"
"And die of ennui in a year? Not much. I'll go home and make some more money for you—you see, I'd never figured on having to finance a Princess!"
"Dad," very softly.
"Well, what?"
"Do you know, I don't believe he suspects I'm to have any money."
"Neither do I. That's one thing I like about him."
"But you really might come and live with us, dad."
"Oh, no, I mightn't. Besides, there's Nell—What!" he cried, interpreting the sudden pressure of her arms, "you don't mean that she's gone and done it, too!"
"I don't know, dad, but Lord Vernon has been very attentive to her. She hasn't told me anything; I'm only guessing."
Her father gave a long, low whistle.
"Well!" he said. "You've been hustling things up with a vengeance, I must say! There must be something in the atmosphere. It'll be a little lonely in that big New York house without you, Susie."
"I know it will, dear dad. And if you say the word, I won't leave you—not for a long, long time. It will be a long time anyway, you know—a year, at least—there will be so much to do."
"And a year is quite long enough to keep two lovers apart. Youth goes faster than you think, my dear. No, no; it'll be all right, Susie. You don't suppose I'm as selfish as all that!"
"No, dad; that's just what I'm afraid of; you're not selfish enough.It's I who am selfish."
"Nonsense! Everybody in this world has a right to happiness, Susie; why, that's one of the foundation-stones of the Declaration of Independence. And, I take it, a woman's great chance of happiness is in marrying the man she loves. That's what every woman has a right to do, and nobody has the right to raise a finger to prevent her. I'll give you to Markeld with a clear conscience, my dear, when the time comes, and bless you both. That is, if you really love him."
"Oh, dad!" she cried and hid her face; there is one light in the eyes which none but a lover may see!
"Quite sure?" he persisted.
"Quite sure!" she said, softly.
"You're sure you're not jumping in the dark; it isn't the Prince you're in love with?"
"No, dad; it's the man. That seems an awfully bold thing for a girl to say, doesn't it? But he—he's such a nice fellow!"
"Yes, I believe he is," agreed her father.
"He's been telling me about himself, you know; about what he wants to do in the world," added Susie, looking up at him.
"Has he?" and her father laughed. "The same old game—effective as ever!We all do it—why, I remember, Susie—"
He stopped suddenly, with a little tremor in his voice.
"Yes, dad," very softly.
She was leaning forward on his knee, looking up at him. He put his arm around her and drew her close.
"You're like your mother, Susie," was all he dared trust himself to say, his arms tight around her.
They sat so a moment, lost in memory, until a knock at the door broughtSusie to her feet. A page handed in a little package.
"For Mademoiselle Rushford," he said.
"Thank you," said Susie, and closed the door. "For me?" she repeated, as she turned back into the room. "What do you suppose it is?"
"The quickest way to find out is to open it, my dear," suggested her father, drily.
Susie ripped the paper off in an instant, and disclosed a little book bound in flexible red leather.
"'Who's Who,'" she read, looking at the title, and just then a card fell out. She stooped and picked it up. "Why, it's from that odious French detective! Listen, dad—'With the compliments of M. André Tellier, who is sure of Mademoiselle Rushford's gratitude.'"
"Send it back to him," said her father. "Or here, give it to me—I'll go down and smash his face with it. I ought to have kicked him out of the house yesterday—I'd have done it but for Pelletan."
"Wait a minute, dad; here's a page turned down. Maybe there's something he wanted me to see. Oh, yes; it's about Lord Vernon—he meant the book for Nell—I'll call her," and she started toward the open door into the inner room.
"Wait," said her father, instantly. "What about Vernon? Read it."
She stopped, struck by the tone of his voice.
"What do you mean, dad?" she asked, paling a little. "Surely, you don't mean—"
"Read it," he repeated, sternly.
She opened the book with hands suddenly tremulous.
"'Vernon, fifth earl of (created 1703),'" she read, in a low voice. "'George Henry Augustus Gardner, K. G., K. T., P. C., F. R. S., F. S. A.; baronet 1628; Viscount Vernon, Baron Dalberry, 1710; Viscount Cranford, 1712; Baron Vernon, 1829; trustee of Imperial Institute; born tenth of May, 1859; son of Lord Henry Augustus Gardner, M. P., son of fourth Earl and Mary, daughter of Richard Chaloner, Boston, U. S. A.; married, Catherine—'"
"Married!" cried her father, and then restrained himself, though his face turned crimson. "But go on—perhaps she's dead."
"No, she isn't dead!" said Sue, reading a line or two farther. Then she closed the book. "I don't understand," she said, dazedly. "I can't understand. He didn't seem that kind of man at all, dad!"
"No," said a hoarse voice from the door. "No, he didn't."
"Nell! Nellie dear!" cried Sue, and in an instant her arms were about her.
"It—it doesn't matter," said Nell, steadying herself against the door, striving to still a sudden convulsive shuddering. "I was a f-fool to think he—he cared. Of course he—he was only amusing himself!" and then her self-control suddenly gave way, and her head fell forward upon her sister's shoulder. But only for a moment; that high queenliness was not on the surface, merely, but in the heart, as well. "I think I'm getting tired of Weet-sur-Mer, dad," she said, quite steadily, with a wan little smile. "I seem to be hungering for New York again; wouldn't you like to go home?"
"We'll go, of course, at once, dad," commanded Sue. "That's the only thing to do. Oh!" she cried, her eyes flashing, "I could murder such a man—cut him to pieces, inch by inch—and gloat over the deed!"
Rushford was very pale and his hands were trembling a little as he started for the door.
"Yes, I'll order the trunks packed," he said, incoherently. "I'll have to hurry—I'll try to—"
Something in his voice caught Susie's ear; she turned her head and looked at him.
"Dad!" she called.
He paused with his hand on the knob.
"Dad, come here."
He came back reluctantly.
"We're to go away quietly, you know, without telling any one; there's to be no fuss—we couldn't bear that—"
A tap on the door interrupted her. Rushford opened it. A man stood without, a German with complexion like mahogany. He bowed silently and handed in a note. Rushford took it and closed the door.
"It's from Markeld," he said, looking at the crest; "thought he hadn't made his case quite emphatic enough, I guess," and he glanced at Susie's blushing face and smiled. "Of course, we'll have to tell him," he added, as he tore open the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper it contained. "He has a sort of right—"
He stopped.
Susie saw his face turn gray again…. A great fear fell upon her heart—a cold, still fear that gripped her and left her shivering.
"What is it, dad?" she asked quietly, through clenched teeth.
"Nothing," answered her father, looking at her vaguely. "It's nothing.It's—it's merely a matter of business, Susie."
"Come, dad," she said, still quietly, "don't try to deceive me. Tell me—no matter what it is, I can bear it. Do you think I haven't any pluck, dad?"
"Yes, I know you've got pluck, Susie," he said. "We've simply made a mistake, my dear, in believing these blackguards honourable men. Let's think no more about them."
"Read what he says, dad."
He hesitated still, but her eyes compelled him, and he read:
"'The Prince of Markeld begs to withdraw his proposal for the hand ofMiss Rushford.'"
"And that is all?"
"That is all, Susie."
"It couldn't be!" she said, a little hoarsely. "His aunt is here—Monsieur Pelletan told me—and she has pointed out to him the folly of it! I was silly to think it could come true! But, oh—" and she dropped sobbing into a chair.
Her father stood for a moment watching the heaving shoulders. Then, with a face hard as iron, he opened the door and closed it softly behind him.
An American Opinion of European Morals
"I tell you fellows for the last time," Lord Vernon was saying, "that we can't keep this thing up any longer. Miss Rushford has served notice on me that she's going to tell, and dashed if I blame her. Besides, there's the note."
"The note can't hurt us—I've extracted its sting. As for Miss Rushford, I might see her again," suggested Collins, who had been pacing nervously up and down the room.
"See her? Nonsense! You'll do nothing of the sort! What right have we to bother her? She'd probably send you about your business, anyway. She's got a heart—something that diplomats know nothing about and never take into account."
"We didn't take it into account in your case, that's true!" retortedCollins, with covert irony.
"No, you didn't!" said the other, wheeling short around upon him. "Nor did I take into account what a damned scoundrelly thing it was I was persuaded into undertaking. I tell you, some of us will have to get down and eat dirt before this thing is over!"
"Pshaw!" and Collins smiled loftily. "Before a petty German princeling?"
Vernon turned red with anger at the words, but as he opened his mouth to reply, there came a sharp knock at the door.
"Come in!" he shouted, before the others could draw breath. "No, I'm not going to hide!" he added, in answer to Collins's gesture. "That farce is finished!"
The door opened and Monsieur Pelletan appeared on the threshold.
"Monsieur le Prince de Markeld!" he announced, and bowed low, as thePrince advanced past him into the room. In the shadows of the hall,Glück's erect figure was dimly visible.
For a moment no one spoke, but Vernon's face was flushing under the ironical gaze bent upon it.
"So," said the Prince, at last. "It appears that you are not ill. You have been tricking me all the time!"
"Yes," answered Vernon, not attempting for an instant to evade the question. "Tricking you—that is the word. I am glad she has told you."
"Do you think it was quite the course for a gentleman to pursue?" continued the Prince, in a voice singularly even.
"No," said Vernon, quietly. "I do not."
"Nor do I!" said the Prince.
Again there was a moment's silence. It was Vernon who broke it.
"When I went into this thing," he began quite steadily, "I had no thought that it would result as it has. It seemed to me an innocent deception, warranted by reasons of state. We could not, of course, foresee that you would follow us here, instead of going on to London. For some time I have found the rôle unbearable; but, until a moment ago, I fancied I might be able to explain to you the course I have taken."
"Explain!" repeated the Prince, with bitter emphasis.
"Now, of course," went on Vernon, evenly, "I see that no explanations are possible—that no apology, even, which I might make, would excuse me. I don't in the least believe in duelling—I have always thought that I would be the last person in the world to be entangled in that way—but this seems to be one of those situations which have no other solution. I am quite willing, anxious even, to give you any satisfaction you may demand. It is your right."
"I agree with you," said the Prince. "It is my right. My friends will wait upon you," and he turned toward the door.
"But this is folly!" protested Collins, his face very red. "We are living on the verge of the twentieth century, gentlemen; not in the seventeenth. I won't countenance this madness for an instant."
"Who asks you to countenance it?" demanded Vernon, sternly. "I repeat, I am at the Prince's service. I am glad that it is within my power to offer him this reparation."
"Very well," said the Prince, bowing, and again turned to the door; butVernon stopped him with a gesture.
"Before you go, before I can meet you, even," he said, quietly, "there is a further explanation due you—"
"I have no wish to hear it," the Prince broke in.
"It is one which you must, nevertheless, listen to," went on Vernon, coldly. "Confession would, perhaps, be a better word for it. Miss Rushford did not know the whole truth."
"So!" said the Prince, with irony. "You acted unfairly, then, even with your co-conspirators!"
Vernon flushed hotly, but kept himself in hand.
"The retort is unworthy of you," he said. "I assure you that MissRushford was not in any sense a co-conspirator."
"Do you mean that she was ignorant of the deception you were playing?" demanded the Prince, quickly.
"No; she was not ignorant of that; but she—"
The Prince held up his hand with an imperious gesture.
"No more," he said; "if this is the explanation—confession—what you will—I repeat that I do not care to hear it."
"This is not it."
"It cannot, in any event, alter matters."
"I have no wish that it should alter matters, Your Highness!" retorted Vernon, proudly. "When I have offered you the greatest reparation in my power, it is ungenerous that you should—"
Again a knock interrupted him.
"Come in!" he called, recklessly.
The door opened and Archibald Rushford entered. He closed the door carefully behind him and advanced to the middle of the room.
Vernon started forward.
"Why, how are you, Mr. Rushford?" he began, with outstretched hand. "I'm very glad to see you."
"Oh, you are?" inquired the American, keeping his own hands firmly behind his back. "I supposeyou'reglad to see me, too?" he added, turning to the Prince.
"I know of no reason why I should avoid you," returned the Prince, proudly.
"Perhaps not," assented Rushford, drily. "The standards of gentlemanly conduct seem to be different in the Old World and in the New. I'm glad, however, that I've caught you two together. I suppose that little farce of pretended illness was played only for the benefit of outsiders!"
"I assure you, Mr. Rushford," began Vernon quickly, but the American stopped him with a gesture.
"I don't care to hear," he said. "I care nothing for your two-by-four conspiracies and intrigues. But, I repeat, I'm glad I caught both of you together. It enables me to tell, in the same breath, what I think of both of you, and I am very anxious to tell you, fully and completely, for I suppose you have been surrounded all your lives by toadies who were afraid to tell you the truth about yourselves, or who were so like you that they couldn't see the truth—products of the same code of morals—a code truly European! In a word, then, I think you are both blackguards—blackguards of the most nasty and contemptible kind—the kind that preys upon women! I may add that you have deeply shaken my faith in human nature, for, to look at you, one would mistake you for gentlemen!"
The words were uttered quietly, evenly, deliberately; each one given its full value. There was a certain dignity in Rushford's aspect which made interruption impossible; but neither man offered to interrupt. The Prince was biting his lips desperately; Vernon turned red and white and red again in evident amazement.
"And having said this," concluded the American, "as emphatically as possible, I will very gladly leave you to yourselves."
"Oh, no, you won't!" cried Vernon, fiercely, in a voice hoarse with emotion. "I, at least, demand an explanation."
"An explanation?" and Rushford laughed, a little mocking laugh. "Can't your conscience give you an explanation? Or is it too deadened to do that?"
"No!" said Vernon, boldly. "My conscience gives me no explanation, which would in any degree warrant the words you have used to me, and which I am sure you will some day regret. It is true that my conduct here has not been wholly straightforward; but it is Prince Frederick I have wronged and not you in any degree. Your daughter—to whom, I presume, you referred—knew all—"
"All?" repeated Rushford, with irony.
"Perhaps not all, but I had intended waiting upon you this afternoon and explaining to you—"
"Oh! So you thought I was entitled to an explanation! Yes, my lord, it seems to me that your actions will require a great deal of explaining—more, certainly, than I have the patience to listen to. So I pray you will spare me. I don't know anything in God's wide world more contemptible than a married man who poses as single!"
"Married!" shrieked his lordship. "Poses! Oh!"
The door opened and Pelletan's head appeared.
"I knocked," he explained, obsequiously, "once—twice—and when none answered, Mees Rushford insiste'—"
"Miss Rushford!" cried Vernon.
"Yes, monsieur, Mees Rushford," and Pelletan stepped to one side, disclosing Sue.
The Dowager's Bombshell
She came no farther than the threshold and looked only at her father, though her eyes were shining with the consciousness of some one else's presence in the room—some one whom she had not in the least expected to find there.
"Come, dad," she said. "Don't waste your time here. They're not worth it," and she held out her hand to him.
But Vernon flung himself between them.
"He shall not go," he cried, "until he has heard me. It is all a mistake—I see now where this detestable adventure in diplomacy has led me. My dear sir, if I were what you think me, I should deserve every word you have uttered to me—and more. But I am not married—I have never been married—I had hoped—"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Rushford. "Don't go too fast. Come here,Susie, and help me to understand."
Could Sue, as she came forward, have seen the gaze which Prince Frederick bent upon her, her heart might have relented a little toward him; but she did not see—she had eyes only for her father.
"Now go ahead," said he, when he had his arm safely around her, "and be careful, sir," he added. "We want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."
"That is what you shall have," said Vernon, and passed his hand across his forehead.
"It occurs to me," put in Collins, icily, "that the story is not wholly yours to tell."
"It isn't?" cried Vernon, turning upon him fiercely. "I suppose I'm to permit myself to remain in this damnable position for the sake of a lot of third-rate diplomats in our foreign office! They can go hang, for all I care. I chuck the whole thing! Do you hear? Do you understand? The whole thing!"
Collins turned away with a shrug of despair. The situation had got beyond his control.
"It is an explanation which I owe to the Prince of Markeld as well as to yourself, Mr. Rushford," went on Vernon, more slowly, speaking calmly by a great effort, "and which I was just about to make to him when you came in. I am not Lord Vernon—I am merely his younger brother. I bear a certain resemblance to him, and a lot of paper-diplomats persuaded me to impersonate him here in order to leave him free to carry out the negotiations for the succession to Schloshold-Markheim without being embarrassed by the representations of either side. I recall how half-heartedly he approved of the scheme, which had its origin in the fertile brain of Mr. Collins there. I see the reason now, though I didn't suspect it then. As to the succession, Monsieur le Prince, for all I know, the whole thing may by this time be settled. Collins could probably tell you, if he would—"
"It is not settled,'' muttered Collins.
"So you see," went on Vernon without heeding him, "I have done you an even greater wrong than you imagined."
"Yes," said the Prince, in a hoarse voice, "you have."
"But settled or not," said the other, "I wash my hands of it! I've had enough!"
Rushford held out his hand with a quick gesture.
"I beg your pardon," he said, simply. "I see that I was not mistaken in my first estimate of you, after all—I am very glad."
"I was coming to you this afternoon," added the Englishman, taking the outstretched hand, eagerly, "to tell you that I am merely Viscount Cranford and not Lord Vernon—a very insignificant fellow, not a great one—and to ask for your daughter, Miss Nell. I ask you now. Though first let me make it clear to you that the title is of little importance."
"The only title we Americans care about," responded Rushford, slowly, "is that of gentleman. My daughter's husband need have no other—but he must have that. We don't give our daughters away, sir, as I've already explained to—"
Susie pinched his arm viciously in an agony of alarm. Then she pulled his head down to her, her eyes shining, and whispered a quick sentence in his ear.
"Yes, that's it!" he nodded. "Nell is waiting for us—our apartment is just up the stair. You'd better go tell her the story, young man! Knock at the door, make her admit you, make her listen! Oh, a lover should know how—yes, I see you do! And God bless you!" he added, as Cranford wrung his hand, flung open the door, and disappeared along the hall.
"And we must go too, dad," said Sue, in a low voice. "At once. Come."
"Yes," assented her father. "Yes—yet wait a minute, Susie," and he stopped, his eyes on Markeld. "I'd hate to think I'd done any other man the same injustice I did that young Englishman. Perhaps the Prince of Markeld has also an explanation. If so, I shall be very glad to hear it."
Susie's hand trembled on her father's arm, and she caught her breath with a little gasp; but she kept her eyes steadily on the floor—she had pride enough for that. Oh, she rejoiced that she had pride enough for that!
The Prince gazed at her a moment, then, with face ashy gray, he shook his head.
"I have none," he said, in a low voice, and Susie shivered at the words.
"But I have!" cried some one from the door; and, turning, they beheld there on the threshold a handsome old lady, with hair snowy white, figure erect, face imperious—the Dowager Duchess of Markheim. Behind her, in the twilight of the hall, could be dimly seen the mustachios of Monsieur Tellier, with Glück's face glaring at him. "I am not so proud," she went on, advancing into the room. "I am quite willing to give my reasons for breaking off the match. Is this the girl?" she asked, abruptly.
Susie looked at her with fiery eyes; their glances crossed; one almost expected to see the sparks fly as of two blades meeting.
"I am not hard-hearted," continued the duchess, after a moment. "But there are certain affairs of state which must always take precedence of any mere personal inclination. DidImarry to please myself?" and her voice shook a little. "By no means—it is no secret. Yet I was faithful to my husband and to my house. I have never regretted it. Now all that I have left to love is that boy yonder, and I intend to see that he makes a match which is worthy of him. Yes, I love him—but he must not degrade his name—not even for his happiness. It was solicitude for him that brought me here—I feared—"
Her voice broke; perhaps she had a vision of that tragedy fifty years ago, when, at her mother's side, she had stared out through the mists of the morning—
"But no matter," she added, hastily.
"May I ask, madame," inquired Rushford, "how marriage with my daughter would degrade your nephew?"
"It is impossible, in the first place," she answered, readily, "that he should marry the daughter of an inn-keeper."
"Of an inn-keeper?" repeated Rushford, in a puzzled tone.
"You are the proprietor of this inn, are you not?" demanded the duchess. "Tellier, here has the papers. Come forward, Tellier."
"Oh, I understand," and Rushford laughed, not pleasantly. "No, I didn't tell you, Susie," he added, catching his daughter's astonished glance. "It was merely an escapade of mine. I was bored, and so I arranged with Pelletan to have a little fun by backing the hotel for a month—Pelletan had reached the end of his resources. He'd have had to shut up shop, and I didn't want to move. I assure you, madame, that at home I am not an inn-keeper. If I was, I shouldn't be in the least ashamed of it, unless I were a bad one. Suppose we pass on to the next count."
There was a movement at the door and Nell came running to her father and threw her arms about him. Cranford followed her and held out his hands.
"Congratulate me," he said, simply, but with shining face.
"I do," said Rushford, and kissed his daughter. "It seems we've got your difficulty happily settled, Nell; but we've another on hand which seems considerably more complicated. Now, madame, if you will proceed with the indictment."
The duchess seemed a little shaken; after all, a man who could play with great hotels demanded some consideration!
"The second reason is even more serious," she said, "at least, my nephew seemed to so consider it. He laughed at the first one; he is still young; he still believes in the nonsense of the romancers."
"Does he?" commented Rushford. "That's one point in his favour, certainly. So he would have married my daughter, would he, even though I did keep a hotel! That was kind of him! What's the next count, madame?"
"It is that your daughter, while pretending to be his advocate, was really in the plot against him—a double traitor to him because posing as his friend."
"In the plot?" cried Cranford. "But that's absurd! She was not in the plot!"
"Is it the head of the plot who is addressing me?" inquired the duchess, icily. "No doubt my nephew has already told you—"
The Prince stopped her.
"The Viscount Cranford answers to me," he said, briefly.
The duchess paled as she looked at him.
"Not that, Fritz!" she cried. "Not that!"
"Too late, madame," he said. "My honour demands it."
The duchess shivered, and her face seemed suddenly to shrink and age. Then she stood proudly upright. What honour demanded she would be the last to evade.
"Perhaps monsieur will deny," she said, looking at Cranford, coldly, "that he wrote this note to her and her sister the very first day of his sojourn here?" and she held out to him the slip of paper.
Cranford took it and read it at a glance, while Nell stared at it with starting eyes.
"No," he said, "I don't deny that I wrote it; but—"
"And perhaps mademoiselle herself will deny that she asserted to Monsieur Tellier that she did not know her rescuer? Here are her words," and she produced a second note.
"I deny nothing," said Susie, proudly, and she looked the duchess unflinchingly in the face.
Cranford walked straight over to the Prince of Markeld.
"Wasn't it Miss Rushford who told you?" he asked.
"No, it was the note," answered the Prince, fiercely.
"Which Tellier stole from Miss Rushford's desk," added Cranford, sternly, "leaving this tracing in its stead," and he took from his pocketbook a slip of paper. "Such methods are doubtless characteristic of the Paris police, but they seem to me almost as unworthy as those employed by us."
"You are right," agreed the Prince, his face livid. "That dog shall pay for it!"
"My nephew had nothing whatever to do with it," broke in the duchess, sharply. "It was I who secured the note, who persuaded him to—"
But the Prince stopped her with a gesture.
"Miss Rushford was not in the plot," continued Cranford, earnestly. "I hope you will believe me. That it should have come so near wrecking my own life was bad enough; that it should wreck another's—an innocent person's—that would be frightful! She warned me explicitly that she would no longer be a party to the deception, that she was going to tell you—I thought she had told you. I remember well how warmly she spoke of your cause; how she detested the course I was pursuing—how she made me ashamed of myself—ashamed to look at her. I suppose some mistaken notion of honour held her back from telling, since it was in her service and her sister's that I had disclosed myself—"
"A message for His Lordship," said Pelletan from the door.
Cranford took it.
"You will pardon me," he said. "It is marked urgent," and he tore it open. His face brightened as he read it. "Monsieur le Prince," he said, warmly, turning to Markeld, "I congratulate you from the bottom of my heart!" and he handed him the message.
Markeld took the paper and glanced at it, then, with beaming eyes, held out his hand. And the duchess, looking on, grew suddenly young again!
"What is it?" she demanded. "Don't you see we are all waiting?"
"'Prince George, of Schloshold, has just died of an apoplexy,'" the Prince read. "'You will inform the Prince of Markeld that we will support his house to the limit of our power. Vernon,'"
"God be praised!" cried the duchess. "God be praised," and she caught at the door to keep herself from falling. "He was a bad man," she added in another tone. "Therefore he needs our prayers!"
"I give Monsieur le Prince the congratulations of France," said an oily voice, and Monsieur Tellier bowed low.
"Oh!" cried Nell, and shrank away from him.
"Is that the scoundrel?" demanded Cranford. And he started across the room.
"One moment," interposed the Prince, "don't soil your hands on him.Glück!" he called, raising his voice.
And Glück appeared on the instant.
His master indicated Tellier with the motion of a finger.
It was wonderful to see how Glück's face brightened—almost into a smile—as he laid his hand on Tellier's shoulder.
"Canaille!" hissed the latter, and shook the hand away. "Do not touch me—do not defile me with those dirty fingers. Oh, I will go! I have my task accomplished! And you are fools, imbeciles—all—all—from that fat Dutchman, who thinks his wife still living—"
But Glück was again upon him, this time not to be shaken off, and an instant later he and his victim disappeared together into the shadows of the hall.
"Just the same," shrieked Tellier's voice hoarsely from the distance, "it was I who was right! In every detail! A veritable triumph! A success of—"
The voice sank into a gurgle and was still.
Pelletan, his face livid, clutching blindly at the wall for support, stumbled forth into the hall, along the corridor, down the stair, until at last he found Tellier, his face purple, rearranging his cravat before a mirror in the hotel office.
"Iss she not lifing?" he asked, huskily.
"Living!" echoed Tellier, whirling upon him fiercely. "No, pig-head, she has been dead these three years! But you are no more a pig-head than those others. Oh, they shall answer, they shall repay, they shall atone! I will have my revenge—"
But Pelletan did not stop to listen. He groped his way across the room, his eyes shining, his lips trembling, repeating over and over a single word—
"Paris! Paris! Paris!"
Behind the desk he stumbled, through the little door, and dropped to his knees before Saint Genevieve, the protector of the city which he loved.
"You haf done eet!" he murmured, looking up at her with limpid eyes."You haf seen how I suffered, unt you haf taken pity. Gott sie dank!Gott sie dank!"
Pardon
As Tellier's voice died away along the hall, a silence fell upon the room which he had left—a silence from which the duchess was the first to rouse herself.
"Come, Fritz," she said, "we must go. We have work to do," and she held out her hand to him.
He took a step toward her, hesitated, stopped.
"In a moment, madame," said he. "Before I go, I have an apology to make and a pardon to crave."
"Of whom?" demanded the duchess.
For answer, the Prince turned to Susie, so near that he almost touched her—so near that she could see the trembling of his hands, the throbbing of his heart.
"Miss Rushford," he said, in a voice low, carefully repressed, but vibrant with emotion, "I know that I have played the scoundrel; I know that I have no right whatever to address you; I know that I have done everything I could to forfeit your respect. Believe me, the cup is bitter—the more so, since I myself prepared it!"
His voice was trembling so that for the moment he could not go on.
"No, no!" cried the duchess, from the door, "you wrong yourself, Fritz.It was I prepared it—it is I who am to blame!"
But he motioned her to silence.
"It was I prepared it," he repeated, "by my unjust suspicions and ungentlemanly action. I shall drain it with what manhood I have. And I hope, mademoiselle, that you will, in time, find it in your heart to pardon me and to think of me with kindness. I can only repeat to you what I have already told your father—that I love you truly and deeply—with my whole heart—as I shall always love you—always—Oh, if I had not been a fool!"
The duchess, looking on from the door, felt a sudden wave of tenderness sweep over her. Perhaps she recalled her own youth—perhaps it was not quite the truth that she had never regretted—perhaps she was softened by the emotions of the moment. She came to Susie and took her hand in hers.
"Mademoiselle," she said, softly, "I also ask pardon—you will not bear ill-will against an old woman, who imagined that she was acting wisely. I feel that I am going to love you. You have spirit—you are worthy to be even a Markeld. You must forgive that poor boy yonder."
"I think I shall put him on probation," said Susie, glancing up with bright eyes into the eager face beside her.
The Prince sank to his knee, his face suddenly radiant with joy, caught her hand and covered it with kisses.
"Six months, a year, ten years!" he cried. "I shall be content!"
"Ten years! Nonsense!" cried the duchess. "Ten days, mademoiselle. You do not love him if you make it an instant longer!"
"No, not ten days, madame," corrected Susie, with a laugh that was half a sob. "Let us say ten minutes!"